The paper trembles between my fingers as I open it.
Abilene,
I think it’s time we talked face-to-face. There are things I should have said sooner.
If you’re willing, meet me today at four at Old Mill Café.
Please come alone.
—E
Alone.
My throat closes. I read the letter again. And again, like repetition might blunt the edge of it.
It doesn’t. It only sharpens the sense that everything is finally, irrevocably moving.
My first instinct is to stand up and walk straight down the hall.
Mara is here. In my house. Drinking my tea. Folding her clothes into my spare dresser. Belonging.
She’d see my face and know something was wrong immediately. She would ask questions wrapped in concern and give answers shaped like detours. She’d tell me what’s safe.
I press the letter flat against my thigh, my palm over it like I can keep it from burning through me.
I think about the trail.
The way her steps faltered when I asked the wrong question. The way her voice softened just a little too quickly.
The way every sharp edge I reached for was smoothed down before I could get purchase.
Mara doesn’t want me to know everything.
The realization lands heavy and hollowing all at once.
Maybe she thinks she’s protecting me, or protecting herself. Maybe those two things have always looked the same to her.
My chest aches with the effort of holding all of it, love and suspicion, gratitude and mistrust, without letting any of it spill.
I fold the letter with care and slide it back into the envelope. My hands are steadier now, and that scares me more than the shaking did. This doesn’t feel like panic anymore.
It feels like resolve.
Whatever this is, whatever truth has been circling me, whispering from paper and memory and half-finished sentences, it’s done waiting.
And I’m done letting everyone else decide how much of my own story I’m allowed to know.
I stand there for a long moment after, the house breathing around me as it always does. Familiar creaks. The faint hum of the fridge. The bees outside, indifferent to my personal crisis.
I force myself up, smooth my hands over my jeans like I can press the turmoil back under my skin, and walk down the hall toward the guest room.
Mara’s door is open. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, tying her boots, hair loose around her shoulders. Comfortable. Settled.
I guess she plans to be here awhile.
“Hey,” she says, glancing up. “You heading out?”
The lie forms before I even finish swallowing.
