Chapter Eleven
~ Ransom ~
Three days into the ride, I’d lost feeling in my right hand.
The McKenzie River county line was behind me, but the ache in my chest only got worse the farther I leaned into the throttle.
Every mile marker was a tally on a prison wall, each one less about the distance traveled and more about the distance I’d put between me and the only man who’d ever made me want to stay.
The highway was a straight shot east—two lanes, dotted with tar patches and the kind of potholes that could turn a good day into a closed-casket funeral.
My bike ate up the blacktop with a steady hum, engine tuned to a frequency that should have drowned out everything else.
It didn’t. The rumble in my bones was nothing compared to the static behind my eyes.
Morning sun pressed in from the left, turning the dew on the grass into a million points of light.
I watched them flicker by at seventy miles an hour, trying to remember what it was like to give a shit about anything but the next gas station.
There were no other cars, just me and the endless ribbon of asphalt and the ghosts of last night’s argument.
I shifted down to take a tight curve, the centrifugal pull giving me a brief illusion of escape.
It was a lie; the second I straightened out, the phone in my pocket buzzed against my thigh.
I ignored it. Five seconds later, it buzzed again, a persistent little worm working its way through the layers of denim and leather.
At mile marker 64, I gave in and pulled off onto the gravel shoulder. I killed the engine and let the silence slap me in the face. For a moment, all I could hear was the ticking of the exhaust and the blood thumping in my ears.
The phone glowed up from my gloved hand: three new voicemails.
I scrolled, thumb hesitating over each one like it was a trigger.
They all started with “Floyd Hardesty,” the name still attached to his work contact.
I’d never changed it, not even after the first time he told me he couldn’t be the man I wanted him to be.
Not even after he made me feel like the biggest mistake he ever made.
The first message was clipped, almost professional: “Ransom, it’s me. I know you won’t answer, but I need to talk. Please. Just… call when you get this.” It ended with a static click, as if the signal itself was too ashamed to stick around.
The second was later. Different tone—ragged, a man trying not to sound like he was pleading. “Listen, I get it. I fucked up. I just need to see you, okay? I made a mistake. Please don’t do this. Please.” The word “please” sat on the message log like a bloodstain.
The third came in at 3:02 AM, when the world is at its most honest. “I miss you. I know I don’t have a right to say that, but I do. You can hate me, that’s fine, just—just don’t disappear. Okay?” His voice cracked at the end.
I almost dropped the phone.
I pressed the lock button, hard, and shoved it back in my jacket. The urge to throw it into the nearest ditch was strong, but I couldn’t do it. Not while his words were still ringing in my ears, not while my own hands were shaking from the effort of not calling him back.
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of cold water and distant wood-smoke.
I stared down the empty highway and tried to tell myself that I was better off this way.
That freedom was worth more than the illusion of safety Floyd gave me.
That the last thing I needed was a man who couldn’t even say my name in public.
But the ache wouldn’t go away. Not after the things he’d done to me, the things I’d let him do.
I remembered the way he looked at me that last morning—like I was a fire he wanted to warm his hands on, but was afraid to let burn.
The way his fingers trembled when he buttoned up his shirt, the way he watched me dress without saying a word.
I remembered the sound of his voice when I told him I wouldn’t be his secret anymore.
“I can’t,” he’d said, and it wasn’t a threat or a promise, just a flat fucking truth. “Not here. Not now. Not with everything on the line.”
So I left. I packed my shit, got on my bike, and pointed it away from everything I knew.
I kicked the stand up and slid back onto the seat, letting the cold soak through my jeans. My knuckles went white on the grips as I merged back onto the highway, the familiar weight of the engine the only thing that made sense anymore.
I didn’t look at the phone when it buzzed again, or the time after that, or the time after that. I just rode, and let the ache in my chest be the only thing that kept me warm.
* * * *
The sign above the diner was a miracle of false advertising: “Bluebird Café,” neon still half-lit at 11:43 AM, with zero evidence of birds or even the color blue anywhere inside.
What there was: cracked vinyl booths, a countertop scarred by a thousand pocketknives, and a smell so saturated with fryer grease that my hair would need three shampoos just to pass for human again.
I took the stool at the end, the one nearest the window where I could watch the bike, as if it might up and leave me too.
The counter was sticky in that way that dared you to put your arms down, so I did it anyway, let the residue cling to my forearms. The waitress was a woman in her fifties, maybe, with short purple hair and the kind of eye makeup that said “fuck you” in three shades of metallic gray.
She gave me a look, then poured a coffee without asking.
My kind of hospitality.
The mug was the color of mud and probably had been white in another lifetime. I cupped it between my palms, but didn’t drink. My stomach was a chasm of acid and bad decisions; even the thought of caffeine made me want to puke.
I stared out at the parking lot—empty except for my bike and an ancient Ford with a bed full of scrap metal—and wondered if anyone would notice if I just kept driving until I ran out of gas and goodwill.
The phone was on the counter, face-up, screen dark. I willed myself not to touch it, not to check the missed calls, the voicemails, the texts that had probably stopped by now.
I failed.
I thumbed it open and saw the wallpaper: Floyd, asleep on his couch, mouth open, a line of drool darkening his favorite throw pillow.
I’d taken it in secret, because if he ever caught me snapping a candid, he’d threaten to tase me on general principle.
The sight of him, so unguarded, hurt more than the worst of our fights.
I pressed the voicemail tab. The last one was from 5:17 this morning.
His voice was hoarse, like he’d been up all night arguing with himself and losing.
