Chapter Twelve #2
At the curb, I pull her close, thumbs on her cheekbones, trying to memorize the exact shade of her eyes.
"See you Friday?" she whispers against my mouth.
"Always."
The gate call interrupts and she kisses me once more. It's hard, desperate, completely mine, and then… she's walking away, boots I bought her now slightly dirtier than last time we did this.
I watch until she disappears into the security line, then drive back to Stone River with the radio off and the silence too loud.
By the time I walk into Timber Tavern, the sun's starting to dip behind the ridge and the place is humming with that early-evening energy. The jukebox is playing something country, and the smell of burgers and beer is thick in the air.
Charlie spots me from behind the bar.
He doesn't ask questions. Just sets a pint down at the bar and says, "Replenishment. On the house."
I stare at the beer like it holds answers, Jamie's voice still ringing in my head: Keep being who you are. You're a pretty amazing guy, Chase.
My burger arrives, Charlie's nightly special with bacon and some kind of aioli I can't taste because my brain's still at thirty thousand feet.
I'm halfway through forcing myself to eat when Knox and Travis slide into the booth like they were summoned.
"You look like shit, man," Knox announces, stealing a fry.
Travis, quieter but no less direct: "Name the threat."
I exhale, long and slow. "She left again."
The words hang there, raw and honest in a way I'm still not used to.
But for once, Knox doesn't roast me. He just nods and slings a supportive arm around my shoulder. "Vulnerability hangover. Pairs well with fries and your friends not letting you spiral too deep, man."
"She comes back," Travis adds, steady. "Every Friday."
"Yeah. Maybe."
But the word maybe sticks in my throat, because, despite what Jamie said, he doesn't know the full story.
No one does.
Mom used to leave too. Little trips at first, just like this.
A weekend here, a few days there. Visiting friends, she'd say. Lily just needs some space. And I'd believe her because I was a kid and kids believe their parents are coming back.
Until the day she didn't.
Until the day she called from Germany with a new husband and a new life and a choice that wasn't really a choice at all.
I reminded her of Dad. The man who left her.
I've seen the pictures… I'm a spitting image of the asshole. And the more I matured, the deeper the resemblance grew.
No wonder she couldn't stand the sight of me.
I take a long pull of beer, trying to drown the comparison before it takes root.
"Here he is!" Jamie appears, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "I've changed my shifts this week. I'm on nights with you, big fella. You're not allowed to sulk alone."
"I don't sulk," I mutter.
"You absolutely sulk," Knox confirms. "It's one of your defining traits."
Despite everything burning my insides, I almost smile.
Travis leans back on his bar stool. "Want to hear about my worst Sunday Scaries?"
"Do I have a choice?"
"Nope." He grins. "I hated deployment goodbyes. Every single one felt like the last time I'd see my loved ones. You stand there at the gate, trying to memorize your family's face, knowing you might not see them again. And then you get on the plane anyway, because that's the deal when you sign up."
Knox chimes in, lighter. "Lost a climbing partner once. Not dead. Just moved to Colorado for a girl. Swore he'd visit every month, but that lasted two visits before life got in the way."
"So your point is I'm screwed?" I ask, deflating further.
"Our point," Jamie says, "is that you're not the first guy to watch someone leave. And you won't be the last. For now, she keeps coming back, Morrison. Like I said this morning, that means something."
I stare at the table, at the ring of condensation from my glass, at the fries Knox is destroying.
"Why did I ever sign that damn napkin?" I mutter, more to myself because they wouldn't understand anyway.
Charlie swings by with another round, setting down bottles in a way that says I'm listening but not pushing.
Saying it out loud, admitting I'm terrified of wanting too much from a schedule that only guarantees weekends, eases something tight inside. I'm not ashamed I told her about Mom. I'm just scared that history repeats itself in ways you can't control.
But these guys? They're not letting me drown in it.
Jamie squeezes my shoulder once more before heading back to the darts board, and Knox launches into some ridiculous story about a rescue gone sideways, and Travis steals the last of my fries with zero remorse.
And for a minute, the ache dulls.
Later, after the guys finally let me escape, I sit in my truck outside the post office with a small box on the passenger seat.
I've been collecting things all weekend without letting Piper see. Ever since we decided to see if it really is the mountains that are helping her feel brighter, less under pressure.
I start piling it all in. A new thermos in her favorite color. Trail mix with the chocolate chunks she likes. Hand warmers for Chicago's brutal wind. And more gummy bears, obviously.
And a note I wrote as I watched her walk away at the airport this afternoon.
You can take the girl from the mountain, but you can't take the mountain from the girl. From, Your Forever Friday
I stare at the box, fingers drumming the steering wheel.
This is probably too much. Definitely too much. She'll think I'm clingy or desperate or—
Just be yourself, Chase.
I grab the box and head inside.
The post office is nearly empty, just the clerk sorting mail behind the counter. She knows me like everyone knows everyone around here.
She smiles when I slide the box across.
"Priority shipping to Chicago," I say.
She weighs it, slaps a label on top, and rings me up. "Lucky girl."
"Yeah," I say quietly. "She is."
I walk past Timber Tavern on the way back to my truck, and through the window I can see Knox and Travis still holding court at the booth. Knox spots me and flips me off affectionately. Travis raises his beer. Charlie, wiping down the bar, catches my eye and salutes goodnight with his towel.
I climb into my truck and sit there for a minute, engine idling, breath fogging the windshield.
The ache's still there. Probably always will be on Sundays.
But it's steadier now. Less like drowning, more like a bruise I'm learning to carry.
I can't change Sunday.
But I can make Mondays less brutal. I can be the man who keeps showing up, who keeps choosing her without making my love another obligation she has to calendar.
That's what I've always done. Ever since the day I found myself all alone.
So that's what I'll keep doing.
I pull out of the lot and head home. When I unlock my apartment door, the silence doesn't feel quite as heavy.
Because it's not empty anymore.
It's just… waiting. Waiting for Friday. Waiting for her.
And I can do that.
I'm good at waiting for people who come back.