Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
RED
Day One.
I split wood until my shoulders scream and stack it in perfect rows. I keep finding reasons to stay outside where the cold bites hard enough to keep me focused on anything but the silence inside.
It’s too fucking quiet in there.
Bear watches from the porch, head on his paws, staring at the empty driveway.
"She's gone," I tell him. "That's what happens. People leave."
He huffs and turns away.
Inside, evidence of her lingers everywhere. The mug she used still sits in the drying rack. My shirt—the one she wore—is folded on the chair where she left it.
I should burn it, but I leave it where it is.
DAY 11 ~ JANUARY 3
Day Three.
Beth calls. I don’t answer.
She calls again. And again.
On the fourth try, I answer.
"You're an idiot," she says without preamble.
"Good to hear from you too."
"She came back crying, Red. Crying. What the hell did you say to her?"
I close my eyes. "I told her I’d be here.”
"Oh, well done. Very romantic." Beth's voice drips with sarcasm. "You let her think you didn't care."
"I didn't—" I bite off the protest. "It's complicated."
"It's not." She sighs. "Look, I know you've been alone a long time. I know you think it's safer that way. But Cookie’s not going to break you, Red. She's not going anywhere unless you push her away."
"I didn't push—"
"You pushed. Trust me." A pause. "She's miserable, by the way; she won't stop baking. She made seventeen batches of cookies yesterday. Her apartment smells like a bakery exploded."
Something twists in my heart.
‘I bake when I’m nervous.’
She’s emotional.
"She asked about you," Beth continues quietly. "I told her you were fine. Was I lying?"
I stare at the fire, at the empty cabin, at the dog who won't stop watching the door.
"Yeah," I say. "You were lying."
DAY 15 ~ JANUARY 7
Day Seven.
I dream about Martinez.
It’s the same dream I've had for three years—the explosion, the screaming, the weight of his body in my arms. But this time, when I look down, it's not Martinez.
It's Sasha.
I wake gasping, drenched in sweat, her name on my lips.
Bear's cold nose presses against my hand.
"I'm losing it," I tell him.
He whines in agreement.
DAY 18 ~ JANUARY 10
Day Ten.
I pick up the phone six times. Put it down six times. I don’t even have her fucking number, so I’d have to call my niece.
Screw that.
What would I even say? Come back? I'm sorry, I was scared?
I'm forty years old—I’m too old for this kind of fear.
But not too old to recognize a mistake when I'm drowning in one.
I stare at my phone, at Beth's contact info, at the message I've typed and deleted a dozen times.
Then I hear an engine on the road.
I suck in a breath, unable to hope that it’s her; unable to accept it if it’s not.
Bear's head snaps up, his ears forward, his tail starting to wag before I've even processed what I'm hearing.
That rust-bucket wheeze. That death-rattle of an engine held together by hope and duct tape.
She really needs a new fucking car. I’ll buy her one. Fuck, I’ll buy her anything, as long as she stays.
I'm at the window before I can think, heart in my throat.
Sasha’s car fights its way up the road through ice and snow, stubborn as its owner.
She's back.