Chapter 32
Goodbye Stranger
Layla
This has been such a fucking psychotic and crazy night.
Who would’ve thought there would be a damn fire the night I’m supposed to leave?
The smell of smoke still clings to my skin and hair, thick, like it’s seeped into my pores even after my shower.
My eyes are raw from the ash and tears, throat scratchy every time I swallow.
Sleep is for babies anyway. The Uber isn’t supposed to be here for another two hours.
Everyone will be asleep, and that’s probably for the best. I don’t think I could handle goodbyes.
It would break my heart too much, seeing Maggie’s face crumple, Nancy’s quiet tears, John’s steady hand on my shoulder, Luke’s awkward hug.
And Cole… God, Cole. I can’t look him in the eye and say goodbye. Not after everything.
I’m sitting at the computer desk where I’ve been writing all summer. The chair creaks under me, familiar now, worn smooth from months of restless shifting. The lamp casts a soft yellow glow across my keyboard.
Somewhere in between the days I’ve realized I’ve been using Cole as my inspiration, this family, this ranch.
It has been a blessing and has really opened my eyes to the world, the country.
I have more respect for farmers now as well.
These people work hard for their community and for their family.
These people have earned my utmost respect.
The quiet mornings with coffee on the porch, the way sunlight hits the fields at dusk, horseback riding, the sex, the smell of hay and leather and him, it’s all in these pages. I open my laptop and go to my manuscript, file, edit, and print.
I’m printing this for Cole. As sort of a thank you and also a “remember me.” Is that crazy?
Maybe. But it’s the best way I know how to say goodbye.
The printer hums low, pages sliding out one by one, warm from the machine, ink still fresh, the faint chemical scent mixing with the lingering smoke in the air.
When it’s through printing, I stack it nicely on the desk, in the center, with a sticky note attached to the top that says: “Thank you for being an inspiration.”
I hope he reads it. Or at least the end, because the ending is what I wanted for us.
What I wanted for myself. The girl stays.
She chooses the ranch, the quiet, the grumpy cowboy who built her a pool and never said the words but showed her in every other way.
She gets her happily ever after. I deserve my happily ever after too.
I truly do. Cole does as well. And I really hope he finds that, even if it’s not with me.
An alert on my phone pops up.
“Your Uber just arrived.”
Fuck. I’m really doing this. I’m really leaving. At one point in time here, I didn’t think I’d ever leave.
I grab my bags, suitcase wheels rumbling soft on the hardwood, duffel heavy on my shoulder and take a good long look at the guest house.
The little kitchen where he made me breakfast, the couch where we talked until dawn, the bed where he held me like I was something precious.
Breathing in the air, vanilla candles, faint coffee, wood polish, the ghost of his cologne, I let it fill my lungs one last time. Then I walk out the door.
The gravel crunches under my heels, cold, sharp in the pre-dawn dark. Mist clings to the air, and the rain is cool on my face, headlights cutting through the fog as the Uber waits at the end of the drive.
I wave to the driver, a small, tired gesture and pull my suitcase and bags behind me.
The wheels bump over the uneven path, the sound too loud in the quiet.
I put them in the trunk, metal cool under my fingers and hop into the backseat.
The leather is cold, smells faintly of air freshener and someone else’s coffee.
“Good morning,” I say softly, buckling my seat belt, the click is loud in the silence.
“McGhee airport?” he asks, voice neutral, tired.
“Yes, thank you,” I say.
I’m staring out the window, the rain is misting, sun barely coming up, sky bruised purple and gray. Trees blur past, ranch fences fading into the distance. A tear falls down my cheek, hot, slow ruining my mascara.
When we pull off the road and turn onto the main highway, tires humming steadily on asphalt, I can’t help but feel homesick.
Not for Seattle. But For the ranch. For the smell of hay at dawn, the sound of boots on gravel, the way Cole’s hand felt on my lower back when we danced, the taste of him when he kissed me like he was drowning.
For the family that took me in like I belonged.
For the man who never said the words but showed me in every other way, until he didn’t.
They say if you love someone or something let it go, and if it comes back, it was meant to be.
But they don’t say anything about how it feels.
They don’t tell you your lungs will forget how to pull in air.
They don’t warn you that every mile feels like peeling off a layer of your own skin.
They don’t mention the hollow space under your ribs where hope used to live, now just echoing with the ghost of his voice saying “I want you to stay” like it was a question he was too scared to answer.
I left the manuscript on the desk. The ending I gave my characters, the one where the girl stays, where the cowboy finally says the words, where they build a life under Tennessee stars, was the one I wanted for us.
I poured everything into it: the creek, the pool, the willow tree swing, the way his hands felt on my hips when he thought no one was watching.
I wanted him to read it. To see what I saw.
To understand that I wasn’t asking for the world, just for him to meet me halfway. But he didn’t.
And I couldn’t stay and beg for scraps of affection anymore. Not when every kiss felt like a promise he wouldn’t keep. Not when “friends” started tasting like goodbye.
The driver glances in the rearview. “You okay back there, ma’am?”
I force a smile, small, brittle. “ I will be.”
He nods, turns the radio down. Some old country song is playing low steel guitar weeping, lyrics about leaving and loving and losing. I almost laugh. Of course. The universe has a sick sense of humor.
My phone buzzes in my lap. I don’t look. It could be Maggie, worried. Or Luke, confused. Or Cole, finally finding words at 6 a.m. when it’s too late. I don’t check. I can’t. If it’s him, I’ll break. If it isn’t, I’ll break harder.
A tear slips down my cheek, hot against the cold window. I wipe it away fast, like he might see it from miles away and know he still has the power to wreck me.
They don’t tell you that letting go feels like amputating your own heart while it’s still beating.
They don’t tell you the quiet after the goodbye is louder than any fight.
They don’t tell you that sometimes “meant to be” doesn’t mean forever, it means you loved so hard it changed you, and now you have to carry that love alone.
Goodbye stranger, I hope you find your happy ending.