Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
A few hours later, Colby parked the truck on Main Street and shut the engine off.
The morning had passed in a blur of small tasks.
Sabrina had showered while he cleaned up the kitchen, and then she'd emerged in borrowed clothes from the bag Bree had dropped off, her hair still damp and curling at the ends.
They'd talked about nothing important, danced around the bigger questions, and eventually, the need for practical things had pushed them out the door.
She needed clothes. Basics. Underwear and socks, and something that belonged to her instead of someone else's closet.
"Sure you're up for this?" he asked, watching her face.
Sabrina stared out the windshield at the row of shops across the street.
Copper Moon's main strip wasn't long, but it was busy today.
Delivery trucks making rounds. Locals running errands.
A couple of tourists were taking pictures of the storefronts, like the buildings might sprout legs and walk away if they didn't capture them fast enough.
"I need clothes," she said. "I can't live in borrowed outfits forever. Bree will give me anything I ask for, but she has her own life and her own closet. I don't want to steal her entire wardrobe."
"Bree wouldn't mind," he said.
"That's not the point." She exhaled slowly, her breath fogging slightly against the window before fading.
"I've brushed my teeth without panicking this morning.
I've walked across your living room without checking every corner for smoke.
I can walk into a store and buy underwear like a normal human being. It's a low bar."
"Low bars count," he said. "We'll keep it simple. In, out. If it's too much, we bail. No grades."
Her fingers fumbled with the seatbelt release. "Right. No grades."
They crossed the street together. He matched his pace to hers, staying close without crowding. The clothing shop on the corner had decent basics; he'd seen Hank dragged through its doors more than once when Bree decided his wardrobe needed intervention.
They were three steps from the entrance when Sabrina's hand locked around his forearm.
She went still. Completely, utterly still, like someone had hit pause on her entire existence. Her breath froze in her chest, caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. Her eyes fixed on something past him, past the shop, past everything he could see.
He followed her line of sight.
A man stood near the café across the street, phone pressed to his ear.
Tall. Dark hair, cut neat like it had a standing appointment at an expensive barber.
Jacket that probably cost more than Colby's entire wardrobe, good leather shoes, easy smile aimed at the barista who'd stepped outside to take a break.
He turned his head, and Colby caught his profile.
At first glance, he looked like half the out-of-towners who came through Copper Moon with money and opinions. Nothing special. Nothing threatening.
But Sabrina's grip on his arm tightened until her nails bit through his sleeve.
Her lips barely moved. "He's here."
Colby shifted his body, sliding a half-step to the side so he blocked her from view. His back to the man. His eyes on her.
"He can't see you right now," he said, keeping his voice low and even. "You're behind me."
Her breathing went high and fast, shallow little gasps that weren't getting enough air. "I didn't think... I thought I'd have more time."
"Look at me," he said. "Not him. Me."
Her gaze jumped up to his. Fear sat there, sharp and raw, laced with something that looked like shame. Like she was embarrassed to be falling apart on a public sidewalk over a man who wasn't even looking in her direction.
"You want to go inside?" he asked. "Or back to the truck?"
"Truck." The word scraped out of her, rough and desperate. "Please."
"Okay." He kept his tone steady. "Turn around. Don't look across the street. I've got you."
She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin that might have been imperceptible to anyone watching.
She turned, slowly, like her body had forgotten how to move, and pressed in closer to his side.
Close enough that he could feel her trembling through the thin fabric of her borrowed shirt.
Like she was trying to line her heartbeat up with his, to borrow some of his steadiness for herself.
He walked them back the way they'd come, his hand settling on the small of her back. Light pressure. Guiding without pushing. She stumbled once on a crack in the sidewalk, her ankle turning slightly, and he tightened his grip, held her upright.
He didn't look back at the café. Her reaction told him everything he needed to know.
By the time they reached his truck, her hands were shaking so hard she couldn't work the door handle. She yanked at it twice, her fingers slipping off the metal, before he gently moved her aside and opened it for her.
"In," he said.
