Chapter 21
Graeme
The house felt wrong without him.
I made coffee out of habit, but it tasted like nothing. The mug was warm in my hands, but my fingers felt numb. Snow drifted outside in soft, lazy spirals—the kind Rudy loved to watch. The kind he tilted his face up to catch on his eyelashes.
I sat at the table where he’d left the note, fingers brushing the faint dents his pen had made in the paper.
I’d read it four times already.
Each time it knocked something loose in me I wasn’t sure I could put back where it belonged.
He hadn’t said goodbye.
Not really.
Not in the way that ended things.
But he’d left.
And my chest hurt like I’d aged ten years overnight.
A knock startled me hard enough that my mug sloshed.
I wasn’t expecting anyone. I peeped out the window—
And sighed.
When your best friend is a sheriff, you learn that “not expecting anyone” doesn’t carry much weight.
I opened the door.
Tom stood there in his thick winter coat, snow dusting his shoulders, expression tight enough for me to know he was here for a reason.
“Been calling.”
I frowned. “I didn’t hear it,” I said, already stepping aside to let him in. “What’s going on?”
Tom stepped in, shaking off snow. He tugged his gloves free, then reached into his coat and pulled out a neatly folded scarf—bright red, with a row of little reindeer worked into both ends.
“Cynthia found this on the arm of the couch,” he said, setting it on the table. “She remembered Rudy had it wrapped around his neck when you all came by.”
I glanced down. Recognized it immediately. It was Rudy’s.
I kept my face neutral, even as something in me shifted out of place.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s his.”
Tom nodded. Then, like it was an afterthought, he added, “Cyn and I were talking this morning. She said Rudy fit in like he’s lived here for years.” He gave me a small smile. “You should’ve seen her face. Woman was glowing like we’d just adopted him.”
My throat tightened. “Yeah. He fit.”
Tom’s eyes flicked to mine. “Past tense?”
I swallowed. “He left.”
Silence beat between us.
Tom pulled out a chair at the table and sat, bracing his forearms on his knees. “Did you two fight?”
“No.”
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“Then why—”
“Because it was always meant to be temporary,” I said, the words rough but honest. “I just… didn’t expect how it would feel.”
Tom exhaled softly. “Graeme.”
I paced to the counter and braced my hands on the edge, breathing through the moment.
“I woke up and he’d already gone,” I said. “He didn’t wake me. He left me this instead.”
I tapped the folded note on the table.
Tom’s gaze dropped to the paper, then lifted back to my face.
“He wanted you to have his words,” he said quietly.
“Yeah,” I said. “And I understand why. I just wish I’d had the chance to say one more thing out loud.”
Tom leaned back in the chair, studying me instead of the note. “You don’t have to tell me what it says.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “He said what he’s already said to me. Just… clearer. Like he needed it to exist somewhere outside his head.”
Tom nodded once. “That tracks.”
“He didn’t run,” I said, more to myself than to him. “He just didn’t know how to stay.”
Tom’s voice was gentle but unyielding. “Those aren’t the same thing.”
I looked away. The fire in the stove crackled softly. Rudy had stood there just yesterday, cheeks flushed, hands tucked in his sleeves, smiling at me like I was something worth choosing.
“He cares for you,” Tom said.
“I know.”
“No,” he said, firmer. “He cares for you, Graeme.”
I looked away. The fire in the stove crackled gently. Rudy had warmed himself there just yesterday, cheeks flushed, hands tucked in his sleeves, smiling at me like I was something worth looking at.
“I wanted to ask him to stay,” I admitted. “Last night. God, Tom, I came so close. I kept imagining what it would sound like coming out of my mouth.” I dragged a hand over my face. “But he’s young, he has the whole damn world ahead of him, and I’m—”
“Forty-five,” Tom cut in. “Not dead or decrepit or unworthy.”
“I’m settled,” I said. “Rooted. My life is here. My routines. My shop. My people. And he—he’s spent his life bouncing from place to place, never asking for anything because people kept proving he shouldn’t. I couldn’t be the next person who asks him to give something up.”
