I pulled out my phone and stared at Trudy’s name in my contacts. My thumb hovered over the call button.
No.
I needed more than her voice. I needed to see her. Touch her. Feel something real and solid and present instead of drowning in the ghosts of a past I couldn’t change.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket, swung my leg over the bike, and fired up the engine. The rumble beneath me was familiar, grounding. I pulled Christina’s journal from my jacket, looked at it one last time, then tucked it into the saddlebag.
Not tonight. Tonight I needed to be with someone who was alive. Someone I could hold in my arms. Someone who didn’t need me but wanted me.
The ride through Diamond Creek didn’t take long. The sun was sinking lower on the horizon, painting everything in shades of orange and gold. The wind whipped past, cold and sharp, clearing my head with every mile.
By the time I pulled onto Trudy’s street, the sky had deepened to purple, stars just beginning to prick through the darkness. Her house sat quiet, warm light glowing behind the curtains. The porch light was on, casting a soft yellow glow over the red front door.
I killed the engine and sat there for a moment, hands still gripping the handlebars as I stared at the house in front of me. With a heavy breath, I swung off the bike and walked up the path to her door, my boots heavy on the wooden steps. My hand was steady when I raised it to knock.
Three solid raps.
A pause. Movement inside. Footsteps approaching.
The door swung open, and there she was.
Trudy stood in the doorway, barefoot, wearing soft pants and an oversized sweater that slipped off one shoulder. Her hair was down, loose around her face. No makeup. No armor. Just her.
And she was pissed.
Her eyes weren’t wide with surprise; they were hard. Cold. Her jaw was set, her arms crossed over her chest, and she didn’t say a word. Just stared at me with an expression that made it clear exactly what she thought of me showing up on her doorstep after ghosting her at the bakery.
I felt the weight of it. The consequences of walking out without explanation. Without even looking back.
“Trudy—” I started.
She didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Just kept staring at me with those ice-cold eyes.
Then something shifted. Her gaze traveled over my face, studying me, and I saw the exact moment she registered that something was wrong. Her expression cracked, just slightly. The hardness in her eyes flickered.
But she didn’t step aside. Didn’t invite me in. She just stood there, guarded, waiting for me to explain myself.
“I need you,” I said, my voice rough. “I just... I need you.”
For a long moment, she didn’t move. Then, finally, she stepped back, pulling the door open wider.
I stepped inside, and she closed the door behind me. She didn’t say anything. Just walked past me into the living room and sat on the edge of the sofa, hands folded in her lap. Waiting.
I stood there like a fucking idiot, holding Christina’s journal against my chest, trying to figure out where to start.
“You left,” Trudy said finally, her voice flat. “You sat at that table for hours, reading that goddamn book, and then you just...left. Didn’t say a word. Didn’t look at me. Just walked out like I wasn’t even there.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Her eyes flashed. “Because from where I was standing, it looked like you got what you wanted from me and then decided I wasn’t worth an explanation when something more important came up.”
Fuck. That was what she thought? That I’d used her and tossed her aside?
“That’s not what happened,” I said.
“Then what did happen, Stephen?” She stood up, arms crossed again. “Because I’ve been sitting here all evening trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong. What I said. What I?—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I moved toward her, but she stepped back. “Trudy, you didn’t do a goddamn thing wrong. This isn’t about you.”
