Chapter Twenty-Two
SHAY
THE GRAVEL CRUNCHES under Cash’s boots as he steps away from the porch.
For a second, I pretend he’s just going to his Impala to grab something he forgot.
An apron.
His phone.
Anything that would bring him back up the steps.
But then he stops and hugs the women from his class. Quick, grateful hugs. Nettie gets some extra time. It’s sweet.
“We will be at your grand opening.” The older woman fingers clutch his shirt.
He’s finally wearing a shirt. A real T-shirt that stretches over his big biceps.
My chest still aches anyway. Heavy. Unmoved.
“All of us.” Jaclyn hugs him next.
Then the hostess’s. Polite hugs. Thank-yous and promises to come back.
I stay still.
My hands knot together in front of me, nails biting into my palm.
One by one, they drift back inside The Quylt House. Laughter fades, and footsteps disappear, and then it’s just us.
Somehow I’m already at the bottom of the steps, standing beside his cherry-red Impala. I don’t remember walking here.
He exhales as he turns to look at me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” The word scrapes its way out of me.
We stand there.
I’ve already memorized everything about him.
The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck.
The crease between his brows when he’s thinking too hard.
The way he looks at me when he thinks I’m paying attention.
“I’ll text you.” He rubs the back of his neck, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands. “Call. Video. Whatever you want.”
“All of it.” My fingers hook the hem of his shirt.
We both nod, like nodding makes it easier. Like technology can bridge whatever this is.
But there’s no promise.
Not the big kind.
Not the kind that locks the future into place and says this is what comes next.
We don’t say forever. We don’t say wait for me.
We just say, “We’ll try.”
He steps closer. Slow. Like he’s giving me time to stop him.
I don’t. His forehead rests against mine, and for a breath, we’re not leaving or staying. We’re just here, suspended in the almost.
“This wasn’t nothing.” His words hang between us, fragile as glass.
I swallow. “I know.”
My throat tightens. I look away before he sees how close I am to breaking.
He clasps the sides of my face. His palms are warm and steady.
Is he trying to memorize me, too?
“I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I nod. It’s all I can get out. If I open my mouth, I’ll beg. I’ll climb into that car and never look back.
My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, then still.
“Travel to all the places you desire. See what you need to see. Take every photo you can.”
I swallow harder, denying the part of me that always does what’s easiest. And easiest would be leaving with him.
Neither of us knows what lies ahead, whether this becomes nothing more than a weekend that burned too bright.
Walking away doesn’t guarantee anything. Neither does staying.
But I can’t.
I won’t take away the opportunity to discover myself.
“I will.” My hands slide over his, reluctant to let go.
I close my eyes, forcing a steady breath into my lungs.
I never want to forget the smell of him—sweet and cedar and pepper.
I lean in to steal it one last time.
“Hopefully every moment is as memorable as this stop.”
I laugh. “This was quite memorable.” The sound wobbles, betraying me.
“I agree.” His thumb traces my cheek, slow and reverent.
My resolve fractures.
“Stuck here because my car broke down.”
A knowing smile curves his lips—the kind of smile like a shared secret.
“That’s quite a way to start a trip.”
“Then some naked guy was in my room.”
His eyebrow arches. “Prick.”
“I agree. I let him have the room.”
“That was kind of you.”
I shrug, forcing lightness. “Yeah, I was a delight.”
He chuckles low and warm, and something in my chest eases. “I don’t doubt it for a second.”
“Then I had my suitcases switched.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. And the guy was such an arrogant prick.”
“He sounds like it.”
“Tricked me into a baking class.”
“Asshole.”
“And then invited me up. Which he never does.”
Cash grows serious. “Maybe he couldn’t resist the feelings inside him when you were around.”
“He’d only met me twice.”
“I didn’t expect this.” His voice is honest and bare.
“Neither did I.” My words come out softer than I intend.
There’s a pause.
“Let’s not make this the end,” he says. “Let’s make this a step.”
“I like that.” I mean it to my core.
When he kisses me goodbye, it’s soft and careful, like we’re both afraid of breaking something already cracked open.
I lean into it for half a second longer—just long enough to hurt.
When he pulls away, his hands linger at my waist, then drop.
He walks to his car without looking back.
I watch the taillights disappear down the road.
I stay there long after the sound fades, arms wrapped around myself, pretending this isn’t goodbye.
Pretending it’s just a pause.