He stepped back last night. He walked away today. He's holding himself still on purpose, waiting for me to decide.
I think about that morning five years ago. Waking up next to him. The panic that hit when I realized how permanent it felt.
Standing in the doorway felt safer than stepping back in.
I told myself I needed space.
What I really needed was courage.
I dry my hands on my jeans.
I can't promise I'll never get scared again.
But I can promise tonight. And tomorrow. And every day I choose to show up instead of running.
That's not forever. But it's more than I've given him in five years.
If I want him, I have to stop making him wait for certainty I can't give.
I have to choose him out loud.
Right now.
I grab my keys and walk toward my truck. The sun is lower now, the light going gold across the yard.
My heart pounds as I pull the door open.
I need to tell him about Red Fern.
And I need to stop pretending that's the only reason I'm going.
I slide into the seat, engine turning over. My hands grip the wheel. My chest feels tight.
I pull out of the drive and turn toward Dawson Ranch.
The road between our properties is one I've driven my whole life. I know every dip and turn, the spot where the fence line shifts from Clark wood posts to Dawson steel.
My hands stay tight on the wheel.
The fence line appears on my left. I've ridden this stretch more times than I can count. Run it. Walked it.
It's not far. Never has been.
Just far enough that you have to choose to cross it.
The road curves, and his cabin comes into view through the trees. Small. Tucked back from the main house. His truck sits in the drive.
He's there.
My stomach flips.
I pull in next to his truck and kill the engine. The sudden silence feels too loud.
I sit there, hands still on the wheel, staring at the cabin door.
My hands shake when I reach for the door handle.
Because it's not just about the call.