She climbed up into the seat, her movements jerky and uncoordinated, and fumbled with the seatbelt. The buckle wouldn't catch. She tried again, hands trembling, and it still wouldn't lock.
He leaned in just enough to take the buckle from her shaking fingers and click it home. The sound of it engaging seemed to echo in the sudden quiet.
"I'm going to walk around and get in," he said. "You're safe. Take a second."
She nodded, staring straight ahead through the windshield at nothing.
He rounded the truck, climbed behind the wheel, and started the engine. Not to drive anywhere. Just for the white noise of the engine running, something to fill the silence that wasn't her ragged breathing.
They sat without speaking for a long moment. The engine hummed. Outside, people walked past, oblivious, going about their ordinary days.
"I'm sorry," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "That was ridiculous."
"It wasn't."
"I saw him, and it was like..." Her fingers twisted together in her lap, tangling and untangling in an endless anxious loop. "I was back in our kitchen. And he was standing in the doorway, counting the glasses in the cabinet."
Colby stared at the dashboard. "Counting them?"
"To see if I'd had people over without telling him.
To see if I'd washed them 'right.' To see if I'd put them back exactly where he wanted them to be.
" She let out a broken laugh that had no humor in it.
"It depended on the day. Sometimes it was glasses.
Sometimes it was how I folded the towels.
Sometimes it was whether I'd responded to his text within five minutes.
" Her jaw tightened. "You'd think a grown woman could see her ex on a sidewalk without completely folding. "
Colby wanted to get out of the truck, walk back across the street, drag the man into an alley, and explain a few things with his fists. The urge was so strong his knuckles ached from gripping the steering wheel.
He kept his hands where they were. This wasn't about him.
"What you did," he said, keeping his voice level, "was notice a threat and get yourself out of the situation. That's not folding. That's survival."
She stared through the windshield. "I wonder if he's lurking around to see what people are saying about the fire.
He'll have thoughts. He always has thoughts.
And he'll try to make it seem like I had something to do with it.
Like I set it myself for the insurance money or attention or whatever story makes him look like the victim. "
"His thoughts don't get a vote," Colby said.
"You haven't met him."
"He's your ex." Colby turned his head to look at her. "That's enough context. You walked away from him. That matters more than anything he's got to say."
Her chin trembled. She pressed her lips together hard, fighting the emotion that wanted to break through.
"He didn't want me to keep Norman House after my grandparents died," she whispered.
"He wanted me to sell. Take the money and 'get a life that isn't chained to a reception desk,' those were his exact words.
I told him the inn was my life. It was the only thing I had left of my grandparents, the only piece of them I could still touch.
" Her mouth twisted. "He told me I was sentimental and stupid. "
Colby's jaw went tight. "He was wrong."
"He was very sure he wasn't." Her grip on her knees tightened, knuckles going white.
"He was very fond of that word. 'Stupid.
' Used it like punctuation. Everything I did that he didn't like was stupid.
Every opinion I had that he disagreed with was stupid.
Every dream I had that didn't fit his plan was stupid. "
She fell silent for a moment, her breath catching.
"He had a plan for my life," she continued. "And I kept messing it up by having my own."
"How long were you with him?" Colby asked, keeping his voice soft.
"Too long." She stared at her hands. "Long enough that I still hear his voice in my head when I try to make decisions without him. Which is really helpful now, when everything I own is ash, and I'm trying to figure out what to do next."
He turned toward her fully. "You made a call yesterday. On your land, standing in the middle of what used to be your inn. You said you're not selling. That was your voice, not his."
"What if I was wrong?" she asked, her voice small.
"You weren't." His tone didn't waver. "You were clear. You know what that land means to you. I trust that."
Silence stretched between them, taut and fragile.
"Thank you," she said finally. "For getting me out of there."
"Always."
She let out a shaky breath. "Do you ever wish you'd done something different? Whole different life. Different choices. Different path."
He thought about it. Really thought about it. There were plenty of calls he wished had gone another way. Words he wished he'd said sooner, or kept inside entirely. Roads not taken, opportunities missed, moments he couldn't get back.