Chapter 19
The drive back to The Rusty Spur is a blur. I’m crying, and it’s the ugly crying, with the gasping sobs that make it hard to see the road. I have to pull over twice to wipe my eyes, catch my breath, and stop my hands from shaking.
What had I done?
I was so afraid of making the wrong choice that I made the worst choice of all. I kept secrets. I built walls. I pushed away the one person who’s been honest with me from the very beginning.
And now I might have lost him.
When I finally get back to my apartment, I sit on the sofa in the dark and let myself fall apart.
I cry for Wyatt. I cry for Meredith, who will be disappointed in me.
I cry for Mavis, who believed I could be a real person and whom I’ve now proven wrong.
I cry for my mother, who wanted me to be something I’m not sure I can be.
I cry for myself, for the girl who grew terrible tomatoes and talked to her plants, for the woman who learned to love a honky-tonk bar in a mountain town, and for the version of Eleanor who was finally, finally starting to figure out who she was.
I don’t know how long I sit there. Maybe hours. The moon rises and sets. The darkness deepens and then slowly begins to lighten.
And somewhere in the middle of the night, something shifts.
I think about what Meredith said about choosing the life that makes you happy, not the life that looks good on paper.
And I think about what Presley said about making the decision for myself, not anyone else.
I think about Mavis’s letter, about being graceless and still being loved, about finding a place to be yourself.
But most of all, I think about Wyatt and the way he looked at me when I told him I loved him. The hope and hurt all tangled together.
I do love you. I just don’t know if that’s enough.
But what if it is enough?
What if love, messy, complicated, terrifying love, is exactly enough?
I pull up my laptop and open Genevieve’s email.
And this time, I know exactly what to write.
* * *
Dear Ms. Ashford,
Thank you so much for thinking of me for this incredible opportunity. The position is everything my mother dreamed of for me, and I’m deeply honored to have been considered. However, I must respectfully decline.
Six months ago, I inherited a honky-tonk bar in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Georgia.
I came here expecting to fulfill the will’s terms, then sell the property and return to my real life.
But what I found instead was something I didn’t know I was looking for: a community that has welcomed me, work that matters to me, and people I’ve come to love.
My mother taught me that success meant prestige, accomplishment, and the approval of others.
And while she was a remarkable woman and I will always be grateful for the skills she gave me, I’ve now learned that success can mean choosing happiness over ambition, choosing connection over advancement, choosing a life that feels right even when it doesn’t look right on paper.
I hope you find just the right candidate for this position. The Institut is extraordinary, and whoever fills the role will be very fortunate.
With gratitude and respect,
Eleanor Whitfield
I read it three times, and then before I can second-guess myself, I hit send.
The email disappears into the digital void, and I sit back with my heart pounding in my chest. It’s done. I just turned down two-hundred thousand dollars and a life in Switzerland. I just chose Copper Creek. Again.
I wait for the regret to come, the panic, the voice of my mother telling me I’ve made a terrible mistake. But it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s just quiet, the kind of quiet that must feel like peace.
The sun is rising over the mountains when I finally move from the sofa. I shower, change into clean clothes, brush my hair, and skip makeup because my face is still so swollen from crying that there’s no hiding it. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror.
“You made a choice,” I say out loud. “Now follow through.”
Of course, this isn’t the first choice I’ve made. When I turned down the Gary Allen deal, that was a pretty big choice too.
It’s 6:47 a.m. when I pull into Wyatt’s driveway. His truck is there. Smoke is not rising from the chimney. The cabin looks quiet, still, like a painting. I sit in my car for a moment, trying to gather my courage.
He may not want to see me. He may slam the door in my face. He may tell me it’s too late and that I’ve broken something that can’t be fixed.
But I have to try.
I get out of the car and walk to the porch. My hand is shaking when I knock.
Nothing happens.
I knock again, louder this time.
Still nothing.
“Wyatt,” I call out. “It’s Eleanor. I know you’re probably still really mad at me, and you have every right to be, but I need to talk to you. Please.”
Silence.
