Twenty-seven
Sadie
I wake with a start, my neck screaming from the awkward angle I must’ve slept in. The couch cushion is a crater under me, my legs dangling off the side. I blink into the soft morning light spilling through the curtains, dust motes dancing like slow sparks in the air.
For a second, I can’t remember where I am.
Then it all rushes back—Beckett’s face twisted with frustration, the hard edge in his voice, the way I stormed out without looking back. I pull the blanket tighter around me, even though it’s warm in the room.
The quilt smells like lavender and something older, familiar. Like childhood summers or a forgotten book left open in the sun. It’s comforting in a way that makes me want to cry.
“Hey,” Ginny says, her voice floating from the hallway .
I lift my head as she walks in, her messy ponytail bobbing and her hands full—coffee for her, water for me. She’s already dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve tee, the picture of someone who has her life together. I probably look like roadkill.
“How are you doing this morning?” she asks.
“Stiff,” I mutter, trying to sit up. My spine cracks in protest. “And maybe a little embarrassed.”
Ginny gives me a crooked smile and hands me the glass of water. “You were out cold last night. You looked like you needed sleep. I promise, I’ll get the boxes off the bed so you can have that room.”
“Thanks.” I take a sip and glance around. Her place is small but cozy—plants in every window, books stacked in mismatched piles on the floor, and a worn armchair with a hand-knit throw.
I reach for my phone on the coffee table, but it’s off. Dead. Just like I feel inside.
I find the charger and plug it into the wall socket. I wait for the screen to light up, dread already curling in my gut. I don’t know what I’m expecting. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.
“I’ve got to get in the shower and head out soon,” Ginny says, tying her hair into a tighter knot. “But there’s cereal, yogurt, and that really good French press coffee you like if you need it.”
“Thanks,” I murmur. I’m grateful—truly—but there’s a numbness sitting beneath my skin, and I’m not sure how to break through it.
She watches me for a second longer, like she wants to say something else, but then she just nods and disappears back into the bedroom.
Alone again, I stare at the black screen of my phone, bracing myself for whatever’s waiting when it finally powers on. After a moment it comes to life with a soft buzz, and the screen glows to full brightness. It’s barely on when it starts ringing.
Zach .
My stomach drops. I look at the time.
Shit .
I’m twenty minutes late for my shift at the tasting room. I fumble with the screen and press answer, my voice tumbling out before he can say a word.
“Zach, I’m so sorry. My phone died, and I didn’t hear my alarm. I’m on my way now.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and for a second I think he’s going to let it go. That he’ll say it’s fine, he understands.
But he doesn’t.
“Don’t bother,” he says flatly. “You’re fired.”
I sit up straighter. “Wait, what?”
“I need people I can depend on, Sadie. Not people who vanish and roll in late with excuses. It’s unprofessional. I don’t care what happened.”
“You don’t care—?” I press a hand to my forehead. “Zach, I’ve covered every weekend, every holiday. I worked a double shift when you bailed for your friend’s bachelor party—”
“I’m not doing this,” he cuts in. “You’re done.”
The line goes dead before I can say another word.
I lower the phone slowly. Fired. Just like that.
By him.
I’ve picked up after him, handled customers he ignored, stayed late to clean his messes, and he fires me? The guy spends more time scrolling on his phone than stocking shelves.
Rage sparks first—bright and fast. But it fades just as quickly, replaced by something heavier. Something like defeat.
I clutch the phone and lean back into the couch, blinking hard.
I walked out on Beckett last night. Didn’t even wait for him to come home. I left him, and now, I’ve lost the one steady thing I had left. My job. My routine. The tiny slice of accomplishment that made me feel like I wasn’t still hiding from everything I used to be.
I breathe in through my nose, slow and shaky.
Of course Zach wouldn’t give me grace. Of course I’d screw this up too.
This is what I do—crack under pressure, run when it matter s, break things I try to build.
I close my eyes and let the silence swallow me for a moment, afraid of what I might find next when I open my messages.
The phone buzzes in my hand again.
Not a call this time. Just the flood of missed notifications finally syncing. And there it is—Beckett’s name.
Over and over and over again.
Missed calls. Voicemails. Texts. One after another, a relentless stream of trying to reach me.
My throat tightens, and I draw my knees up, curling into the corner of the couch. I scroll without reading, just staring at the blur of his name on my screen. I could tap one. Just one. Hear his voice. Let myself feel something other than this hollow ache behind my ribs.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
If I listen to him, if I read what he said, I’ll break. I’ll want to go back. And going back means facing what I did. What I always do.
