Chapter 11
Jane
My body is still tingling when I wake up.
Which is an issue because I’ve never had a body-tingling problem before. Not like this.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, replaying it because my brain has nothing better to do. Tex’s mouth on me. The hard heat of his body under me. His choked groan as he came in my hand, as if he’d been holding back and finally snapped.
I press my hand to my heart as if to stop the memories from leaking out, but last night has left an imprint on me that won’t wash off, no matter how many times I shower.
Rolling onto my side, I stare at the window until the pale edge of morning bleeds into the field beyond it.
This is the part where a sensible person would go, Okay, Jane. Slow down. Think. Breathe.
I am not a sensible person.
And my heart is already doing that doomed, stupid thing where it starts building a whole future out of one precious night and a man saying you’re enough.
My skin feels too tight. My body is still braced for his hands.
I’m falling.
I hate it.
I love it.
I want to scream.
Instead, I throw the quilt back and sit up, because I can’t afford to spiral.
The cabin is quiet in a way that’s too loud for my brain. I make it to the living room and stop short.
Tex stands in the kitchen with his back to me, his phone pressed to his ear. One hand is braced on the counter, and his head is slightly bowed.
I shouldn’t listen. I know I shouldn’t. But something about the hunch of his shoulders makes my stomach clench, and my feet won't move.
My body freezes the way it does when instinct is faster than choice, when some ancient part of my brain recognizes danger before my conscious mind catches up.
“…she's a lot,” he’s saying, and the words hit like a slap. My chest contracts, and I flinch as if he threw something at me.
“… and I’m out of my depth with her.”
My throat closes. My stomach clenches so hard that I almost double over.
His words aren’t cruel. They’re honest. And that’s so much worse because cruel words I can dismiss. Honesty slips past every defense I’ve ever built.
Buzzing fills my ears, but I force myself to refocus on the conversation.
Tex sighs. “She’s everythin’ I didn’t want, Tank.”
The world tilts. My vision narrows to a pinpoint, to Tex’s back, his hand scrubbing through his hair, those words hanging in the air like a death sentence. Everything else goes fuzzy at the edges, as if my brain is trying to protect me by blurring out the periphery.
I can’t breathe. I literally cannot pull air into my lungs. My chest is too tight, compressed by an invisible fist, and the ringing in my ears drowns out whatever he says next.
Everything I didn't want.
The phrase echoes in my skull, growing louder. My brain grabs it and runs, sprinting toward the worst possible conclusion like it’s racing for a finish line only I can see.
This is what my brain does. This is what it’s always done. It hears a partial sentence and fills in the ending with the version that hurts the most, the version that confirms every terrible thing I’ve ever believed about myself.
I know—I know—I should wait. Should stay and hear the rest. Should give him a chance to finish that sentence.
But my body is already moving, and my brain is already writing the ending because I’ve heard versions of this my entire life:
Too loud. Too much. Too chaotic. Why can’t you just calm down?
The familiar static fills my head when the pain is too big to process. Then my brain does what it always does when rejection hits: it yanks the emergency cord and reroutes everything into action.
This is the part I hate. The part where I can watch myself doing something self-destructive and be completely unable to stop.
Fix it. Be better. Make it make sense. Don’t let him regret you.
I turn away before I can hear any more. I can’t make myself stay; my body won't let me. My feet carry me back down the hallway, and the fire in my chest incinerates every hopeful thing I allowed myself to feel last night.
In my room, I shut the door quietly and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the wood, my knees pulled to my chest. My throat is too tight to swallow. The bees are back with that buzzing, swarming sensation that fills my head when everything is too much.
Okay. Okay, Jane.
So this is it, then. This is the part where reality catches up. Where the man who said, “You're enough,” realizes I’m actually too much.
Except maybe I can still fix it. Maybe if I’m quieter. Calmer. Maybe if I show him I can be different.
This is the thing about my brain: it can’t sit with pain. It has to do something. Find a solution. Make a plan. Turn devastation into a to-do list.
And the plan crystallizes with awful clarity: Become someone he wants.
Neat. Calm. Manageable. Soft around the edges. Not a whirlwind. A woman who fits into a schedule instead of wrecking it.
I swallow hard, scrubbing a hand over my face.
It’s ridiculous. I know it’s ridiculous. But it’s also so familiar that it feels like coming home to a house I hate.
