Because even now, even sitting here shaking and crying and feeling like my chest is caving in, I still can't say the words he needs to hear.
I'll stay. I choose you. I'm not leaving.
The words are right there.
And I still can't promise them.
What does that make me?
I don't know.
I just know I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but sit here in the dark and feel everything I just broke.
Chapter thirty-four
Eli
Morning comes and I don't move.
The light creeps in through the thin gap between the curtains, pale and gray, cutting across the ceiling above my bed. I've been awake for hours. Long enough to hear the birds start up outside. Long enough to know exactly what time it is without checking.
Training started ten minutes ago.
I stare at the ceiling and let the moment pass.
I'm already dressed. Jeans. T-shirt. Boots laced tight. I did that before the sky even started to lighten, like if I got myself ready it would make the decision easier.
It didn't.
If I show up, I'll break.
The thought lands heavy and certain. Not dramatic. Just true.
I push my palms into the mattress and sit up, elbows braced on my knees. My chest feels tight. Like there's not enough air in the cabin.
I picture the barn anyway. The way the colt will pace when he hears footsteps. Addie checking her watch. Hazel stepping into the pen, scanning for me without realizing she's doing it.
I can't.
Not because I'm angry. Because if I look at her—really look at her—I'll pretend everything's fine just to keep her there another day. Another week. Another maybe.
Last night replays whether I want it to or not. The way she stood in front of me, eyes bright and terrified. The careful way she chose her words. The way she kept sayingtimelike it didn't already have teeth.
I meant what I said.
I can't survive hoping again.
I stand and cross to the window. From here I can see the edge of the pasture, dew still clinging to the grass, fence line stretching toward the trees.
The world doesn't pause just because something broke.
I check my phone. No messages. No missed calls.
Good.
I grab my jacket off the chair and shrug it on. The fabric smells faintly like hay and her shampoo. My stomach turns but I don't take it off.
I step out onto the porch. The cool air bites, sharp enough to ground me.
