My throat tightens. “Maybe. Yeah.”
He pulls back just enough to cup my face, his hands warm against my frozen skin, his thumbs wiping at tears that won’t stop. His eyes are red, wet, so full of regret that I almost can’t bear it.
“I’m sorry, Tor.”
I choke on a sob, because this hurts. It hurts like my soul has cracked in two, my heart is breaking all over again. “I know.”
Then he leans forward and presses his lips to mine. Gentle. Careful. A soft goodbye.
When he pulls back, he doesn’t let go, just rests his forehead on mine again. And for a long time we sit like that.
Crying together. Mourning seventeen years of shared history—a complicated life and a turbulent love we built together, all of it crumbling into memory while the mountains watch in silence.
The sound of tires crunching over snow breaks the moment. A black Mercedes pulls up the drive and the attorney climbs out, briefcase in hand, and even without words Chase understands.
Inside, the house is the same—same furniture, same scent. But it feels foreign now, like walking through a photograph.
The papers are laid out on the coffee table, white sheets that weigh more than stone. The space next to his name waits for his signature, then mine.
Chase goes first. His hand shakes as the pen scrapes across the page. Then it’s my turn. My fingers tremble, but I sign anyway.
And just like that, seventeen years are reduced to ink on paper.
He clears his throat, voice rough. “I’ll call the realtor Monday. Start the process with the house.”
“Please route everything through Jake,” I say, my voice flat. “You already have his information.”
He nods. There’s nothing left to say.
The attorney leaves first, and I’m not far behind.
At the door, I pause. The air is sharp, my tears drying cold on my cheeks.
“Chase?”
He turns, weary and hollow.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He dips his head in acknowledgment, then disappears back into our—his—bedroom.
I walk to the SUV, each step heavy.
When I drive away, the house grows small in my rearview.
I wish this day could be over already, but I have one more stop to make before I leave this snowy mountain town.
By the timeI pull into my parents’ driveway, the stars are already out, sharp against the black sky. The porch light glows over snow still crusted in patches along the walk, and my headlights sweep across the yard before I cut the engine.
The house looks the same as it always has—warm light in thewindows, neat curtains drawn, the faint shadow of movement inside—but I feel like an intruder stepping onto this porch.
I knock, and a few seconds later my father opens the door. He doesn’t notice the redness in my eyes, doesn’t notice the exhaustion pulling at me.
His face softens in what passes for a welcome. “Tori. You want to come in?”
“Yes,” I say quietly.
He steps aside, and I brush past him into the familiar foyer.
