Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
Caleb
The drive starts wrong.
Not in the “we’re going to die because Silas thinks speed limits are a suggestion” way. He’s not driving that fast, technically. He’s just driving as if the only way through discomfort is to outrun it.
Which checks out.
He’s got one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the edge, conducting an invisible orchestra of tension. His jaw keeps working, chewing on something he doesn’t want to swallow.
Delaney sits in the passenger seat with her coat still on, even though the heater’s blowing. Shoulders tucked in. Hands folded tight in her lap. Eyes fixed on the passing trees. If she looks at any one of us for too long, she’ll see her own reflection and hate it.
Boone’s in the back with me.
He’s too big for the seat. Knees too long. Shoulders too broad. He sits there still as a statue someone carved out of stubbornness and responsibility. He hasn’t spoken since we pulled out of the ranch drive.
I’m not sure he’s breathed.
And me?
I stare out the window and pretend the forest is interesting enough to distract me from the fact that I’m in a truck with three people I care about and one woman I can’t stop thinking about, heading toward a cabin that has “we’re going to talk about our feelings” written all over it.
Silas booked it.
Of course he did.
He’s the type who can’t stand a mess unless he’s the one holding the mop.
The worst part is… the chemistry is still there.
Not the easy kind.
The kind that’s stepping too close to a fence line you know is electrified.
I can feel it in the way Boone’s attention keeps dragging forward toward Delaney, even when he refuses to look at her outright.
In the way Silas keeps glancing at her. He wants to say something but knows he’ll make it worse.
In the way Delaney’s breath catches every time we hit a bump, and her knee brushes Silas’s thigh by accident.
Nobody says anything.
Which is almost impressive, considering two of the men in this truck have a medical condition where silence makes their skin itch.
We lose cell service about twenty minutes before the turnoff. The bars drop to nothing, and the world gets quieter on purpose.
Delaney notices.
Her thumb pauses over her phone screen, then she locks it and sets it face down in her lap, trying to prove something to herself.
Or protect herself.
Silas glances at it, then looks back at the road.
Boone’s stare stays fixed straight ahead.
I don’t touch my phone at all.
It can’t help.
None of this can be fixed with scrolling.
The cabin is tucked deep enough in the woods that the trees are walls. Dark wood, low roof, a porch that creaks under our boots.
He kills the engine. The sudden quiet is loud, and for a beat, no one moves.
Then Delaney opens her door and steps out.
The air is cold. Clean. Pine heavy. The kind of air that makes you feel you can start over if you just inhale hard enough.
She pulls her coat tighter.
Boone gets out next. He shuts the door with too much force. The sound is the only thing he’ll allow himself.
Silas walks around the hood and grabs the bags before anyone can argue.
“Alright,” he says, too bright. “Welcome to Camp Trauma Processing.”
Boone’s head turns slowly. “Don’t.”
Silas holds up a hand. “Okay. Fine. Camp Mature Adult Conversation. Better?”
Boone’s jaw ticks.
Delaney’s lips press together, trying not to smile.
That makes my chest twist. Quick and sharp. Because it proves what I already know.
Even now… she still responds to him.
And to Boone.
And…
I stop the thought where it starts.
We go inside.
The cabin feels warm. Two small rooms—one with a queen-size bed, the other with two bunk beds. A living room with a couch that’s survived a few bad decisions. In the corner, a kitchen that’s functional but not fancy. One long table with four chairs.
No distractions.
The only link to the outside world is an old landline that hangs crooked on the wall near the kitchen, cord yellowed with age.
Silas tosses the keys into a bowl by the door and exhales. Then he turns, points at all of us, taking attendance.
“No disappearing,” he says. “No, I’m fine.’ No storming off. We’re not doing that.”
Boone crosses his arms. “You don’t get to give orders.”
Silas’s smile slips. “Then call it a plea.”
Delaney flinches at the word.
I see it. Boone sees it. Silas sees it too, and his face shifts. He wishes he could pull it back and redo.
But he doesn’t.
He can’t.
He takes the chair closest to the fireplace, lights the fire, and sits so he doesn’t start pacing holes into the floor.
Boone stays upright.
