9. Kurt
— ? —
Kurt
I’ve started doing laps around the square at closing time.
I know it’s pathetic. A grown man, a CEO, circling a small-town block in a car because he can’t make himself drive back to the inn while the lights are still on in her bakery. But I do it anyway, every night, watching the windows go dark one by one until I’m sure she’s safely upstairs.
She doesn’t know. At least, I don’t think she knows. I park on different streets, take different routes, never stop for longer than a few seconds. It’s not stalking. It’s just… watching. Making sure.
Making up for every night I didn’t.
Tonight the lights go off at eight thirty, right on schedule. I’m turning onto Maple when I see his truck.
Wade’s truck. Parked in the alley behind Wildflour, nose pointed toward the back stairs that lead up to her apartment.
My foot hits the brake so hard the car shudders.
He’s not in the truck. The driver’s door is hanging open, dome light spilling yellow across the wet pavement, and he’s not in it.
I’m out of my car before I’ve made a conscious decision to move.
The alley is narrow and dark, lit only by the single bulb above Wildflour’s back door. I hear them before I see them. His voice first, slurred and too loud, the bravado of a man who found his courage at the bottom of a bottle.
“Why you gotta be like that? I’m just trying to be friendly.”
“Get out of my way.”
Ivy. Her voice is steady, but I know her well enough to hear the edge underneath. A controlled fear, calculating her options and not liking any of them.
I come around the corner and the scene snaps into focus.
Wade has her backed against the stair rail, not touching her, not yet, but close enough that she’d have to shove past him to get to the door. His body language is all reasonable-guy menace, hands up, palms out, the universal gesture of I’m not doing anything wrong here.
Ivy’s holding a trash bag in one hand. Her other hand is behind her back, and I’d bet my entire portfolio she’s got her keys laced between her fingers.
“One drink.” Wade sways slightly. “That’s all I’m asking. One drink and I’ll leave you alone.”
“I said no. Countless times today. The answer hasn’t changed.”
“See, that’s your problem.” He leans closer, and Ivy presses back against the rail. “You don’t give guys a chance. You just decide you’re too good for everyone.”
“Move.”
My voice comes out flat rather than loud, which would only give him an excuse to escalate. This quiet control feels far more dangerous.
Wade turns, and I watch the calculation happen behind his bloodshot eyes. He’s bigger than me. Younger, probably. Used to settling things with his fists when words don’t work.
But I’m stone cold sober, and I’m standing between him and his truck, and the look on my face is apparently enough to give him pause.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is you’re leaving. Now.”
“This is none of your business, buddy.”
“You made it my business when you cornered her in a dark alley.”
Wade laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Cornered? We’re just talking. Right, sweetheart? Just having a friendly conversation.”
“Do I look friendly to you?”
Ivy’s voice cuts through the tension. She’s moved away from the rail now, positioning herself closer to the door, using the distraction to improve her options. She was always smart.
“I don’t want any trouble.” Wade holds up his hands again, that same fake-innocent gesture. “I just wanted to talk to the lady.”
“The lady said no.” I take a step forward, and he takes a step back. “Three times, according to her. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get in your truck, and you’re going to drive away, and you’re never going to come back to this bakery again.”
“Or what?”
“Or I call the sheriff and let him sort it out. Pretty sure public intoxication and harassment will make for an interesting conversation with your foreman tomorrow.”
The mention of his job lands harder than any threat of violence would have. Wade’s jaw works, pride and self-preservation fighting it out behind his eyes.
Self-preservation wins.
“Whatever.” He spits on the pavement, barely missing my shoe. “She’s not worth the trouble anyway.”
He shoves past me, shoulder checking hard enough to make me stumble, and climbs into his truck. The engine roars to life, and he tears out of the alley fast enough to clip a trash can on his way.
The sound of his tires fades into the night, and then it’s just us. Ivy and me, standing in a dark alley, adrenaline humming through my veins so loud I can hear it.
“Please don’t start.”
Her voice stops me cold. I was about to say… I don’t even know what I was about to say. Are you okay? I was worried about you. I’m glad I was here.
All the protective things that would make this about me instead of her.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
She’s shaking. I can see it in the fine tremor of her hands as she sets the trash bag down, in the way she wraps her arms around herself from fear, from the aftermath of a situation that could have gone very differently.
I want to close the distance between us. I want to pull her into my arms and hold her until the shaking stops. I want to be the person she reaches for when she’s scared.
But I’m not that person. I lost the right to be that person a long time ago.
So I stay exactly where I am, three feet away, hands at my sides, giving her space she didn’t ask for but clearly needs.
“I had it handled,” she says.
“You did.”
“I’d have been fine.”
“Probably.”
“I don’t need you to rescue me.”
“Never said you did.”
She looks at me then, and I don’t know what she sees on my face. Whatever it is makes her shoulders drop a fraction of an inch.
“Why were you here?”
“I was driving by.”
“At eight thirty at night. In the alley behind my bakery.”
“I drive by a lot.”
The admission hangs between us. She could call me out on it. Could tell me it’s creepy, invasive, another boundary I have no right to cross. She’d be right.
She just nods. Like she already knew.