I run.
I didn’t just leave his house. I left him. Nothing he said to me I didn’t already know about myself. But I bolted with no explanation or warning. Just disappeared. And now, he’s probably pacing around somewhere, hating himself, wondering what he did wrong.
But it wasn’t him.
It’s me. Always me.
I stare at the most recent message, time-stamped just a few minutes ago.
Beckett: Please, just let me know you’re safe.
My thumb hovers over it. The screen starts to blur.
One quick tap and I could read them all. Instead, I press down until the little menu appears .
Delete All.
The screen goes blank. I hate myself a little more for it.
A new notification slides into place. Caleb. Of course.
He’s probably talked to Beckett. I already know what it says. I don’t even need to open it. It’ll be something like, Running doesn’t fix things , or You owe him an explanation , or At least tell me where you are . I suppose I don’t want him to worry.
But I know if I call him, he’ll scold me, like he used to do when I was alone and skipped school to avoid bad days. Though maybe then he’d tell Beckett I’m okay.
I tap into the message thread, but not on the new message. I scroll up through the old ones—memes, check-ins, that time he sent a video of a fox digging through a trash bin and said, “ Look, it’s you at three a.m. in my kitchen .”
My heart twists. I miss him. Finally, I send a message.
Me: I left Beckett’s and I’m staying with Ginny. I’ll catch up with you later when I’m not so tired.
There. Hopefully that will take care of everything. I don’t know how long I sit there, staring at nothing. Maybe five minutes. Maybe twenty. My eyes are gritty and dry, like I’ve already cried without realizing it.
Then I hear the soft shuffle of slippers on hardwood.
Ginny reappears, holding a mug in her hands. It’s dark blue, chipped at the rim. One of her favorites. The scent of coffee cuts through the air—warm, nutty, comforting. She doesn’t say anything as she sets it on the table beside me.
I glance up, and she offers a small, lopsided smile. “Brought you the good stuff,” she says. “French roast with a splash of cream. I didn’t make it weird this time.”
“Thanks.” My voice is hoarse, barely audible.
She sits on the edge of the armchair across from me and reaches into her hoodie pocket. “Also,” she says, holding something out between two fingers, “this is yours now.”
It’s a key .
Simple brass. Smooth and cold in my palm when I take it.
“You can stay as long as you want,” she says. “No expectations. No clock ticking. Just…rest, if that’s what you need. I promise I’ll get the boxes out of the guest room.”
I nod, but my throat is too tight to say anything.
Ginny stands again, grabbing her travel mug from the counter. “I’ve got to head out. Inventory and prep for a tour this afternoon. But the place is yours. Eat something. Shower. Or just be. Whatever you need.”
She walks toward the door, pausing with her hand on the knob. Then she looks back over her shoulder. “You’re not alone, Sadie. Just in case you forgot.”
The door closes behind her.
I stare at the key in my hand for a long time, the warmth from the coffee mug seeping into my skin. There’s a knot in my chest that won’t untangle, but maybe it’s okay to sit still. Maybe I don’t have to fix everything all at once.
I exhale, long and slow, and finally take a sip of coffee. There’s a peace here that feels foreign. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s life for a little while.
I’m not okay. Not even close. But for once, I’m not spiraling.
I don’t need to have all the answers right now. I don’t even need to make a big plan. I’ll just do the next right thing.
And that means showing up for someone who matters to me.
I slide my phone into my pocket and force myself up from the couch. The blanket falls away, and the hardwood is cool under my bare feet. I stretch, working the stiffness out of my muscles. My body aches, but it’s nothing compared to the heaviness I’ve been carrying around inside.
I head into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. My reflection in the mirror is a mess—sleep-mussed hair, red-rimmed eyes, yesterday’s mascara smudged beneath them. I barely recognize myself.
But I take a breath and nod at the stranger in the glass .
“I’m still here,” I whisper. “That’s something.”
After I change into clean clothes, I write a note for Ginny on the back of an old receipt I find on the counter.
Thank you. For the key. For the quiet. For everything. I’ll be back later.
I grab my bag, confirm my phone is in my pocket, and reach for the key, and head out the door.
Since I’m not going to work, today I’ll hang with Rosie. I need the reminder that there are still good things in my life, good people who matter. And after that, I’ll start looking for a job.
I don’t know where I’ll end up.
But I’m not running anymore.