“Ransom. I know you’re gone. I just wanted to say I’m sorry, okay?
For everything. For being a coward. I’ll stop calling if you want, but—” There was a pause, the sound of him trying to swallow it down.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for. I really do.”
He ended the call, but I kept listening to the empty air, as if he might come back on the line and say the thing he never said.
I locked the phone and shoved it away, hard enough that it spun out and almost toppled off the counter. The waitress caught the motion, and I saw her watching me in the mirror behind the pie case.
“You okay, hon?” she said, not unkind.
I nodded, the lie a reflex. “Just tired. Long ride.”
She topped off my coffee, the gesture more habit than charity. “You want anything to eat?”
I looked at the menu, every word blurring into a haze. “Toast. Dry.”
She clicked her tongue. “You sure? We make a good omelet.”
I shook my head. “Not hungry.”
She left me alone after that. I sipped the coffee, let the bitterness coat my tongue, and stared at the silent phone, daring it to ring again. It didn’t. Instead, the memories started in on me, loud as a jukebox.
I thought about the first time Floyd brought me to his place, the way he’d spent the whole night re-aligning picture frames and stacking coasters, as if the only thing standing between him and disaster was symmetrical décor.
I remembered how he’d stand by the window and watch the sunrise, never saying what was on his mind, just breathing in and out like he was counting the seconds until someone came to take it away.
I remembered how it felt to be in his bed—safe, anchored, like all the noise in my head was background static compared to the realness of his arms around me.
And I remembered when things ended. The way he looked at me, pleading and furious at the same time.
The last thing he said before I walked out: “I’m sorry.” But that’s not what I remembered. What I remembered was the silence after, the way he didn’t follow, the way he let me go.
I ran a hand over my face, wiped at eyes that were definitely not about to cry in a public place. The toast arrived, dry as insulation, and I broke it in half, crumbling it into the coffee until it sank and vanished.
A family came in—mom, dad, two kids—and took the booth farthest from the counter.
I watched them for a minute, the simple choreography of togetherness, the way the dad ruffled his son’s hair and the way the mom pointed out every item on the menu with a patience I couldn’t imagine.
I wondered if Floyd and I could have ever been like that, if I’d let him.
The waitress drifted by again. “You need anything else?”
I shook my head, voice gone. “Just the check.”
She slid it across the counter. “You look like someone who’s lost more than sleep,” she said, not unkindly. “Whatever it is, I hope it gets better.”
I tried for a smile, got halfway there. “Me too.”
She smiled back, and for a second, I could almost believe it was possible.
I paid in cash, left too much for the tip, and stepped out into the hard light of day. The sun had climbed higher, the sky a flat slab of white-blue. I put on my helmet, swung a leg over the bike, and fired the engine. The sound was a relief—a reason not to listen to the phone, or my own thoughts.
But as I pulled out of the lot, the phone buzzed once more, sharp against my hip. I gunned the engine, pretending not to care, but the ache in my chest told the truth.
It always did.
* * * *
The afternoon sun was a fist on the back of my neck.
I pulled off at a highway turnout, nothing but a strip of dead grass and two picnic tables warped by weather, and let the engine clatter down into silence.
My helmet was a sweatbox, the inside lined with a damp print of my forehead.
I peeled it off, dropped it on the seat, and stood there for a minute, blinking hard at the boiling horizon.
I’d thought the ride would shake the ghosts loose, but it just made them meaner.
Every jolt of the bike’s suspension rattled loose a new memory: Floyd’s rare, unguarded smile; the hitch in his voice when he was about to say something honest and then backed off; the way he’d pull me in after a fight, hands rough but careful, like he was piecing together something he didn’t know how to fix.
The world was soundless except for the click of the cooling engine and the distant whine of insects.
I sat on the splintered bench, slumped forward, elbows on knees.
I tried to breathe, but the air was too thick with the smell of tar and my own sweat.
I watched heat shimmer off the road, blurring the line between here and gone.
I thought about turning around. I thought about what would happen if I just kept going. What waited for me down the line? Another nowhere town, another string of one-night beds, another round of trying to prove that I didn’t need anyone, least of all him. The thought made me sick.
I took out my phone, almost on reflex. There was a new message, time-stamped three minutes ago: “Knox told me what you said. Please come home. I need to tell you something important.”
I stared at the words until my eyes burned. I read them again, then a third time, like maybe I’d missed a detail that would make it easier to breathe.
“Knox told me what you said.” The thought of Floyd talking to my brother was surreal, but also—yeah. Of course. Knox had always been the glue when the rest of us started to come apart.
“Please come home.” I wanted to laugh, or cry, or hurl the phone into the sun. Instead, I just sat there, letting the words burrow under my skin.
I pressed my forehead to the handlebars, eyes shut tight. For a minute, I let myself feel it—the weight of wanting, the ache of missing him, the anger at both of us for fucking it up so bad. My body shook, just a little, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.
I loved him. I could say it here, in the silence, where no one would ever hear it. I loved him and I hated that he needed me as much as I needed him. I hated that I was so easy to break, and that he was the only person who ever bothered to try.
I sat up, wiped my face with the back of my hand, and looked at the phone again. The screen had gone dark, but the message was still there, waiting. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that home was more than just a place you left behind.
I put the helmet back on, squeezed the gloves tight until my hands stopped shaking, and swung a leg over the bike. I started the engine, let it settle into a low idle, and pointed the front tire back the way I came.
For the first time in three days, the road didn’t feel like escape.
It felt like hope.