Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
H olly
He’s gone.
For a full day now.
No note. No message. No gruff voice telling me to lock the back door or not touch his damn drill press. Just silence.
Jack Rivers vanished, and I don’t know if it’s because I broke him—or because he realized he was never supposed to stay.
The town’s too small for secrets. Especially ones that look like Jack.
Fox shows up at lunchtime, knocking on the front door with two brown paper bags and his usual thousand-yard stare. "He told me to make sure you didn’t starve."
I try to thank him.
He just grunts, sets the bags on the counter, and disappears without a word.
That evening while I’m making dinner, the kitchen faucet explodes.
Finn shows up fifteen minutes later, toolkit in hand and a sheepish grin. "Jack told me last month the pipe was ready to go. Figured you might need a hand if he?—"
"If he what?"
Finn hesitates. Scratches the back of his neck. "If he was too stubborn to fix it before he blew off steam."
"Is that what this is?" I ask, voice flat. "Steam?"
Finn’s eyes flick up to mine. Something heavy sits behind them. "He’s not running from you, Holly. He’s running from the weight of time. The shit he missed. The fact that he’s not sure how to carry it now that it’s in his hands."
I nod. Not because I understand—but because I’m too tired to argue.
After dinner, Grady shows up. No tools. No groceries. Just him and his easy charm, leaning against the porch railing while Josie stacks pebbles beside the steps.
"You holding up?"
I shrug. "Define ‘holding.’"
Grady watches Josie for a minute. Then says, "Jack’s an idiot. But he’s our idiot. And you?—"
"Let me guess," I mutter. "I’m the best thing to happen to him since power tools."
He grins. "Exactly. I was gonna say since beer, but that works too."
I laugh. Barely. It cracks halfway out of my throat and never makes it to my chest.
Grady sobers. "He loves you. And that little girl. He’s just trying to figure out how to deserve it."
I nod again. Not because I believe it.
But because I want to.
That night, I sit on the porch swing, Josie asleep inside, a mug of tea cold in my hands. The stars burn above Devil’s Peak like diamonds scattered across velvet.
It’s stupid. How much space he takes up. Even when he’s not here.
Every creak in the floorboards sounds like his boots.
Every scent of pine and woodsmoke feels like his hands.
And still, nothing.
I pull the flannel tighter around me. The one he left on the back of the couch. It smells like sawdust and sweat and everything I miss.
I tell myself I’m not waiting.
But I am.