Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Headlights cut across the quiet street, as John pulled his truck to a stop in front of Dean’s house, the engine rumbling low before it clicked off. My car sat where I’d left it a week ago, dusted with pollen and stray leaves. It looked smaller somehow—like it knew I didn’t belong here anymore.
John turned toward me, his hand resting on the steering wheel. “You sure you don’t want me to drive your car back? Tuesday can follow in the truck.”
“I’m fine,” I said, already reaching for the door handle. My voice was steady, but it didn’t sound like me.
He frowned. “You’ve said all of ten words since we left the lodge. That’s not fine, Em.”
I met his eyes for a second, then looked away. “I’ll be fine,” I said softly. “Promise.”
He exhaled through his nose. “Text me when you get home, okay? So I don’t worry.”
I nodded and pulled the door open. “Yes, Dad,” I teased weakly, forcing a small smile that I didn’t feel.
He gave me a look that almost broke me—the mix of worry and understanding I didn’t deserve. “Drive safe.”
The night air hit me the second I stepped out. Cool. Too quiet. I opened my car door and slid into the driver’s seat, the familiar smell of coffee and worn leather greeting me like a ghost from another life.
When I reached into my bag for my keys, my hand brushed something thick and smooth—the file Dean had given me in the café, still tucked where I’d left it. My stomach twisted. I pulled out the keys without looking at it, like if I didn’t see it, it couldn’t hurt me.
I started the car and pulled away from the curb, watching John’s headlights in my rearview mirror.
They followed me all the way to the freeway where we headed in opposite directions, and that’s when I let myself go.
The tears came hot and sudden, blurring the world until I could barely see the road ahead of me.
I kept one hand on the wheel, the other pressed to my mouth, as quiet sobs shook through my chest.
By the time I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, my throat burned. I grabbed my phone and texted John.
Me: Made it home. Not dead. You can stop worrying now.
His reply came seconds later.
John: Take care of yourself. Get some sleep.
I smiled weakly, tucking the phone away as I climbed the stairs. Each step heavier than the last. The air inside my apartment was stale, as though it had held its breath the entire time I was gone.
Everything looked the same—my coffee mug on the counter, the blanket tossed over the couch—but it all felt hollow. As if I’d stepped back into a life that didn’t fit quite right anymore. As if I’d left the real version of myself behind somewhere in the mountains.
I walked straight to the bathroom, not bothering with the lights, and twisted the shower knob until steam filled the air. My clothes hit the floor in a trail behind me—careless, unhurried—as I stepped under the spray.
The first blast was hot enough to steal my breath.
Maybe that was the point.
I pressed my palms to the tile, letting the water beat down my back, down my shoulders, pounding hard enough to drown out the echo of the mountains still clinging to my skin. I scrubbed and scrubbed—arms, chest, neck—until my hands stung and my skin flushed hot beneath the pressure.
It wasn’t until I dragged my thumb over my left hand that I felt it—the tiny ridge of metal I’d forgotten about.
My back hit the wall, and I sank to the shower floor, staring at a ring that had been the beginning of my reckoning.
It caught the light, facets sparking even through a bead of water. For a second, I let myself get lost in the familiarity of it.
Then, slowly—almost reluctantly—I worked it off my finger.
A pale circle stared back at me, and something in my chest pinched—sharp, unexpected. I closed my fist around the band, feeling its small weight press into my palm, like it held memories. As if it held every blurred line, every borrowed moment, every lie I’d let myself believe.
For a beat, I just sat there, water streaming down my face, trying to survive around the ache.
Then I set the ring on the ledge.
And somehow putting it down felt heavier than wearing it ever had.
I sat on the bottom of the shower until the water ran cold.
Then I dried off, pulled on a soft nightshirt, and crawled into bed. The sheets felt too cold, too empty—like a hotel bed in a life I didn’t belong to anymore.
I turned my face into the pillow, where the quiet pressed in from every corner of the room. My hand trembled as I picked up my phone, staring at Dean’s name like it was a live wire.
Then, slowly—I blocked his number. Deleted his contact. Then every text thread. Every missed call. Every trace of him my phone held onto.
My last piece of control. My line in the sand.
I had to.