It’s a question I don’t have an answer for. Did I want to tell her? Yes. Would I have? I don’t know. Every day that passed, and our relationship grew, it only became harder to explain. I don’t have an answer that doesn’t make me look like a coward. Because the reality is simple and ugly.I was afraid.
My silence stretches too long, and her face crumples. “Wow,” she exhales.
“I was going to,” I say quickly, hating how weak it sounds even to my own ears. “I just… I didn’t know how to.”
“That’s not an answer.” She wipes at her cheeks angrily. “You don’t get to start over with me using half-truths.”
Starting over.
That’s exactly what I thought I was doing when I came here. New town. New job. New name. Teagan wasn’t part of that plan. More like a crease in the page I thought I’d mapped out so carefully, an unplanned bend in the road that should’ve thrown me off course. Instead, she was the detour that led me to exactly where I needed to be.
“I love you,” she says suddenly, tears streaming hard and fast over her ruddy cheeks.
The words catch me so off-guard, I nearly lose my balance.
“I love you,” she repeats. “But I can’t be with you.”
My chest feels so tight that I can barely breathe as tears prick hot behind my eyes. “Teagan?—”
“You should go,” she insists.
The words don’t register at first. “Go where?”
“Away.” Her chin lifts, stubborn and trembling. “Not because I don’t love you, but because I will not build a life with someone who only hands me half of himself.”
The yard feels suddenly enormous and empty. “You’re telling me to leave?”
“I’m telling you that I don’t want you here,” she corrects, “with me.” She turns before I can say anything else and walks into the house without looking back. I stand there, long after the door closes behind her, the poster hanging limp in my hand.
I gather the few belongings I brought with me months ago, stuffing my duffel bag with clothes. From the desk, I lift Rosie’s journal and tuck it carefully inside. Then I pick up her photo from the bedside table along with the selfie of me and Teagan and slip them into the bag, trying to carry both pieces of my past with me.
I sling the bag over my shoulder, step outside, and glance toward the house. “I love you, too, wildfire.” I murmur the words for the first time into the empty yard.
The engine turns over roughly, like it’s reluctant to help me leave.
For a second, I sit in the driver’s seat, hands gripping the wheel as I stare at the dark shape of the main house. The porch light is still on, casting a warm, golden halo over the steps where Teagan told me she loves me… And then told me to leave.
My bag rests heavy on the passenger seat. In it, Rosie’s journal and two photographs, the sum total of the pieces of me that matter. I thought I’d left this feeling buried six feet under Tennessee soil a year and a half ago.
I slip the Bronco into reverse and ease backward. The gravel crunches beneath the tires, and it breaks me.It’s the same damn sound…
The same god-awful crunch of rubber and stone from the day I pulled away from the cemetery. The sky had been gray that afternoon, clouds hanging low and swollen like they couldn’t decide whether to rain. I remember staring in therearview mirror as long as I could, watching the cluster of people beside the fresh mound of dirt dwindle.
I left Rosie in the ground and drove away because the world expected me to. Tonight, I leave Teagan in that house because she asked me to. In some way, it feels worse. Rosie didn’t choose to leave me. Teagan did.
My throat tightens as the ranch disappears behind a bend in the drive. The barn, fencing, and stretch of pasture washed silver by moonlight, all of it fading into shadows. I don’t look back again.I can’t.
The country road into town is nearly void of cars. The mountains loom ahead like dark sentinels against the horizon, their outlines jagged beneath a thin wash of starlight. The night is clear, brutally so. Every star we slept under sharp in the sky.
Tears slide down my face without permission, silent and hot. I don’t bother wiping them away. They track along my jaw and drip off my chin, falling into the collar of my shirt. My hands tighten around the wheel as another sob threatens to break loose, but I swallow it down. I’ve always been good at swallowing things—truth, grief, love…and whiskey..
The town limits sign flashes by, and Livingston greets me with dim streetlights and empty sidewalks. Store fronts are dark, their windows black and empty of life. I drive aimlessly, turning down streets without thinking, letting instinct steer me. A neon glow flickers before me, drawing my attention.
The Dew Drop.
The sign buzzes faintly, the red-and-blue tubing sputtering in tired pulses. One of the letters cuts out for half a second before blazing back to life. The light spills onto the surrounding brick and pavement in jittery flashes, like it’s trying to get my attention.
Come in.