Delaney hovers, then takes a chair at the table with her back half turned toward the windows, making sure she can see the door from her peripheral vision.
I sit last. Across from her, but not too close. Not trapping. Just… present.
For a minute, all we hear is the fire and the old wood settling. The cabin pops and creaks.
Silas rubs his palms over his jeans and finally says what we all know.
“I hate this.”
Boone’s gaze snaps to him. “Then why are we here?”
Silas laughs once, humorless. “Because you’re going to grind yourself into dust if you keep swallowing it, and Delaney’s going to disappear right out of the house, and I…” He stops, swallows. “I can’t do the silence.”
Delaney’s eyes flick up.
Boone’s expression doesn’t change, but the muscle in his jaw works harder.
Silas looks at her, then at Boone, then at me. “We all know what happened. The town. The post. The whole… circus. And we’ve been pretending we can just keep operating like normal.”
Boone finally sits, choosing the least damaging position.
“That post wasn’t your fault,” Boone says to Delaney.
Delaney’s laugh is small and sharp. “No. But the thing it dragged up is.”
Boone’s eyes narrow. “Delaney—”
She shakes her head fast. “Don’t. Don’t do that. Don’t try to comfort me out of accountability.”
Silas leans forward. “That’s not what he’s doing.”
“It is,” she says, and her hands clench on the edge of the chair. “All of you have been… careful. Like if you tiptoe around me, I won’t crack.”
Silence.
Then Boone says it. “I hate being lied to.”
Delaney goes still.
So do I.
Silas’s head tilts. He didn’t expect Boone to go there first. Boone doesn’t care.
“I don’t mean the town,” Boone continues. “I don’t care what they think. I care what happens under my roof.”
Delaney’s throat works. “I didn’t lie.”
Boone’s gaze holds hers. “You let me believe something that wasn’t true.”
Her eyes shine, but her voice stays stubborn. “I let you believe I wasn’t a walking headline.”
Boone’s hands flex on his knees. “I let you into Sadie’s life. Into my house. And I did that because I trusted you.”
Delaney flinches at the word.
“I wasn’t hiding to hurt you,” she whispers.
“That’s not the point,” Boone says.
Silas makes a sound—he wants to interrupt.
I don’t let him.
Because Boone doesn’t do this often. Not the blunt honesty. Not the vulnerable anger. When he speaks this way, it’s because he has to.
Boone keeps going.
“My ex-wife lied to me,” he says, hardening. “Not always with words. Sometimes just with… omissions. Decisions she made on my behalf. And I’m not doing that again. I can’t.”
Delaney’s face drains of color.
I feel it then. The old wound under Boone’s anger. Not suspicion. Fear.
Boone looks away for a fraction of a second, then back.
“I don’t want to look at you and wonder what else I don’t know.”
Delaney’s shoulders shake once. She swallows it down.
“I was ashamed,” she says. “I thought if you knew the whole story, you’d never have hired me. And if you didn’t hire me, I wouldn’t have… anything.”
Boone’s jaw clenches, trying not to soften.
Silas’s expression is wrecked. He wants to wrap her up in humor, but can’t find the right shape for it.
I stare at Delaney’s hands.
They’re the hands that cut herbs carefully. The hands that braid Sadie’s hair without tugging. The hands that shook in the kitchen when she saw that post.
They’re clenched now. She’s holding herself in place.
I lean forward slightly.
“You pushed me away,” I say.
It comes out quiet. Direct.
Delaney’s head snaps up.
I keep my voice even because if I let it wobble, it’ll turn ugly.
“You didn’t just hide the truth from Boone,” I continue. “You shut down with me. You stopped letting me… be near you.”
Her eyes widen. “Caleb—”
“No,” I say, and my throat tightens anyway. “You let me sit with you. And then after that, it was like you decided you’d taken too much and you had to pay it back by pulling away.”
Silas’s gaze flicks between us.
Boone is staring at the floor now, shoulders rigid.
Delaney cracks. “I didn’t mean to make you feel—”
“Like I did something wrong?” I finish.
She flinches.
I exhale through my nose.
“I’m not mad,” I tell her. “I just… I don’t know where I stand.”
