Chapter 23
I sleep for twelve hours straight.
It’s the kind of sleep that feels less like rest and more like escape. It’s dark and dreamless, like my body finally shut down from emotional overload.
When I finally drag myself out of bed, my limbs feel heavy, like I’m swimming through molasses. I trudge to the bathroom and step into the shower, standing under the hot spray until my fingers prune. It helps, a little. Not much. But I’ll take what I can get.
I dress slowly, slipping into my own clothes. They feel foreign. Tight in places I’d loosened. Familiar, but wrong. I smooth down the shirt I once wore to interviews and job pitches and think, this isn’t who I am anymore.
When I shuffle into the living room, Tish is curled on the couch beneath a throw blanket, her phone in one hand and a half-empty La Croix in the other. She sits up as soon as she sees me.
“What time is it?” I croak.
“Eight,” she says, eyes scanning me. “At night.”
I nod, dazed .
“You hungry?”
I open my mouth to say no, but she beats me to it.
“Babe,” she says, soft but firm, “you need to eat something. Let me make you a sandwich.”
“I don’t have bread.”
She smiles gently, standing. “I went to the store while you were asleep. Picked up a few basics.” She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a sleek box. “And I got you a new phone.”
My breath catches, and my eyes fill before I can stop it. “Tish…”
“Don’t cry,” she says quickly, stepping closer. “I know you hate that.”
Too late.
I swallow hard, blinking furiously. “Thank you.”
“Sit down.” She squeezes my shoulder. “Let me feed you. Then we’ll talk.”
I do as I’m told. A minute later, she places a plate in front of me with a turkey sandwich and a side of kettle chips.
I stare at it for a second. Then I take a bite. Slow. Mechanical. Another. And another. I make it halfway through before my stomach clenches. I push the plate away and fold my hands in my lap.
Tish watches me for a beat. “Ready to talk?”
I let out a breath. “Not really.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “But?”
“But I guess now’s as good a time as any.”
She leans forward. “Start from the beginning.”
So I do.
I tell her everything. About the flood. About Sam pulling me from the water. About the cabin, the snowstorm, the quiet moments and the fiery ones. About how easy it was to fall for him. About how it didn’t feel like falling at all. How it felt like belonging.
I tell her about Stonewater Ranch, about the horses and the mountains and the fireplace. About the music in Sam’s blood and the way he kissed me like he already knew all my secrets.
Then I tell her about Phern. About Kurt. About how it all came crashing down.
“That bastard,” she hisses. “How the hell did he even know where you were?”
“I don’t know. The only thing I can think of is that Frederick told him I was in Wyoming, and he somehow put it together.” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “He had the nerve to show up after I’d been fired.”
Tish’s eyes go wide. “Wait. What? They fired you?”
“Via email.” I stare at the ceiling like it might give me strength. “While I was stranded in a snowstorm.”
“That’s cold.”
“I know.”
I fall quiet, gnawing the inside of my cheek. “The worst part? I have no way to contact Sam. No number. No email. Nothing.”
Tish frowns, thoughtful. “What about his website? Maybe there’s a fan contact or a booking form.”
“I doubt he checks it himself.”
“Still. It’s a start.” She reaches for the new phone. “Let me charge this for you. You’re not disappearing on me again.”
A flicker of something ignites in my chest. Not hope. Not yet. But maybe a spark of a plan.
The next morning, Tish and I head back downtown so I can start rebuilding the pieces of my life, one tedious task at a time .
First stop is the DMV. It’s a headache with a line long enough to test my resolve, but after paperwork, an unflattering photo, and one overly chatty clerk, I walk out with a temporary ID in hand.
Next, we head back to my apartment. I sit cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on my thighs as I call each of my credit card companies, one by one, explaining the situation for what feels like the hundredth time.
Flood. Lost everything. No, I wasn’t trying to commit fraud.
I was just trying to survive. Eventually, accounts are secured.
Replacements are in the mail. Everything is finally back on track.
But the victory feels hollow.
Because the one person I want to share it with isn’t here.
Tish hands me a mug of coffee and plops onto the couch beside me.
“Okay,” she says, ticking off her fingers. “Phone, ID, credit cards. What’s next on Operation Unfuck Charlotte’s Life?”
I groan, letting my head fall back against the cushion. “Rental car. I still need to let them know what happened.”
“That sounds like a barrel of laughs.”
I wince. “They’re going to think I faked my own death to skip out on a Prius.”
But I make the call. And to my shock, it goes better than expected.
