CHAPTER 11
Maverick
The call came Wednesday morning while I was making coffee.
Clark's phone buzzed on the kitchen counter and I glanced at the screen out of habit. Gary's Auto Shop. My stomach did a weird flip.
"That's probably about your car," Clark said quietly, coming up behind me. His hand settled on my lower back, grounding. "Want me to answer it?"
I shook my head and picked up his phone, putting it on speaker. "Hello?"
"Clark? It's Gary. Got good news—those parts came in yesterday. Honda's all fixed up and ready to go."
My throat went tight. "Oh. That's... that's great."
"You can come pick her up anytime today. She'll run like new."
"Thanks, Gary. We'll be there soon." Clark replied, then ended the call while I stared at the phone in my hand.
Clark's thumb rubbed slow circles against my spine. "How do you feel?"
"I don't know." I set his phone down carefully, like it might explode. "Good? Bad? I don't know."
"Come here." He turned me around, tipped my chin up so I had to meet his eyes. "Talk to me."
"It's stupid—"
"Not stupid. Never stupid." His voice dropped into that firm Daddy tone that made my brain go quiet. "Tell me what you're feeling."
I took a breath. "I should be happy. I've been stuck here for two weeks without my car, and now it's fixed, and I can... I can..."
"Leave," Clark finished, his jaw tight.
"No. I mean—yes, technically, but I don't want to leave. That's the thing. I don't want to leave, but now that I can, it feels like..." I struggled to find the words. "Like I'm choosing to stay instead of just being stuck here. And that's scarier somehow."
Clark's expression softened. He pulled me against his chest, and I buried my face in his flannel shirt. He smelled like coffee and wood smoke and home.
"Choosing is always scarier than staying by default," he murmured against my hair. "But it's also the only way it means something."
"I'm choosing you," I whispered. "I'm choosing this."
"I know, baby. But let's go get your car anyway. You should have it. You should have the choice."
***
Twenty minutes later, we were pulling into Gary's Auto Shop in Clark's truck. My Honda was parked out front and my chest ached looking at it. That car had taken me everywhere. Every road, every town, every temporary place I'd convinced myself was enough.
And now it was just... a car. Fixed and ready but not pulling at me the way it used to.
Gary came out wiping his hands on a rag, grinning. "There she is! Runs perfect now. New starter, new battery, tuned up the engine while I was at it." He patted the hood like a proud parent. "You'll be good to go for whatever road trip you've got planned next."
I pulled out my wallet, trying not to wince at how much this was going to cost. A big chunk of my savings but it was fine. I had a little left. Enough.
"You heading out for the holidays?" Gary asked conversationally as I handed over my card. "Back home?"
"I, uh..." I glanced at Clark, who was leaning against his truck with his arms crossed, watching me. "No. I'm staying here. In Winterbrook."
Gary's eyebrows shot up. "No kidding? Well, that's great! We can always use new folks. Especially ones Clark vouches for." He clapped me on the shoulder. "Welcome home, then."
Home.
The word hit different now.
I finished paying, took the keys, and stood there holding them. They felt heavier than they should.
"Want me to follow you back?" Clark asked.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
***
Sitting in the driver's seat of my Honda felt like putting on an old jacket that didn't quite fit anymore. Everything was familiar—the rip in the passenger seat I'd been meaning to fix, the coffee stain on the console, the way the engine hummed when I turned the key.
But I wasn't the same person who'd driven this car into Winterbrook two weeks ago.
Clark's truck was parked a few feet away, waiting. I could see him through the windshield, patient and steady. Not pushing. Just... there.
I could leave right now.
The thought rose up before I could stop it. The roads were clear. The car was fixed. I had enough money to get... somewhere. Anywhere. I could just drive away like I always had before, like I'd done a hundred times in a hundred towns.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
But I didn't want to.
For the first time in my entire adult life, I didn't want to run. I didn't want to see what was over the next hill or around the next bend. I didn't want temporary or transient or "let's see where this goes."
I wanted Clark. I wanted this farm. I wanted Bear and terrible Christmas movies and mornings with coffee and scrambled eggs. I wanted to stay.
Not because I was stuck. Because I was choosing it.
The difference felt enormous and scared the crap out of me a little.