Because somewhere in the mess of being raised by three men who loved me but didn’t understand me, I learned a survival rule: If you want to be loved, you make yourself easier.
You learn what triggers their worry, and you smooth those parts down.
You notice what makes them sigh, and you stop doing it.
You become an easier version of yourself, one piece at a time, until you can’t remember what the original looked like.
You trade pieces of yourself for approval. And you tell yourself it’s fine. It’s a compromise. It’s what love is.
And now here I am again, ready to shave myself down to fit into the space Tex might accept. Because he chose me, and I can't bear to lose that. Because the alternative of being myself and having him walk away is a pain I don’t think I can survive.
I know the cost. I’ve paid it before. Parts of myself I gave away to make other people comfortable—my volume, my enthusiasm, my big feelings, my wild ideas. I gave them away like they were worthless, like keeping them would cost more than losing them.
It never worked. It never works. The people I sanded myself down for always eventually wanted more sanding, or they left anyway, or they stayed but looked at me like I was a project instead of a person.
But Tex is different. He has to be. Because if I lose him, I don’t know how to survive it.
Maybe this time, if I get it right, if I'm neat enough, calm enough, manageable enough, he won’t look at me and think “too much.” He’ll look at me and think “mine.”
The thought settles in my chest like a vow I don’t remember making.
Like a deal with a devil I can’t see. Some part of me knows that this will cost me pieces of myself I might never get back, but the alternative is losing him.
And right now, at this moment, with his words still echoing in my skull, I would trade anything to make that not happen.
My phone is on the dresser. I grab it with shaking fingers, open my messages, and scroll until I find Kitty.
We’ve only met once, but she felt safe. She looked at me like I was a person, not a problem to be solved. And right now, I need someone who won’t try to fix me. I need someone who will just... let me exist. Even if I’m about to ask her to help me fix myself anyway. The irony isn’t lost on me.
I type before I can overthink it.
Me: Hey. Are you home? Can I come over this morning?
I pace the bedroom, my gaze fixed on the screen.
Three dots appear.
Kitty: Hey, Jane. Yes. Come on over. I’ve just taken cinnamon rolls out of the oven.
My throat tightens. I blink hard.
Me: Thank you. I’ll be there soon.
I set the phone down and stare at it for a minute.
Then I put on a smile. Not a real one. Not the kind that bubbles up naturally. The mask. The bright, breezy Jane everyone expects, the one who jokes and curses and acts like nothing ever touches her.
I smooth my hair, straighten my shirt, and take a deep breath. Then I walk back out into the hallway like my heart isn’t aching and bruised.
Tex is still in the kitchen when I appear. He’s off the phone now, standing at the sink, hands braced on the counter like he’s trying to reset himself.
He looks up as if he senses me. His gaze lands on my face and sharpens slightly as if he’s reading what I’m trying to hide. “Morning.”
“Morning,” I chirp, hating how fake it sounds.
He doesn’t comment. That’s worse.
I stride into the kitchen like I’m not vibrating with hurt. “I’m going to have breakfast with Kitty.”
Tex’s eyebrows draw together. “You are?”
“Mm-hmm,” I say brightly. “Girl talk. Cinnamon buns. Potential interrogation.”
His mouth twitches faintly. “You don’t have to go anywhere.”
I keep the smile fixed, wide enough to crack my face. “I want to.”
He studies me for too long. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I lie. “I’m great.”
His eyes darken, but he nods. “It’s cold. Wear the scarf.”
My chest stings at the care, because how can he look at me like that, take care of me like that, and still say I’m everything he didn’t want?
He tosses his scarf toward me anyway.
I catch it with reflexes honed by years of dodging my brothers’ nonsense. “Thanks.”
Tex’s voice drops. “Jane—”
I don’t let him finish. I step back, already retreating, already escaping. “Don’t wait for me to get back. Or do. Whatever you schedule guys do.”
His jaw tightens like he wants to stop me. He doesn’t.
And somehow, that hurts too.
I leave the cabin before my smile collapses.
Outside, the cold hits hard and clean. Snow crunches beneath my boots. My breath fogs like smoke.
I walk fast, head down, scarf tight around my neck, trying to outrun the sound of his voice in my head.
She’s everything I didn’t want.
I grit my teeth and keep walking, desperate to outrun a sentence I’ll never hear the end of.