The woman on the line audibly gasps when I explain I was caught in a flood. “Oh my God, we thought you might’ve died. You’re okay?”
“Somehow.”
“Did you purchase our insurance package?”
“Yeah.”
She exhales like I just saved her from a legal nightmare. “Then everything should be covered. ”
I end the call and sit there, blinking.
“Well?” Tish asks, one brow raised.
“I think I just survived a full-on natural disaster and came out with zero debt.” I pause. “Emotionally? Still wrecked. But fiscally? Not bad.”
Tish grins. “Hell yes.”
But even as we laugh, it doesn’t reach all the way down. Not when my heart’s still stranded somewhere in Wyoming with a man who doesn’t even know I’m gone. Or maybe he does know by now. Maybe he just doesn’t care.
“What’s next?” Tish asks, gently nudging me with her elbow.
I stare down at the laptop like it might bite. “I guess now’s a good time to see if there’s a contact email.”
“You’ve got this,” she whispers, but I feel the tremble in my fingers as I type his name.
The second I hit enter, his photo floods the screen.
God, he looks so good. The image is new. He’s standing on the ranch, wind tousling his hair, flannel rolled up at the sleeves, guitar case in hand. The kind of photo that makes you pause mid-scroll and feel something.
I can’t breathe.
I shove the laptop away like it just burned me. “I don’t think I can do this.”
Without a word, Tish pulls it closer to her, humming under her breath as she navigates the site.
“No email,” she murmurs, squinting at the screen. “But there’s a mailing address.” She blinks. “Who the hell lists a mailing address in this century?”
“Sam,” I say, voice hollow. “That’s who.”
“You want me to write it down?”
I nod, even though my stomach knots just thinking about it. “It’s better than nothing. ”
She grabs a pen and scribbles it down on a sticky note in her neat, looping handwriting, then places it gently on the coffee table like it’s something fragile.
Her eyes catch on the site again. “Says here he finished an album. A single’s dropping next week.”
That’s what undoes me.
Not the mailing address. Not the photo.
But that.
The world is moving on.
He’s moving on.
And I’m still here, stranded in a grief I made worse by leaving.
The sob hits so hard and fast, I can’t stop it. My shoulders shake as I cry like a child who just lost their way in the dark. Tish pulls me into her arms, holding me like she’s trying to stitch me back together.
“I shouldn’t have left,” I sob. “I should’ve stayed. I should’ve fought.”
“No, babe,” she says fiercely, gripping my arms. “You shouldn’t have had to. But now? Now we’re going to figure this out. You hear me?”
I nod, face pressed against her shirt, tears soaking through cotton.
Because even though I left Sam behind I’m not ready to let him go.
The next morning, I drag myself out of bed like my limbs are made of concrete.
Every movement is a fight.
Showering. Dressing. Eating.
It all feels like too much and not enough at the same time. All I want is to crawl back under the sheets and let the world spin without me. But I can’t. Not today. Not when there’s a desk to clean out, pride to swallow, and ghosts to face.
I owe it to myself to close this door properly even if it slams on my fingers.
Tish is meeting me there. I finally convinced her to go home last night, though she fought me on it until the bitter end. She said, “You shouldn’t be alone right now.” But what she doesn’t realize is I already am.
My eyes catch on the sticky note still resting on the coffee table, Sam’s address written in her looping script. It flutters slightly as the fan kicks on, like it’s breathing. Like it’s waiting.
So am I.
But not right now.
I leave the sticky note, letting my fingers linger on it for half a second longer than necessary. Later. I’ll write a letter later.
Outside, the morning sun hits my skin, but it doesn’t sink in. It’s warm, sure, but it’s not Wyoming. There’s no crispness to the air, no scent of pine or fresh hay. Just smog. And traffic. And sirens. The rhythm of a life I’m no longer sure I want.
It takes over an hour to get to the station.
Tish is waiting in the lobby, perched on the edge of one of the plastic chairs like she’s ready to pounce on anyone who looks at me sideways.
“Ready?” she asks as we step into the elevator.
I nod, even though I’m not. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
She gives me a look. “Frederick’s already here. He passed me on his way in.”
Of course he is. Early bird gets to avoid accountability .
“And Kurt?”
“Haven’t seen him yet, but you know how he rolls. He’ll stroll in an hour late and get high-fived for it.”
My stomach clenches.
I used to brush it off, those little imbalances.
The way my ideas got taken more seriously when someone else pitched them.
The way my name was forgotten, but my work was stolen.
The way Kurt always had a pass. But now?
