Chapter 8
Chapter eight
I Can’t Do This
Riley
Riley
I wake before the sun, not because of the hour, but because of the memory waiting the second my eyes open.
For a second I stay still, staring at the ceiling, letting the room settle around me. The familiar smell of coffee and something warm on the stove should ground me. It always has.
This time it doesn’t, not with last night still under my skin. I close my eyes again, willing it back, willing last night to stay exactly where it belongs.
It doesn’t.
I push up before I can think about it too long, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and grabbing my clothes without hesitation. No lingering. No slow morning pretending nothing shifted. I move with purpose because it’s the only way I keep control.
Last night wasn’t a mistake.
That’s the problem.
I pull my shirt over my head and smooth it down, forcing my breathing to even out while my mind tries to replay every second anyway.
The way he looked at me. The way he didn’t rush anything, didn’t take more than I gave. Didn’t make it feel like I was something temporary in a moment he’d forget by morning. It would’ve been easier if this felt like the kind of thing I could dismiss and move past without thinking twice.
A one night stand maybe. That makes me giggle.
But it doesn’t feel like that.
It feels like something that matters.
And that’s exactly why I can’t let it change anything.
I tie my hair back, tighter than I need to, grounding myself in the motion. I’ve built a life that works. It’s not flashy or complicated. It doesn’t depend on anyone who might decide to leave.
Hadley comes first.
She always will.
Which means I don’t get to make decisions based on how something feels in the middle of the night when everything is quiet and easy and the rest of the world isn’t pressing in.
I glance toward the door, half expecting to hear movement outside, half expecting him to be there waiting, ready to say something that makes this harder than it already is.
He isn’t.
Of course he isn’t, this is my mom's house.
That steady, grounded way he has about him shows up here too, in the space he gives me without asking for anything in return.
He said what he needed to say last night and made his position clear. Now he’s letting me decide.
And that gets under my skin more than if he’d pushed.
I grab my boots and sit on the edge of the bed to pull them on, fingers moving quickly even though there’s no real rush. I just don’t want to let the weight of it settle any deeper. I just want some coffee and to see my moms face. Her soft and grounding voice.
Last night at the ranch doesn’t change anything.
I repeat it again, quieter this time, like saying it enough will make it stick.
We’re still figuring things out.
He still has to prove he can be consistent.
And I still don’t trust that what feels steady right now won’t shift.
That’s not something I risk. Not with Hadley. Not with everything we’ve built to get here.
I stand and take one last breath to start my day. I hear my mom moving around the kitchen. I smell the coffee going.
I'm in a place that doesn’t get to decide what happens next.
I reach for the door, steady and sure, and pull it open without hesitation.
Because if I don’t go now, I might not be able to later.
That’s the part that throws me off the second I step into the hallway, boots quiet against the worn wood floor, the house already alive in that soft, early-morning way that always used to settle me.
Cabinets open and close in the kitchen. The low hum of the coffee pot fills the space. My mom moves around like she always does, steady and familiar, like nothing in the world has shifted overnight.
I pause for half a second, listening, my chest tight in a way I don’t acknowledge out loud. There’s no reason for him to be here. This is my mom’s house, my space, not his, and he knows that as well as I do. If he was here, I’d know.
I move into the kitchen anyway, keeping my expression neutral when my mom glances over her shoulder, spatula in hand and a knowing look already forming like she can read more than I’ve said.
“You’re up early,” she says, easy as ever.
“I’ve got things to do,” I answer, grabbing a mug from the cabinet without meeting her eyes right away.
“That so?” she asks, not pushing, but not letting it go either.
I pour coffee and lean against the counter, letting the heat steady my hands. “School starts early,” I say.
Mom hums like she doesn’t quite buy it, but she lets it go. The smell of breakfast should settle me. It doesn’t. Part of me is still listening for something that isn’t there.
For him.
He let me go.
Exactly like I said I wanted.
I set the mug down a little too hard. “You okay?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I answer, too quickly.
This is what I wanted. Space. Time. So why does it feel like something’s missing?
I rinse the mug just to keep moving.