I lean my forehead against the door, closing my eyes. Maybe he’s not here. Maybe he went to his grandmother’s or the bar, or anywhere that wasn’t here with memories of last night.
I’m about to go back to my car when I hear footsteps inside.
The door opens.
Wyatt is standing there in the same clothes from last night, crumpled like he slept in them—or maybe he didn’t sleep at all. His hair is a mess. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his expression is guarded.
“It’s not even seven in the morning,” he says.
“I know. I’m so sorry, but this just couldn’t wait.”
He doesn’t invite me in. He just stands in the doorway with his arms crossed, waiting.
“I made my decision.”
Something in his eyes flickers—hope or fear. I can’t tell which.
“And?”
“I turned it down. The job. I sent the email about an hour ago.”
He doesn’t move or react, just keeps watching me.
“Why?” he asks.
“Because I finally figured out what I want.”
I take a breath.
“For thirty-four years, I’ve been living someone else’s life. Making choices based on what my mother wanted, what I thought society wanted, and what looked good on paper. And you know what? I was miserable. Successful, polished, and completely miserable.”
“Eleanor—”
“Let me finish, please.”
He nods.
“So when I came to Copper Creek, I thought this was just a detour. Six months I had to get through before I could go back to my real life. Somewhere along the way—gardening with your grandmother, learning to pour drinks without spilling, riding that stupid mechanical bull—I stopped wanting to go back. It stopped being home. Because this place is my real life. This messy, complicated, unpredictable life. It is the first place I have ever felt like myself.”
My voice breaks, but I keep going.
“And you. Gosh, Wyatt, you’re the first person who’s ever really seen me, maybe other than Mavis.
Not the version I perform for other people, but the real me.
The one who’s scared and uncertain and makes terrible decisions like hiding a job offer for two weeks because she was too afraid to face it. ”
“That was a pretty terrible decision,” he says, a faint hint of softness in his voice.
“I know, and I’m so sorry. I should have told you the moment I got that email.
I should have trusted you enough to work through it together instead of just shutting you out.
” I step closer. “But I’m telling you now, I’m choosing this.
I’m choosing Copper Creek. I’m choosing The Rusty Spur.
” I reach out and take his hand. He lets me, though his fingers don’t close around mine.
“I’m choosing you,” I say, “if you’ll still have me. ”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. He just looks at me with an expression I can’t read. I realize, with a little bit of fear, that I might have waited too long, that the damage might already be done.
“You hurt me,” he says finally.
“I know.”
“Two weeks, Eleanor. Two weeks of you lying, of watching you pull away and not knowing why, of feeling like I was losing you and not understanding what I did wrong.”
“I know, and I hate myself for it.”
“I don’t want you to hate yourself,” he says. “I just want you to understand. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid that if I said it out loud, I’d have to make a choice.
And I just wasn’t ready. I was scared of choosing wrong, scared of giving up the life my mother wanted for me, scared of—” I stop and swallow hard.
“Scared of wanting this too much. Wanting you too much. Because if I let myself want it and then it didn’t work out… ”
“You’d be devastated.”
“Yes.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, slowly, his fingers finally close around mine.
“I know something about being scared,” he says. “About wanting something so much it terrifies you. About building walls because it feels safer than being vulnerable.”
“I know you do.”
“And I know something about making mistakes. About hurting people you love because you’re so wrapped up in your own fear.”
“Wyatt—”
“Look, I’m not saying it’s okay what you did, keeping the secret.
It’s gonna take some time for me to trust that you won’t do it again.
” He steps closer. “But I also know that you’re here at seven in the morning after staying up all night making the hardest decision of your life. And you chose this. You chose us.”
“I did.”
“Then I think,” he pauses, and a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I think I can work with that.”
I feel so relieved that my knees go weak.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His free hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “But Eleanor…”
“Yes?”
“If you ever keep something like that from me again—”
“I swear, I promise, I won’t. No more secrets, no more walls. We’ll figure that out, figure everything out together.”
“Together,” he repeats.
We’re standing so close now, close enough that I can see the exhaustion in his eyes. And some hurt, but underneath it all, the hope, the love.
“I meant what I said last night,” I whisper. “I love you.”