Silas lets out a breath. “Thank you. Yes. That. That’s the whole problem.”
Delaney’s hands unclench. Then clench again.
“I can’t do this,” she says.
Boone’s head lifts. “What does that mean?”
“It means I can’t blur lines with my boss again,” she snaps. “I can’t make the same mistake. I can’t be the woman who… who sleeps with a man who has power over her and then spends the rest of her life being called a name for it.”
Boone goes still.
Silas’s face tightens.
My stomach drops because I understand what she’s saying, and I hate it anyway.
“I’m not your boss,” Silas says immediately.
Delaney’s laugh is brittle. “Yes, you are.”
Silas opens his mouth.
Closes it.
Because she’s right.
“I never used my position—”
“I know, Boone,” Delaney says, too fast. “I know you didn’t. None of you did. That’s the worst part. Because it felt… good. It felt safe. And I don’t trust anything that feels safe anymore.”
The room goes quiet again.
The fire pops.
Somewhere outside, wind moves through the trees as a warning.
Silas presses his palms to his eyes. When he drops them, he looks tired.
“I brought you here to talk,” he says. “Not to watch you punish yourself.”
Delaney’s eyes flash. “I’m not punishing myself. I’m protecting myself.”
“By cutting us off?” Silas asks. “By pretending you don’t want what you clearly want?”
Boone’s head jerks toward Silas. “Don’t.”
Silas shoots back, “Why not? You all keep doing this thing where you stand there like you’re made of stone, and you think it counts as restraint.”
Boone rises halfway out of his chair. “Watch your mouth.”
Silas stands too. “Make me.”
The air cracks.
Delaney’s breath catches as if she’s back in a kitchen with shouting men and breaking glass.
I stand. Not to fight. To stop it.
“Enough,” I say. My voice doesn’t carry Boone’s weight or Silas’s charm, but it’s calming. It lands.
They both freeze.
Boone’s gaze snaps to me. Silas’s chest heaves once, then he looks away.
Delaney’s eyes are wide, overwhelmed.
I turn to her, softer. “Nobody here wants to hurt you.”
She swallows hard. “That’s what I thought last time.”
Silas’s face shifts. Pain, guilt, sadness.
Boone is quieter now. “So what do you want, Delaney?”
Delaney hates that question. Hates that she even has to answer.
“I want to stop feeling like I’m standing on a trapdoor,” she whispers. “I want to do my job. I want Sadie to be okay. I want… the town to forget me.”
Silas’s jaw clenches.
Boone’s hands curl into fists.
I feel my own chest tighten, that protective instinct that always kicks in when I see someone cornered.
Delaney inhales, steadies.
“And I want to stop wanting you,” she hisses. “All of you. Because it’s not safe for me.”
Silas goes still. Boone flinches. My throat closes.
Delaney presses on because she’s trying to be brave, and she’s doing it with a knife.
“I think we need to go back to how things were,” she says. “Professional. Clear. Like it was supposed to be.”
Silas laughs once. It isn’t humor. It’s disbelief.
Boone doesn’t laugh at all. He just nods once, tight.
“I can do that,” Boone says. “If that’s what you want.”
Delaney’s eyes glisten. “It is.”
Silas looks at me like he wants backup. He wants someone to argue for her heart instead of her fear.
I don’t.
Because arguing isn’t caring. It’s pressure.
And she’s had enough of that.
I swallow.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “We do that.”
Delaney looks at me. She didn’t expect me to agree. Part of her wanted me to fight too.
I don’t give her that.
I give her steadiness.
Silas drags both hands down his face. “So we drove for hours into the woods to decide we’re going to pretend nothing happened.”
Boone’s gaze cuts to him. “We’re not pretending. We’re choosing.”
Silas points at him. “You’re choosing control.”
Boone is sharp. “And you’re choosing insanity.”
Silas’s mouth twists. “Yeah. Probably.”
“Stop,” I plead.
They do.
Because, for all their differences, both of them will listen when I say it like that.
Delaney wipes her cheeks quickly. She’s furious at herself for needing to.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
Boone’s jaw tightens. “Don’t apologize for protecting yourself.”
Silas hates it, but nods anyway.
“Fine,” he agrees. “Professional.”