Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Delaney
The number does not stop existing just because I pretend it does.
I make dinner. I clean up. I listen to Sadie explain a very complicated game involving invisible dragons and rules that change mid-sentence. I smile at Boone, laugh at something Silas says, nod along while Caleb talks about fence posts.
I do all the things that say I’m fine.
I am very convincing.
I try not to think about the conversation I had with Caleb earlier. About the way he stood there, careful and solid, choosing every word with both hands. About how he told me he cared without asking me to carry it for him. About how that somehow made everything feel heavier instead of lighter.
I don’t want silence to turn into distance.
The words keep replaying, soft but persistent.
I know I need to organize my feelings. I know I owe them honesty. Real honesty, not the kind that keeps everyone comfortable but leaves me quietly alone with the mess.
But I don’t know where I stand.
Not with Boone, still closed off and raw in ways he doesn’t like admitting.
Not with Silas, earnest and bright and trying so hard not to overwhelm me.
Not with Caleb, who sees more than he says and somehow makes me want to be braver than I feel.
And definitely not with the number sitting in my pocket like a dare.
Later, when the house settles into its nighttime hush, doors closing, footsteps fading, Boone’s voice softening down the hall, I end up alone in my room with my phone in my hand as if it appeared there without my consent.
The scrap of paper Savannah gave me sits on the nightstand. Flattened. Innocent. Just ink and a phone number.
It shouldn’t scare me like this.
But my body remembers kitchens that were too loud, too hot, too full of eyes watching for mistakes. It remembers being wanted until I wasn’t. Being praised until the praise turned conditional. Being told I was lucky to be there.
I tell myself this isn’t that. I don’t have to do anything—I just have to know.
That’s reasonable. Adult. Information gathering. Not a commitment. Not a betrayal. Just… curiosity.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the ceiling for a long second.
“This is not a big deal,” I whisper, like saying it out loud will make it true.
My chest tightens anyway.
I think about Caleb’s face when he spoke earlier, about how careful he was not to corner me. I think about how much harder it would be to explain this after the fact.
I’m not asking you to decide anything.
I swallow.
Then I dial.
The phone rings.
Once.
Twice.
Each buzz sends a small, sharp spike through my chest that feels unpleasantly familiar. My body remembers this feeling even if my brain insists this is different. It remembers anticipation dressed up as opportunity. It remembers how fast curiosity can turn into obligation.
It goes to voicemail.
I don’t leave a message. I don’t hang up right away either. I let it click over on its own, like backing out would somehow mean more than trying.
When the call ends, the silence rushes in fast.
I exhale.
Okay. That’s it. Mystery solved. I tried. I can tell myself that and move on with my life like a responsible, emotionally regulated person who does not spiral over phone numbers.
I stand, pacing across the room.
I’m halfway through pulling on pajamas when my phone buzzes.
My stomach drops.
I freeze, shirt half in my hands, staring at the screen like it might confirm my worst suspicions just by lighting up.
It buzzes again.
A text.
And suddenly, I’m not thinking about curiosity anymore.
I’m thinking about doors.
About what happens when you open one before you’re sure you’re ready to close another.
I pick up the phone with steadier hands than I feel.
Unknown Number: Sorry I missed your call. I was tied up earlier. If you’re interested in working in a kitchen, I’d like to meet tomorrow while I’m in town.
I read it again.
And again.
Nothing about it is dramatic. No pressure. No familiarity. No emotional hook. Which somehow makes it worse.
My brain starts doing that thing it does when it’s scared. Cataloging details instead of feelings. No city named. No restaurant kitchens implied. No obvious power imbalance.
Still, my stomach tightens.
Because kitchens were never just jobs to me.
They were mornings that started before the sun and nights that ended long after my feet stopped feeling like mine.
Callused hands. Burn scars I can map without looking.
The hum of refrigeration, the sharp comfort of knives lined just so, the quiet satisfaction of a perfectly balanced plate sliding across a pass.
I worked for that life.
I earned my place in it with sweat and precision and stubborn refusal to quit when it would’ve been easier. I loved the rhythm, the discipline, the way everything else fell away when service hit and all that mattered was timing and trust and knowing exactly where your hands needed to be.
I was good at it.
That part still matters.
But guilt also sneaks in fast, uninvited.
Because of Boone, who is trying so hard to hold everything together without letting anything crack.
Because of Silas, who finally admitted he’s afraid of pushing me too hard.
Because of Caleb, who said something real and didn’t demand anything in return.
Because of Sadie, who trusts me with glitter and secrets and the quiet assumption that I’ll still be here tomorrow.
I picture the ranch kitchen. The warmth of it. The way the space feels mine without asking anything back. The safety that keeps sneaking up on me when I’m not watching.
And then I picture the other life.
The stainless steel counters. The heat. The rush. The pride. The version of myself who knew exactly who she was when she tied on an apron and stepped into the bedlam.
That life burned hot.
It also left scars I still feel when I’m tired.
I don’t want to go back.
But I don’t want to erase it either. Not after everything I gave to become her.
The text doesn’t ask me to choose. It doesn’t ask me to leave. It doesn’t even say what the job is.
It just asks me to show up.
To talk.
To know.
My thumb hovers.
Then moves.
Delaney: Tomorrow works. Let me know where.
The reply comes almost immediately.
Unknown Number: Perfect. I’ll meet you at the Coyote Cup at 1 p.m. Looking forward to it.
I stare at the words until they blur.
Looking forward.
I lock my phone and set it face down on the bed, like if I can’t see it, it can’t see me back.
My chest feels tight. Conflicted. Like I’ve stepped onto a path without knowing where it leads, only that standing still was starting to feel dishonest.
I lie back against the pillows and stare at the ceiling, listening to the familiar sounds of the ranch settling around me.
I tell myself this doesn’t mean anything yet.
It’s just a conversation.
Just information.
Just a meeting.
But the guilt curls low in my stomach anyway, because part of me already knows this isn’t nothing.
It’s a door.
And tomorrow, I’m going to find out what’s on the other side.