I press them flat against my thighs until they stop.
My phone's on the dresser, screen dark. The email notification is still there when I wake it up. The one I've been staring at for three days, trying to decide if I'm brave enough.
Job offer. Junior analyst position. Denver. Start date: two weeks.
I'd applied last month.
Back when the ranch felt like it was suffocating me. When every corner reminded me that Dad was gone and wasn't coming back. When Mae kept looking at me like I might break, and Eli kept hovering like he could fix me if he just stayed close enough.
Denver is roughly 10 hours away.
Far enough that maybe I can breathe again.
Far enough that I won't have to see the look on everyone’s faces when they realize what I've done.
I pull my duffel from the closet and start packing. Not everything. Just enough. Clothes. Laptop. Toothbrush. The essentials.
I move quickly. Hands busy. Brain quiet.
Don't think. Just pack.
There's a photo on the dresser.
Dad at last year's Fourth of July. Mid-laugh. Sunburned and happy and alive.
Looking at it makes my throat close up.
Three months.
He's been gone three months, and I still expect to hear his voice in the kitchen. Still expect to see his truck in the drive when I come home from town.
Still expect him to walk through the door and tell me I'm worrying about nothing.
But he's not coming back.
And I can't stay here drowning in his absence.
I zip the bag. Sling it over my shoulder.
The hallway's dim. Morning light just starting to show through the windows at the far end of the house. I move quietly through the kitchen—it still smells like yesterday's coffee, like Mae's biscuits, like home.
The front door is right there.
Ten steps.
Maybe less.
All I have to do is open it.
I stop with my hand on the knob.
Behind me, down the hall, the bedroom door is still closed. He's still asleep. Still trusting that when he wakes up, I'll be there.
If I go back now—if I wake him up and try to explain—he'll ask me to stay.
And the problem is I might say yes.
I can't afford that.
