Chapter 5
Chapter Five
It had been a week since I’d heard Zarek’s voice.
Seven days since that call where, for the first time in months, he’d sounded almost like himself. Since he’d said maybe he could visit. Since I’d hung up with this tiny, foolish thread of hope wrapped around my heart like a warm blanket.
The blanket had turned into a knot.
In that week, I drew like I was on a deadline no one had told me about until the last minute.
Panels multiplied—on the walls, on the fridge, on the floor around my drawing table like fallen leaves.
My fingertips were permanently stained with ink.
The callus on my middle finger ached. I switched between inking and rough layouts, only stopping to pour a protein shake or microwave leftovers that Zoe or Trenda had forced on me.
On the outside, it looked like productivity.
On the inside, I was pacing.
Every time I finished a page, I checked my phone. Every time I changed the water in my brush pen, I checked my phone. Every time I went to the bathroom, I checked my phone like an addict.
Nothing.
By day three, I’d gone from Maybe he’s busy to Did I say something wrong?
By day five, my brain had turned it into a full cinematic feature. I sat down at my dining room table, pushing boards away to do what my little OCD heart insisted on. I made a list. Why wasn’t Zarek calling?
I’d pushed too hard.
I hadn’t said enough.
I’d sounded too happy.
I hadn’t sounded happy enough.
He’d realized he was better off without me.
He’d met some gorgeous, emotionally stable, non-traumatized woman who liked camping and football and never cried in the frozen food aisle at the grocery store.
I threw down my pencil. Yeah, fun times inside my head.
On the seventh morning, I stood at my drawing table, staring at a half-inked panel of Seris walking alone through a ruined city, and realized I’d drawn her hands shaking.
My hands were steady.
My heart wasn’t.
“Okay,” I muttered to the Bristol board. “Enough, already.”
I wiped my inky fingers on an already-ruined rag, crossed the apartment, and picked up my phone from the arm of the couch where it had been sulking for days.
I hit Zarek’s contact before I could think better of it.
The call went straight to voicemail.
His recorded voice came on, familiar and calm. “Hey, it’s Zarek. Leave a message.”
My throat closed.
I hung up without saying anything.
“Coward.”
I paced. I made a smoothie I didn’t want and drank half of it before dumping the rest down the sink. I tried to go back to my drawing table, but every line looked wrong.
I could do this. I’d spent ten years with this man. He’d been my best friend since I’d been seven years old. I picked up my phone and called again. Voicemail. I closed my eyes and savored the sound of his voice.
“Hey Zarek, it’s me, Chloe.” Yeah, like he didn’t know that. Real smart. “I was wondering if you still wanted to come over. Trenda left a frozen lasagna that I could heat up… Anyway, call me.”
Trenda’s lasagna was the big guns. He had to call me back just for that.
But by dusk the next day, still nothing. Maybe he was on shift and there was a lot going on.
I caved.
I texted.
Chloe: Hey. Just checking in. Are you okay?
The message went through. It said delivered. It never said read, but he’d changed his settings so they never said read, even when he had read a message.
I set the phone on the desk face-down like it had personally offended me and then I tried to sleep.
I didn’t.
The next day, I lasted until noon before I broke again.
Chloe: I’m worried. Please just tell me you’re alive.
Delete? Send? Delete? Send?
I hit send.
Two hours later, still nothing.
I sent one more, because I couldn’t not.
Chloe: I’m sorry if I said something wrong.
That one hurt to send. It felt like I was handing him my softest place on a silver platter.
The screen stayed stubbornly blank.
By the following afternoon, the knot in my chest had gone past worry into something colder. Not anger—not yet. Just a stunned kind of hurt.
That’s when I did something I hadn’t done since everything fell apart.
I called his best friend, Michael Rankin.
It took a minute to find his number. I hadn’t deleted it, just… buried it. When I finally tapped his name, my hands were shaking. If he didn’t answer, I decided I’d take it as a sign from the universe to mind my own business.
He answered on the second ring.
“Rankin.”
“Hey, Michael. It’s Chloe.”
There was a tiny beat of silence. “Hey, Chloe,” he said, voice softening. “Good to hear from you.”
“You too,” I lied automatically. “Sorry to bother you. I just—uh—wanted to ask how Zarek is.”
The line went quiet again, but this silence felt different. It was as if he wasn’t surprised I was asking. He chose his words carefully.
“He’s… breathing,” Michael said finally.
My stomach dropped. “That’s not funny.”
“Didn’t mean it to be.”