I glance out the window. Somewhere out there, he’s already working, moving on like it’s just another day, and I can’t decide if that steadies me or makes this worse.
Mom flips another pancake. “You want some?”
“I’m not hungry.”
She studies me. “That’s new.”
“I’ve got a lot on my mind.”
She waits, and I give in. “He’s good with her.”
Her expression softens. “I figured.”
“He is,” I say. “It’s not forced. He just meets her where she is. She trusts him already.”
“And you?”
“I should be happy. And I am. I just don’t trust that it’ll last.”
She nods. “Old feelings don’t disappear. They get buried.”
I look toward the window again. “That’s what I’m worried about. I can feel them coming back.”
“Wanting something doesn’t make you reckless.”
“It does if it affects her.” I nod toward the hallway. “I don’t get to take risks.”
“No,” she says. “But you don’t get to shut yourself off and miss something good either.”
I let that sit.
“I’m not saying trust him blindly,” she adds. “Just pay attention to what he does.”
“He’s showing up,” I admit.
“And that matters.”
It does.
That’s the problem.
I grab my keys before I can second-guess anything and head out, the cool morning air hitting my skin as I step outside, trying to leave the rest of it behind.
Routine. That’s what I need.
Something solid. Predictable. Mine.
The short drive across town is quiet, familiar streets keeping my focus from drifting back to the ranch. Back to him.
It would be easy to replay every second, to pick it apart until I either convince myself it meant nothing or too much, and neither of those options helps me right now.
So I don’t go there.
I park at the school and sit for a second, hands still on the steering wheel, taking one slow breath before I open the door and step out.
The building looks the same as it always does, brick warmed by the rising sun, the front doors propped open just enough for the first teachers and staff filtering in.
This is where I know who I am.
Inside, the hallway smells faintly of cleaner and crayons, bulletin boards already lined with bright paper and careful handwriting, and something in my chest eases just a fraction as I walk toward my office.
Kids’ voices drift from down the hall, laughter and chatter building as more of them arrive, and it grounds me in a way nothing else has this morning.
“Morning, Ms. Grant!” a small voice calls.
I turn just in time to see one of my second graders barreling toward me, backpack bouncing against his shoulders, and I crouch instinctively to meet him halfway.
“Morning, Eli,” I say, smiling despite everything. “You’re early.”
“My mom had to be at work,” he explains, already launching into a story about something that happened at home, and I listen, really listen. This part matters. This is the part I’m good at. The part that doesn’t shift under my feet when everything else feels uncertain.
By the time he runs off toward his classroom, I feel more like myself.
More in control.
I unlock my office and step inside, setting my bag down on the chair before I start moving through the motions that come second nature by now.
Straightening the stack of papers on my desk.
Checking my schedule. Adjusting the small basket of fidget tools I keep within reach for the kids who need something to hold onto while they talk.
It’s quiet here. Contained. Safe.
I sit down and open my planner, flipping to today’s date, letting the list of appointments and check-ins take up space in my head instead of everything else trying to push in.
There’s a rhythm to this job, a steady cadence of small moments that add up to something bigger, and I hold onto that as the day starts to pick up.
A knock sounds on my door a few minutes later, and I glance up to see another student hovering there, hesitant but hopeful.
“Come on in,” I say, gesturing her closer, my voice softening automatically.
She steps inside, clutching the straps of her backpack, and I shift my attention fully to her, asking the right questions, giving her the space she needs to answer them. It’s easy to focus here, easy to be present in a way that doesn’t leave room for anything else.
For a while, it works.
Until there’s a lull between students and my thoughts slip, just for a second, back to the ranch. To the way he didn’t show up this morning like I apparently thought he should.
To the way he’s probably already halfway through his day without wondering if I’m still trying to put distance between us.
I close my planner a little harder than I mean to and push the thought away.
This is what I wanted.
Space.
Time.
The chance to figure this out without everything getting tangled up in what it felt like last night.
And right now, I’m exactly where I need to be.
Even if part of me is still trying to catch up.
The first hint that something’s off isn’t loud enough to name, just a shift in the way people look at me when I step out of my office and head down the hall toward the front.
It’s small. Easy to miss. But I am paying attention.