“You should go back to the inn.”
“Probably.”
“Kurt.”
“I’m not leaving until I know you’re safe inside.”
“I’m perfectly capable of walking up my own stairs.”
“Then walk. I’ll wait.”
Her jaw tightens. I recognize that look. It’s the one she used to get when I did something that infuriated her and touched her at the same time.
She grabs the trash bag and throws it in the dumpster with more force than necessary. Then she climbs the stairs, keys already in her hand, and I watch every step until she’s at the top.
“Happy?”
“Getting there.”
She disappears inside. The door closes and the lock clicks.
I stand in the alley for another full minute, listening to the silence, making sure Wade’s truck doesn’t reappear at the end of the block.
In the morning I’ll call his foreman like I promised, and a man who corners women in alleys won’t be finishing this job, or setting foot on this street again.
Then I walk back to my car and drive around to the front of the cottage.
The lights are now on upstairs. I can see her shadow moving behind the curtains, pacing.
Going back to the inn to give her space is the right choice. I need to stop forcing myself into a life she wants no part of, but I park at the curb anyway and turn off the engine.
Five minutes pass. The shadow stops pacing. The curtain twitches, and I know she’s seen my car.
My phone buzzes.
Ivy: What are you doing?
Me: Sitting.
Ivy: Go back to the inn.
Me: No.
A long pause. Then the front door opens, and she’s standing on the porch in sweatpants and a hoodie, arms crossed, face unreadable.
“This is ridiculous.”
“Probably.”
“You can’t sit in your car all night.”
“Watch me.”
“Kurt.”
“I’m not leaving. Not tonight. You can yell at me, call the sheriff, whatever you want. But I’m staying right here until the sun comes up.”
“Why?”
Her question carries an unintended weight, which shows the moment her voice catches on the word.
“Because I spent a year leaving when I should have stayed. Because I brushed you off when you needed me to show up. Because you were alone in an ER and I was on a conference call, and I will never forgive myself for that.” I meet her eyes through the darkness between us.
“I can’t fix any of it. But I can sit in this car tonight.
That’s the one thing I can do. So that’s what I’m doing. ”
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. The porch light catches the shine in her eyes, and I pretend not to notice.
“You could sleep on the couch.”
The words come out quiet, almost grudging.
“Ivy…”
“Don’t make it weird. I’m offering you a couch, not a reconciliation.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not sleeping on my couch, Kurt.”
Wait. “You just offered.”
“And then I changed my mind.” She wraps her arms tighter around herself. “The couch is inside. Inside is too close. I can’t have you that close right now.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t say okay like you understand. You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“No.” She’s shaking again, and this time it’s not from adrenaline. “I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you anything.”
“You’re right. You don’t.”
“Stop agreeing with me!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to not be here!” The words explode out of her, loud enough that the porch light next door flicks on.
Amelie’s house. “I want you to go back to the city and your penthouse and your life that doesn’t have room for me.
I want to stop seeing your face everywhere I turn.
I want to stop wondering if you’re going to show up every time I look out my window. ”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because my daughter is here. Because you’re here.” I open my car door and step out, standing in the street with my hands open at my sides. “Because for the first time in my life, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. And I’m not leaving just because it’s hard for you to look at me.”
“You think this is hard for me?”
“I think you’re terrified.”
“Of you?”
“Of wanting me here.”
The silence that follows is so complete I can hear her breathing from twenty feet away.
“Go to hell, Kurt.”
“Already been. Didn’t care for it.”
She laughs. It’s startled out of her, angry and involuntary, and she claps a hand over her mouth to stop it.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I really, really do.”
“Okay.” I lean against my car, settling in. “I’ll be right here while you hate me.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She stands on the porch for another minute, fury and frustration radiating off her in waves. Then she turns and goes inside, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows.
I get back in my car.
The hours crawl by. I doze a little, wake up with a crick in my neck, doze again. The porch light next door turns off around eleven. Amelie, giving up on the show.
At three in the morning, movement catches my eye.
The cottage door opens a crack into pitch blackness. No lights are on inside, though I can see the faint gleam of her face in the gap.
She stands there for a long time, looking at my car. I don’t move. Don’t do anything that might spook her.
She steps back, allowing the door to swing open another inch. It doesn’t clear a wide path or extend an invitation, yet it remains open.
She disappears up the stairs without looking back.
I sit in my car and stare at that door for five full minutes, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
One inch. That’s all she gave me. One inch of open door in the middle of the night, after a fight, after she told me to go to hell.
She doesn’t give me forgiveness or permission. The move is barely an acknowledgment, yet the latch isn’t locked.
I get out of the car, cross the lawn, and stand on her porch with my hand on the doorframe, looking at that one inch of darkness.
I have the option to push it open, walk inside, and claim the couch she offered before taking it back. I could be there when she wakes up, forcing a presence she explicitly said she couldn’t handle, but I choose to sit on the porch swing instead.
The cushion is damp with dew, and the chains creak under my weight. While the seat offers zero comfort or warmth, it places me near enough to hear if anything happens.
I lean my head back and close my eyes. The door stays open one inch all night.
Neither of us closes it.