Tom nodded slowly. “But you wanted him to stay.”
I closed my eyes. “Yeah. I did.” I expelled a breath. “I do.”
“And you didn’t ask because you were trying to protect him?”
“And maybe myself,” I whispered. “He made me feel… young again. Hopeful. Like there was something in my life I hadn’t already spent years building. Something new. Something I didn’t know I needed.”
Tom reached over and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Graeme,” he said, voice gentle, “you let Michael go without asking him to stay. I watched you do it. You said you didn’t want to clip his wings.”
My jaw tightened.
“But sometimes,” he continued, “when you don’t ask someone to stay… they go. Not because they want to. But because they don’t think they’re allowed to stay.” A beat. “Maybe Rudy needed you to ask.”
“He’s thirty,” I said. “He deserves someone his own age. Someone who can run after him without wheezing.”
Tom snorted. “Please. The man melted every time you looked at him.” And then he eyed me clinically from head to toe. “And for what it’s worth, you’re as fit as a fiddle.”
I huffed a broken laugh. “Maybe.”
“No maybe,” Tom said. “Rudy didn’t leave because he didn’t want you. “He left because wanting you meant imagining a future—and that’s hard when you’ve learned not to count on them.”
The words hit so deep, I had to take a seat.
The room felt too warm. Too bright. Too quiet. Grief pressed at my ribs like something trying to climb out.
“I don’t know how to do this again,” I said. “Open up. Risk it. I thought that part of my life was behind me.”
Tom’s expression softened. “Maybe it’s just been waiting for the right person.”
My vision blurred. I swiped a hand across my eyes, frustrated when it came away wet.
Tom stood and squeezed my shoulder before moving toward the door. “We’ll be around if you need anything.”
“Thanks.”
He opened the door halfway, then turned. “Graeme?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t close up your heart. Just… don’t.”
Then he left.
I remained at the table, Rudy’s note resting between my hands, reading it once more, then again—not because the words changed, but because I did. Because each pass loosened something different.
Sometime after that, I stood, fed the fire, rinsed a mug I hadn’t finished. I didn’t track the minutes.
By late morning, the light had shifted from pale gray to something sharper and white—the kind that made the snow glare and the cold feel deliberate.
I picked up my phone.
Rudy’s name stared back at me from the screen.
I held it there longer than necessary, thumb suspended, Tom’s words looping in my head.
Sometimes when you don’t ask someone to stay… they go.
Maybe my sweet boy wanted to stay.
I stared at the doorway, wondering stupidly if Rudy had paused there before leaving.
If he’d hesitated.
If he’d looked back.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
Then I told myself that was a lie.
My thumb moved.
Not because I had the right words. But because I didn’t want silence to decide for me.
I drew a breath—
A knock sounded.
I startled, heart kicking hard once before settling into a wary thud.
Probably Tom, I thought. He was good at forgetting things. Gloves. A hat. His damn thermos.
The knock came again—lighter this time.
I pushed back my chair and stood, the legs scraping louder than they should’ve.
“I’m coming,” I called, already moving.
As I reached the door, the assumption settled in, familiar and almost comforting.
Tom, sheepish. A half-grin. An excuse ready.
I reached for the handle. “Tom,” I said, already opening the door, “if you forgot your hat again—”
The words stopped existing.
Rudy stood on the porch.
Snow clung to the shoulders of his coat. His cheeks were pink from the cold, breath puffing white in the air. His hair was wind-tossed, like he’d run his hand through it too many times.
His eyes met mine—wide, unguarded, carrying fear and hope in equal measure.
“Hi,” he said softly.
My hand flew to the doorframe, fingers curling tight like the house itself was the only thing keeping me upright.
“Rudy,” I breathed, everything I’d been holding back since dawn breaking loose all at once. “What—”
“I couldn’t do it,” he said, voice shaking just enough to make it real. “I couldn’t keep driving away.”