Chapter 33 Matt
The Whitaker driveway came up fast through the rain.
I took the turn too hard and the truck slid on wet gravel, tires spinning before they caught and held. Two vehicles sat in front of the house—Sam Whitaker's Ford and another I’d seen around town but didn't recognize. Light spilled from every window, warm and yellow against the storm.
My mother was inside, somewhere in that house. I killed the engine and the rain was immediate. Cold and hard, soaking through my shirt before I'd made it three steps. I ran for the porch and Elena opened the door as I reached it.
Her face told me everything before she spoke.
"She's okay."
I nodded, then moved past when she stepped aside, needing to see with my own eyes.
Mom was on the couch, wrapped in blankets, hair damp and pressed flat against her skull.
Asleep. I crossed the room in what felt like slow motion, crouched beside her and put my hand on her shoulder.
She was warm, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
The relief was physical. A weight lifting I hadn't known I was carrying.
Elena’s dad, Sam, stood near the fireplace, still holding a dish towel. "She's alright, son. We got her warm. Elena talked her down."
I looked back at Elena. She was still in the doorway with her arms wrapped tight around herself, watching me with an expression I couldn't name.
"Thank you." My voice came out rough. "I was searching… I didn't know where—"
"Of course," she said quietly.
A man appeared from the dining room. Tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair. He was holding a coffee mug and looking at me with careful neutrality.
Caleb Wright.
Our eyes met and he nodded once. I returned it.
My mother made a small sound beneath the blankets. I turned back to her and smoothed the fabric higher on her shoulders, only then realizing my hands were shaking.
The rain hammered the windows. The kitchen clock ticked too loudly. Even my own breathing, ragged and uneven, seemed to fill the room.
"I called your father too," Sam said. "He should be here any minute."
"Thank you."
Sam glanced at his daughter, then at me. "I'll give you two some space."
He disappeared into the kitchen and Caleb followed after him without a word. Giving us distance but staying close enough to matter.
It was just me and Elena now. And my mother asleep between us like a bridge between two countries.
"She talked about you," Elena said. Her voice was soft, careful in a way that hurt. "Earlier, when she was more lucid." I didn't look up from my mother's face. "She talked about when you were little. How hard you tried to help her with things." Elena paused. "She said you were a good boy."
Something in me twisted, small and merciless.
"Did she?" My voice was barely audible.
"She still thinks that. Even when she doesn't remember your name."
I wanted to say something. Thank you, maybe, or I'm sorry. But my throat had closed and nothing would come.
Headlights flared through the windows, washing the living room in pale light.
Dad.
The door opened and he came inside looking like he'd aged a decade in the last hour. He didn't speak, didn't look at anyone except my mother. He crossed straight to the couch and touched her face, her hair, her neck. Bent down and pressed his forehead to hers.
"I'm sorry," he whispered against her skin. "I'm so sorry."
"Dad."
He straightened slowly, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and found Elena’s dad in the kitchen doorway. "Thank you, Sam. I don't know how to…" He shook his head, looked down at his feet. "Thank you."
"No need for that. Just glad she's safe."
We woke her gently. She surfaced confused but calm, didn't fight us as we guided her arms into the coat Dad had brought. She kept looking around the room like she was trying to place something just out of reach.
"Come on, honey," Dad said, his voice impossibly tender. "Let's go home."
"Home," she repeated, testing the word. "Yes. I want to go home."
We made it to the door and onto the porch. The wind had picked up, driving rain sideways across the porch. I could hear it hitting the roof, the steps, the railing. The world was water.
We stepped off the porch and rain swept over us in hard, slanting lines, soaking through everything in seconds. My mother stopped halfway to the car, caught in the downpour like someone waking from a dream.
She turned back, looked at me, then at Elena standing in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the warm light behind her.
"Where's Elena?" Her voice went small, worried in a way that made my stomach drop. "Why isn't Elena coming with us?"
"She's staying here, Mom."
"But she should come." Tears filled her eyes. "There’s a storm. She needs to be home with my boy."
I looked up.
Elena had stepped off the porch now. Just a few feet, just enough for the rain to catch her hair, like she meant to come toward us, toward me, toward my mother’s voice.
Before she could take another step, Caleb appeared behind her.
He moved out into the storm with an umbrella in hand.
He opened it with a snap and reached her in two strides, angling it over both of them.
Her shoulders relaxed beneath it and she stopped, close enough to him that their arms nearly brushed.
I stood in the rain. Water ran down my face, soaking through my clothes, pooling in my shoes. The distance between us might have been three feet. It might have been miles. It felt like watching something through glass. Through water. Through time itself.
Elena's eyes found mine.
She knew exactly what I was seeing. What I was understanding.
"Elena's safe now, Mom," I said.
The words came from somewhere deep. Some place I hadn't known existed until they surfaced.
My mother blinked. Her face cleared. She smiled. "Oh. Good. That's good then."
Dad helped her into his car, his hand steady on her elbow. Got her settled in the passenger seat and made sure her seatbelt clicked. Made sure she was warm enough, safe enough, protected from everything he could protect her from.
Dad gripped my shoulder. "You coming home?"
"Yeah. I'll be right behind you."
He studied my face for a moment. Seemed to understand something I hadn't said. He nodded and drove off. The taillights bled red through the rain until the storm erased them, and I turned back toward the house.
Elena stood at the edge of the porch light with Caleb holding the umbrella over both of them. The rain didn't touch her. It hit the ground around her in bright, shattering lines. She said something I couldn't hear, and Caleb leaned in, eyes on her.
I stood there a moment longer, water running into my eyes until everything blurred—the porch, the umbrella, the shape of her. Then I opened my truck door. The cabin was dark and cold, smelling of wet leather and old coffee. I sat there while the storm drummed on the roof.
I loved her—God, I loved her so much. And I’d hoped, prayed, for a second chance. But maybe this was it. Maybe the only way left to love her was to let her go.