Now it’s just one more crack in a foundation that should’ve crumbled a long time ago.
“I should’ve quit,” I mutter as the elevator dings.
Tish arches a brow. “Yeah, but if you had, you might never have found him.”
She doesn’t say Sam’s name. She doesn’t have to. The ache in my chest answers for her.
I inhale slowly, the air thick with everything I’m about to say. “Let’s do this.”
The elevator dings as we reach the fourth floor, the metal doors sliding open with a soft hiss.
Familiar sounds greet me. The hum of monitors, the buzz of phones, the indistinct murmur of reporters bouncing between desks.
For years, that noise felt like adrenaline.
Now? It’s just a headache in surround sound.
Tish nudges my elbow gently. “What do you want to do first?”
“Talk to Frederick.”
Her eyes search mine. “Want backup?”
I shake my head. “No. I think I need to do this alone.”
“I’ll wait at your desk,” she says, squeezing my hand once before slipping into the sea of cubicles.
I square my shoulders and walk the long path to Frederick’s office, every step echoing louder than the last. He’s behind his desk, sipping from a generic coffee cup like he doesn’t have a single regret in the world.
I knock once, sharp and deliberate.
“Hey, Frederick. Do you have a moment?”
He looks up, startled. His eyebrows lift, his mouth twitching like he’s trying to remember which version of my name he should use.
“Char… Charlotte,” he recovers. “Didn’t expect to see you today.”
I step in and sit without waiting for an invitation. “I got back into town yesterday.”
“Well,” he says, setting his cup down, “what can I do for you?”
My palms are flat against my thighs, grounding me. I meet his gaze head-on.
“I’d like to address something one of your employees did while I was away. Something that was both unethical and unprofessional.”
He shifts, suddenly wary. “Okay.”
“Kurt showed up on private property, Frederick. Not just private. Isolated. He trespassed while claiming to be affiliated with this station. And he told someone I was working on a story I never agreed to write, especially since you fired me.”
Frederick's face tightens, but he doesn’t speak.
I lean forward, voice even but sharp as glass. “That wasn’t just a breach of ethics. It was dangerous. It could’ve gotten someone hurt. It got me hurt.”
He opens his mouth, but I don’t let him speak.
“I trusted this place for four years. I gave everything I had, and in the end, it didn’t matter. I was just a name you couldn’t remember, and a byline Kurt could steal.”
His jaw works, but no words come .
“So now I’m asking you one question,” I say quietly. “Did you send him?”
Frederick flinches slightly but it’s enough to tell me everything I need to know.
I let out a bitter laugh. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
Frederick leans forward; palms spread like he’s suddenly the reasonable one in the room. “Now, hear me out. You left without a word, and we were worried.”
“Left without a word?” I repeat, my voice sharper than I intend. “I told you I was chasing a lead. That I’d keep you updated if it went anywhere. And when it didn’t, I did let you know. But instead of respecting that, you sent Kurt in like some bottom-feeding bloodhound after firing me.”
“You never mentioned that the lead was about Sam Stone.”
I freeze. My entire body goes still.
“No,” I say slowly, voice dangerously soft, “you don’t get to say his name.”
Frederick lifts his hands. “Charlotte?—”
“It doesn’t matter who the story was about,” I snap. “I told you it was dead. I told you to trust me. And you didn’t. You sent a man who has stolen from me before, who’s made a career off the scraps I left behind. And you enabled it. Again.”
His mouth opens, defensively. “There’s no need for theatrics?—”
I snort. “Says the man who fired me over email.”
He flinches.
“Let me make something very clear,” I say, rising from my chair. “I used to blame Kurt for stepping on me to climb the ladder. But now I see he wasn’t climbing. You were holding the ladder for him. ”
Frederick stiffens, but I don’t give him the chance to answer.
“I’ll be filing a complaint with HR. And I’ll make sure they know exactly how you handled this. Including the trespassing. The harassment. And the firing. All of it.”
“You no longer work here,” he mutters.
I flash a smile so icy it should frost the windows. “Then I’m sure HR will be fascinated to learn that I was fired via email while stranded during a natural disaster.”
And I walk.
I don’t storm. I glide. Out of his office. Past the cluster of cubicles where my name used to matter. I don’t even glance toward Kurt’s office. He’s not worth the effort.
Instead, I go straight to HR.
They usher me into the manager’s office, a woman with square glasses and a calm demeanor.
She offers me a seat and says, “What can I do for you, Charlotte?”
I meet her eyes.
And I tell her everything.