"You need to go."
The words land. Hard. Her face does something I'll remember for the rest of my life. The brightness dims. The openness closes. She pulls my t-shirt over her head, standing in her bra and shorts, and throws it at my chest.
"Keep your shirt."
Walking to the couch, she grabs her bag. Stuffs in the few things she's unpacked over the week. The toothbrush by the sink. The phone charger. The paperback with the leaf bookmark.
Duke scrambles off the porch. Runs to her. Presses against her legs. Whining.
She kneels. Takes his face in both hands. Presses her forehead to his. "I know, baby. I know."
My throat closes.
She stands. Walks to the door. Stops with her hand on the frame. Doesn't turn around.
"The anger you think you're carrying? It's loneliness. You know that, right? You've been up here so long you forgot what it feels like to have somebody give a damn about you. And when I showed up and gave a damn, it scared you to death."
The door closes.
Her car starts. Gravel crunches under tires. The engine fades down the logging road until I can't hear it anymore.
Duke sits at the door. Doesn't move. Stares at the spot where her car was. After ten minutes, he starts to whine. Low, constant, gutted.
The cabin is quiet again. Coffee's gone cold. Wildflowers still in the jar. The second mug still on the drying rack.
I got what I wanted. Silence. Solitude. No one in my space, in my head, in my bed making me remember that I'm a human being who used to want things.
So why does the silence feel like screaming?
CHAPTER SIX
JADA
Bean & Bloom smells like cinnamon. The latte in my hands is the best thing I've tasted since my own cooking, which is saying something because my ego about my omelets is not small.
Crimson Hollow is ridiculous. A postcard town tucked into the mountains with storefronts that look hand painted, hanging flower baskets on every lamppost, and people who say good morning like they mean it. The woman behind the counter, Sage, gave me extra foam without asking. Told me the muffins were fresh. Asked if I was passing through or staying.
"Passing through," I said. Because that's what I do now. Pass through places. Leave before the leaving gets done for me.
Two days since I drove off Beck's mountain. Two days in a motel room above the town's only bookshop, staring at a ceiling with a water stain shaped like Texas while Duke's face plays on repeat in my head. That whine. Those brown eyes watching me pack. Pressing his body against my legs, begging me not to go.
The man didn't beg. The man told me to leave. Stood in his kitchen gripping the counter with white knuckles while I stripped off his shirt and threw it at his chest because what elsedo you do when somebody hands you their body, their bed, their quiet morning coffee, then looks you in the face and says go?
My phone has been blowing up.
Tasha:
You LEFT? GIRL
What happened
Jada I swear to God if you don't answer me
Mama:
Baby, Tasha called. She said you were upset. Call me when you can. I love you.
Tasha:
