I’m the goddamn sheriff, a man who’s faced down armed criminals and walked through the aftermath of city-wide riots. But watching her with them, seeing that easy, unguarded affection… it makes me feel like a jealous, powerless kid.
The cigarette burns down, the glowing ember a small, angry star in the darkness of my truck. The ash flakes onto my jeans.I don’t care. I smoke it down to the filter, until my fingers singe and I’m forced to let it drop. I crush the butt into the empty ashtray, the last wisp of smoke curling up into the air and disappearing.
The temporary relief is gone. The nicotine does nothing to quiet the storm in my head. The problem is still here, waiting for me. She’s still here.
And I still fucking want her.
The drive home is a blur of wet asphalt and neon lights bleeding across the windshield. It’s started to drizzle, a fine, misty rain that makes the world slick and reflective. The wipers swipe a hypnotic, slow arc across the glass, but they can’t wipe away the image burned into the back of my eyelids: Millie, laughing. Not at me, but with them. With Liam, the café worker, and Maddox, the firefighter.
A triangle I have no place in.
The truck cab is cold, the silence a heavy blanket. I turn the heat up, but the chill is inside me, a deep-seated frost that has nothing to do with the weather. I’m a fool. A goddamn fool. I came to this town to escape, to find a quieter life, and instead, I’ve found a woman who is more complicated than any case I ever worked in New York. A woman who is tied to two men who look at her with a history I can never compete with.
I pull up to the house, the tires crunching on the wet gravel. The ocean is a dark, restless mass beyond the dunes, its sound a low, constant roar. Inside, the air is stale and unwelcoming. I shed my jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and walk straight to the bathroom.
The shower is a necessity, a ritual of purification. I turn the water on as hot as I can stand it and step under the spray, the heat a punishing shock against my skin.
I close my eyes and let the water beat down on me, trying to wash away the jealousy, the feeling of being an outsider, theghost of Millie’s scent that seems to cling to my clothes no matter how far I am from her. It doesn’t work. The feelings are still there, coiled in my gut like a snake.
My hand moves down my body, a mechanical, desperate motion. I’m not thinking about anything, not her face, not the memory of our night together. It’s just a physical act, a way to release the pressure, the frustration that’s been building inside me since I walked into that bar.
I grit my teeth when I wrap my hand around my cock.
It’s quick, rough, and utterly unsatisfying. When it’s over, I lean my forehead against the tile of the shower wall, the water cascading down my back. I feel empty. Hollow.
I towel off, wrap the towel around my waist, and walk into the bedroom. The bed is unmade, a tangle of sheets. I collapse onto it, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up with me. Closing my eyes, I will my brain to shut down.
The next morning, I wake up with a clear head. The sun is streaming through the window, bright and optimistic. The storm in my chest has passed, pushed into a locked box in the back of my mind. I have a job to do, and more importantly, I have a daughter to pick up. That’s all that matters right now.
I check my phone. A text from Jake confirming the logistics for the lumber shipment. A reminder about my meeting with Julian this afternoon. And a message from Amy with Clara’s flight information. She lands in an hour.
I need to go to the office for a little bit, sign off on a few things, and then I’m heading to the airport.
The drive is different this morning. The sun is out, drying the last of the rain from the roads. The town looks hopeful, thenew construction gleaming in the light. At the office, I deal with what I need to, my mind focused, efficient. I’m the sheriff. I’m in control.
The airport is a small, regional hub, a single building with a parking lot that’s mostly empty. I wait by the baggage claim, my hands shoved in my pockets, a nervous energy thrumming through me. Then I see her.
Clara.
She walks through the doors, a faded black sweater hanging off her frame, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her jeans are distressed, rips and tears artfully placed, and her hair… her hair is still purple at the tips, but it’s a darker, more subdued shade now, like a bruised plum.
“Hey, superstar,” I say, a smile spreading across my face before I can stop it.
She sees me, and a small, hesitant smile touches her lips. “Hey, Dad.”
I pull her into a hug, her body feeling slight and fragile in my arms. “I like the hair,” I say, my voice muffled by her sweater. “It’s darker.”
She pulls back, a real smile this time. “Yeah. No one has noticed.”
“I noticed,” I say, my voice soft. “I’m just happy you haven’t shaved your head.”
Her smile falters, and for a second, I see the flash of pain from our phone call. “I should have. I was hurt.”
My own smile drops. The guilt hits me like a physical blow. I pull her in for another hug, tighter this time. “I know, baby. I am so, so sorry.”
She lets me hold her for a long moment, then she pulls back, her expression clearing. She hands me her backpack, a familiar, worn-out thing covered in patches. “Let’s go see your new home, Dad,” she says, and the words are a peace offering.
I take the bag, my heart feeling a little lighter than it has in days. “Yeah,” I say, my smile returning. “Let’s go home.”
