"Lauren, I'm grateful. I really am. But I'm done. I'll send the formal resignation tonight and help with the transition however you need."
A long exhale. "Alright. I respect your decision. HR will be in touch."
We exchange a few more logistics. Nothing personal. When we hang up, the call ends cleanly.
I lower the phone and stare at the dark screen.
For a moment, nothing happens.
Then everything does.
My stomach drops. What have I just done? I just walked away from everything I spent five years building. Panic flares sharp and immediate.
And then—relief. Deep and undeniable. Like I can finally breathe.
Both feelings at once, tangled and overwhelming.
I sit down hard on a hay bale, pressing my palm to my sternum. This isn't about Eli. Not really. This is about not running again. About choosing a life that feels grounded instead of safe.
About finally admitting that this place—this ranch, this land my father loved enough to die working—is home. Not a obligation I inherited or a burden I'm supposed to carry. Home.
And maybe that's enough. Maybe choosing to stay and build something here, to carry forward what he started, maybe that's its own kind of hope. Its own kind of legacy.
Eli is part of the life I want. But he isn't the reason.
I stay there a while, letting the reality settle. There's no undoing this.
When I finally stand, my legs feel steadier.
Fall Classic is tomorrow. The thought settles differently now—heavier but clearer.
I don't reach for my phone to text Eli. Not because I'm scared. Because this isn't the moment. I could drive to his cabin right now, but what if I'm too late?
I can't face that answer tonight. Not when Addie needs me focused.
I'll tell him after. When I can handle whatever his answer is.
Tomorrow matters. Addie matters. The work matters. They deserve better than me showing up desperate the night before the biggest competition.
So I'll wait. I'll get through Fall Classic. Then I'll tell him I’m staying—that I chose this, that I chose him.
And hope to god I'm not too late.
The sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky orange and purple. I watch it for a moment, breathing in dust and hay and evening air.
I look out at the ranch—the barn weathered and familiar, the pastures stretching toward the mountains, the fence line where our land meets Dawson property. All of it bathed in twilight.
For the first time in five years, I feel lighter.
The grief that drove me away—the weight of my father's death, the suffocating pressure of this place—it's softer now. Not gone. Just... manageable. Like I can finally breathe around it instead of drowning in it.
I don't know if Eli will forgive me. Don't know if I've already lost him.
But I know I'm home. Really home. Not visiting, not hiding, not proving anything.
Just home.
And that has to be enough for tonight.