I sank onto the edge of my couch. “He hasn’t answered my last couple of calls. Or texts. I’m trying not to make that about me, but… it’s kind of feeling like it’s about me.”
Michael exhaled, the sound rough in my ear. “Can I come over?”
The question blindsided me. “What? Here? To Gatlinburg?”
“Yeah. I’ve got three days off shift. You’re not far.”
My first instinct was to say no. To keep my messy little healing bubble intact. To keep all Jasper Creek people at arm’s length, where their expectations and memories couldn’t reach me.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “My place is a disaster. And I—”
“That’s not what I asked,” he cut in gently. “I asked if I can come over.”
When had all the men in my life learned to get past my deflections?
I rubbed my forehead. “You’re really worried about him.”
“I am,” Michael said. “And I think you are too, or you wouldn’t be calling me.”
He had me there.
“Okay,” I said, the word tasting like surrender and relief at the same time. “Yeah. You can come over.”
“I’ll text you when I’m close.”
We hung up, and I stared at my phone for a long time.
Then, because apparently being a functioning adult was mandatory, I cleaned up all my drawings. Other than that, the apartment was pretty neat.
By the time Michael texted that he was in the parking lot, my heart was racing like I’d drunk three espressos.
I opened the door before he could knock.
He looked tired. Firefighter tired—lines around the eyes, faint soot stain at the edge of his hairline, that weight men like him carried when they spent their days walking into other people’s bad nights.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.”
For a second, we just stood there. Then he gave me a short, awkward hug—careful, not crowding. I appreciated that more than he knew.
“Come in,” I said, stepping back.
He glanced around as he walked into the apartment. His gaze took in the two panels taped to the wall that I had missed. Then the one on the refrigerator. I sighed.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” he said.
“Better than the alternative,” I replied.
We sat at the small table. I poured him iced tea because that was the most hospitable thing I could manage, and we both stared at our glasses like they might have answers.
“How is he?” I asked quietly.
Michael didn’t sugarcoat it. One of the things I liked about him.
“He works,” he said. “He goes home. On off days, he either hits Cappy’s gym or he doesn’t leave the house. He’s stopped grabbing beers with the guys. Stopped coming by to help with random projects. He’s… shrinking.”
The word hit me harder than I expected.
“Shrinking,” I repeated.
“Yeah. Like he’s folding in on himself. You know how he used to be first in line for stupid shit? Climbing on roofs to hang Christmas lights? Volunteering for every crap overtime shift? He doesn’t even do that anymore. It’s just work, gym, home. Rinse, repeat.”
My fingers tightened around my glass. “Has he said anything? About me?”
Michael huffed out a humorless breath. “He doesn’t say much about anything that matters. If his mouth is moving, it’s usually about equipment, call logs, or whose turn it is to clean the kitchen.”
Guilt twisted in my stomach. “I reached out,” I protested softly. “I called. I texted. I thought… I don’t know. I thought giving him space would be kinder. I was the one who left. I didn’t want to keep yanking at his wounds.”
Michael’s gaze sharpened. “And you think a couple of calls and texts from an hour away is enough?”
The words weren’t cruel. But they still stung.
“I’m trying,” I said, hating how small I sounded.
“I know you are,” he said. “And I get why you left. But I’m gonna say this blunt, because that’s apparently my job now.”
I braced myself.
“You want to know how he is?” Michael continued. “You don’t do it from Gatlinburg with voicemail and emojis. You get your ass back to Jasper Creek and look him in the eye.”
My face heated. “You think I don’t want to? I’m… scared, Michael. Of making things worse. Of seeing what I did to him. Of what he’ll see in me.”
He held my gaze, steady and unflinching. “Do you still love him?”
The answer was so immediate it almost knocked me over. “Yes.”
“Does he still love you?”
My throat ached. “I don’t know.”
“He does,” Michael said simply. “Trust me. That’s half the problem. He doesn’t know what to do with all of it now that everything’s gone sideways.”
Tears pricked the back of my eyes. I blinked them away. “And you think me showing up will fix that?”
“No,” Michael said. “I think it will hurt. For both of you. I also think it’s the only way either of you are going to stop bleeding all over everything.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Wow. You should try your hand at Hallmark cards.”
He actually smiled. “Don’t tempt me. I’d traumatize a whole generation.”
We sat in silence for a moment. The muted hum of the fridge filled the space between us.
“He’s off the next three days,” Michael said finally. “From the station, anyway. Can’t speak for Cappy’s. But if you were going to come… that’d be the window.”
My heart thumped hard against my ribs.
“Okay,” I whispered. “I’ll go.”