I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot, following Clark's truck back toward the farm. Watching his taillights ahead of me, I felt something settle deep in my chest.
I was choosing to follow him. Not forced. Not trapped. Choosing what I wanted.
***
Back at the farm, I parked next to Clark's truck. For a moment, I just sat there, looking at them side by side. Mine and his. Two vehicles, two people, and two separate lives that had somehow tangled together into something that felt like us.
Clark appeared at my window, tapping on the glass. I rolled it down.
"How does it feel?" he asked. "Having your car back?"
I looked at the dashboard of Shitbox, then at him. "Like freedom. Like having a choice."
His expression shifted, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "And what do you choose?"
I got out of the car and stood in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body in the cold morning air. "You. I choose you. Not because I'm stuck here. Not because my car was broken. Because I want you. Because I want this."
"Mav—" His voice cracked.
"I'm not going anywhere," I said firmly.
He pulled me against him hard enough to steal my breath, his arms like iron bands around my back. His face pressed into my neck and I felt him shaking.
"I wasn't sure what you'd do when you got it back," he admitted roughly. "I was terrified you'd just... drive away."
"I won't." I held him just as tight. "I promise. I'm staying."
We stood there in the cold, holding each other, and I felt the last piece of my wandering heart finally go still.
***
That evening, I couldn't settle.
Clark was making dinner and I was supposed to be setting the table, but I kept drifting. To the window. To my phone. To the door. My car keys were in my pocket—I'd put them there without thinking—and I kept touching them like a talisman.
"Mav," Clark said quietly. "Come here."
I walked over to where he stood at the stove and he turned to look at me. Really look at me.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Nothing. I'm fine."
His eyebrow raised. "Try again."
I fidgeted with my phone. "I just—I keep thinking about the car. About having it back. About how I could—" I cut myself off.
"About how you could leave," he finished, his voice flat.
"No. I mean, not really. I'm not going to leave, I already told you that." The words came out defensive. "I just keep thinking about it. Like, what if I needed to. What if something happened and I had to go somewhere quickly. What if—"
"Maverick." His voice had that edge now. That Daddy tone that made my spine straighten. "You're planning exit strategies."
"I'm not—"
"Yes, you are. You're standing there with your car keys in your pocket, looking at the door every thirty seconds, and dreaming up scenarios where you might need to leave." He crossed his arms. "What did I tell you about running when things get scary?"
My face heated. "This isn't running. This is just... being prepared."
"For what?"
"I don't know! For anything!" The words burst out.
"For things to go wrong. For you to realize this is a mistake.
For me to fuck it all up like I always do.
I don't know, okay? I just—I got my car back and now I CAN leave and part of my brain won't shut up about all the ways this could fall apart and—"
"Stop." He held up a hand. "Come here."
I didn't move.
"Now, Maverick."
I crossed to him slowly and he turned me toward the living room, his hand firm on my shoulder.
"Sit on the couch."
My stomach dropped. "Clark—"
"Sit. Down."
I sat. He remained standing, looking down at me with an expression that was disappointed and concerned all at once.
"What's rule number one?" he asked quietly.
"Honesty," I whispered.
"And what have you been doing all evening?"
"Hiding." My throat felt tight. "Hiding what I was feeling."
"What's rule number two?"
"Communication."
"And instead of talking to me about these feelings, what were you doing?"
"Thinking about all the things that could go wrong and how I could just go." The admission hurt coming out. "I'm sorry. I don't even want to run, I just—my brain won't stop—"
"I know." His voice softened slightly. "But we talked about this. When you get scared, you don't hide it. You don't pull away. You tell me. You let me help."
"I know. I'm sorry."
He sat down beside me and his hand came up to cup my face, making me look at him. "I'm not angry, baby. But I'm disappointed. We established rules for a reason. And one of those reasons is so you don't spiral alone when you're scared."
"I know," I said miserably.
"So we're going to address this. Right now. Because you need to understand that the rules are real, and consequences are real, and I meant what I said about holding you accountable." His thumb brushed my cheek. "Okay?"
My heart was pounding. "Okay."
"What do you think needs to happen here?"
I swallowed hard. "I think... I think I need you to remind me that I can't run. That the rules matter. That you meant what you said."
"That's exactly right." He pulled back and gestured to his lap. "Over my knee, baby."