Two words. That's all. But they mean he's thinking about me. Worried about me. Can't let go any more than I can.
Me: I'm home.
Ethan: Good.
The conversation dies there. I wait for more. Nothing comes.
I set the phone down and close my eyes. Sunday morning I'll see him again. Help him load twenty-five dozen donuts into his truck. Stand next to him and pretend my hands aren't itching to touch him.
And then he'll leave, go to Denver, and create the distance he thinks we need.
I'll be here. Running my shop. Making donuts. Missing someone I never actually had.
The thought sits in my chest like a weight. Heavy and unmovable.
This isn't over. Ethan thinks leaving will solve something, and put things back to how they were before.
But you can't unknow something. Can't unfeel what's already been felt. Can't take back admissions made in the darkness of a cabin with no witnesses except the truth.
He wants me. I want him. And Luke stands between us whether he knows it or not.
Something has to give.
I just hope it's not me.
6
ETHAN
Istand on the porch long after her taillights disappear.
The night is quiet. Just crickets and the distant sound of the creek. My heart is still racing. My hands are still shaking.
I almost kissed her.
Would have kissed her if Luke hadn't called. If reality hadn't crashed back in at exactly the right moment. Or the wrong one. Hard to tell which.
I go inside and close the door. The cabin feels different now. She was here. Stood in this space. Put her hand on my chest and asked me questions I couldn't answer honestly without destroying everything.
My phone is on the table. The screen shows her last message. I'm home.
I should delete the thread. Delete her number. Cut off the temptation completely.
I don't.
Instead, I sit on the couch and drop my head into my hands. Sunday morning she'll be at the shop. I promised to help with the delivery. One more time. One more interaction before I leave.
It's a terrible idea.
I'm going anyway.
Sleep doesn't come easy. I lie in bed thinking about the way she looked at me. The challenge in her eyes when she asked if I wanted her to go. The heat of her palm against my chest.
The fact that I said no.
I should've said yes. Should've sent her home the moment she showed up. But I'm weak. Weaker than I thought.
By four thirty Sunday morning, I give up on sleep. I shower and dress and make coffee I don't drink. At four fifty, I'm in my truck heading toward town.
