Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dustin
The soft hum of the engine drifts through the quiet car as I guide it along the winding roads weaving through the thick evergreens. Oregon’s untamed beauty envelops us, with towering trees overhead casting patterned shadows on the windshield as sunlight streams through the canopy.
The green is endless, a stretch of forest that feels both comforting and isolating, like the world beyond it doesn’t exist. Beside me, Santos stares out the window, his face a mix of relief and frustration, emotions battling just beneath the surface.
He’s here, he’s recovering, but I know it’s not fast enough for him. It never is.
In the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of Halsey sitting in the backseat, her gaze lost in the blur of passing trees.
Her face is calm, but distant—too distant.
She’s been quiet lately, so quiet that it gnaws at me, stirring up this relentless anxiety that keeps me questioning everything.
What am I doing wrong? Why does it feel like she’s slipping through my fingers, just out of reach?
Every time I think I know her, she pulls away, leaving me drowning in my own insecurities.
It’s been three weeks since we moved to Blissful Meadows Ranch.
Three weeks of trying to rebuild something that once felt untouchable.
Something that once felt like home. We all said we’d try again, that we’d fix the fractures in this delicate, intricate web of connection we’ve spent years weaving together.
But now, it feels like we’re just walking on the shards of what’s left, careful not to bleed too much.
Three weeks of careful conversations, of dinners filled with forced smiles, empty words, and awkward silences.
Conversations that are supposed to feel normal, but nothing does anymore.
There’s this invisible tension between us—this massive thing that lingers in every room we enter, like a pink gorilla in a tutu standing in the middle of the room.
Everyone notices it, but no one says a word.
No one dares to touch it, because touching it might just break everything for good.
And then there’s the absence. The absence of sex, the thing that used to be our escape.
Except for that one time, when we first arrived, when everything was so new and fragile, and we lost ourselves in each other.
In the heat of the moment, we became us again, even if it was just for a few fleeting hours.
But even that wasn’t real. That wasn’t for us—it was for Santos.
I wanted him to feel included, to feel like we hadn’t left him out in the cold while we struggled to fix the emotional wreckage that’s still lingering like a ghost between us.
But now, three weeks later, nothing is fixed.
Everything feels different. Seeing Halsey and Santos every day and not being able to reach out—to touch them, to close that gap between us—has become its own kind of torture. I didn’t realize how much I leaned on that physical closeness until it was gone. Until it became a forbidden thing.
Without sex, I’m just . . . here. With all these feelings I don’t know how to handle, with all this distance between us that no amount of words or forced smiles seems to bridge.
My therapist was right. I use sex as a shield, a distraction, a way to avoid dealing with the mess beneath the surface.
I thought it made everything better, made me feel connected.
And yet, without it, I’m left with nothing but raw emotions that I have no fucking idea how to handle.
And that’s just one of my three different therapists who are on rotation, each picking apart my mind in ways I didn’t ask for but apparently need.
It’s all about my mental health now—finally dealing with the grief of losing my parents, something I’ve carried for twenty years without ever really facing.
It feels raw, like an old wound that’s finally being cleaned out, but it’s exhausting. There’s no hiding from it anymore.
“Physical therapy starts next week,” Santos says suddenly, cutting through the silence, his fingers tapping lightly against his thigh in a restless rhythm. I can hear the tension in his voice, the energy he can’t burn off yet. “We need to figure out the schedule, see how we’re going to handle it.”
Halsey leans forward slightly from the backseat. “You can ride with me in the mornings,” she suggests, her voice calm but practical. “We’ll try to make sure we arrive and leave together. Or Dust can pick you up if you finish early.”
I glance at her in the mirror, her tone so matter-of-fact, as if we’re just logistics and schedules now.
I want to say something—anything—to break through the wall between us.
But instead, I say, “We’ll manage.” My voice is steady, even though inside, nothing feels steady at all.
“Our San will be back on the ice before you know it.”
He scoffs softly, leaning back in his seat. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. But yeah, it’s a step forward.”
“Just remember to follow the therapist’s instructions carefully,” Halsey advises, her eyes focused on Santos. “No overexerting yourself. You don’t want to set yourself back. You could damage your leg if you push too hard.”
Santos turns his head just enough to meet her eyes and salutes her. “Yes, doc.”
I clear my throat, trying to cut through the tension that’s settled in the car like a thick fog.
“Maybe we could grab dinner tonight to celebrate,” I suggest, injecting as much enthusiasm as I can muster into my voice.
No, not just a little—a lot, because this tension is choking me.
It’s suffocating, and I can’t breathe in this space where everything feels wrong and I have no idea how to fix it. I’m desperate to fix it.
So fucking desperate.
“There’s that new place by the lake,” I continue, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “They opened last Friday.”
“Sounds good,” Santos replies after a beat, his voice calm, almost too calm.
He leans back in his seat. There’s an ease to him that I envy, like he’s found some kind of peace in all of this tension, even if just for a moment.
But then again, Santos has always been better at pretending everything’s fine. He learned it from his parents.
The question of how he’s dealing with his own underlying issues almost slips out, but I hold it back. Not the time.
I steal a glance at Halsey. She hesitates, her gaze flickering between Santos and me, something unreadable in her eyes. For a second, I think she’s going to say no. My breath catches, waiting, waiting . . . And then, finally, she nods.
“Sure,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “It would be nice to go out for a change. We could give the night off to our chef.”
“Great,” I say, trying to smile as naturally as possible. “It’s a date then.”
But the silence that follows feels heavy, and not the kind that’s comforting or shared. It’s the kind that makes every moment stretch just a little too long.
As we pull into the driveway, the familiar sight of the ranch feels both comforting and bittersweet.
Back when we lived in Blissful Meadows, the three of us used to laugh freely, no awkwardness or doubt hanging between us.
But now, everything feels . . . fragile.
Like we’re walking on eggshells, trying not to disturb whatever delicate balance we’ve managed to create during these past few weeks.
I park the car, the gravel crunching under the tires, and we step out into the crisp afternoon air. Santos adjusts his crutches, his movements slow but deliberate, refusing any help. Halsey instinctively steps forward to assist, but he shakes his head with a soft, grateful smile.
“I’ve got it,” he assures her, his voice gentle but firm.
She steps back, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Of course.”
We walk inside, and the now familiar scent of wood, flowers, and clean linen greets us. Santos heads toward his room, the sound of his crutches tapping against the hardwood floors echoing through the hallway.
“I’m going to rest for a bit before dinner,” he says, his voice tired but not defeated.
“Therapy or not, doctor’s visits always wear me out.
Plus, I’ve got a meeting with my therapist in an hour.
Today’s topic: how my father’s expectations fucked me up, followed by how much I hate that my mother never stands up to him when it comes to her child, not even when I was young. ”
Halsey’s expression softens, the corners of her mouth pulling into a sad, understanding smile. “Do you need anything before you rest?” she asks.
He pauses in the doorway, turning back to us.
For a moment, his eyes linger on Halsey, and I can see the words he wants to say hanging in the air between them.
You. But instead, he shakes his head with a small, weary smile.
“Thanks, but no. The day we dive into how much it hurt when they took my girl away, I’ll drag you along to the session. ”
Halsey gives him a bittersweet smile, one filled with all the things she avoids saying, at least not now. Maybe not ever. And that’s the thing if we don’t say anything, maybe we’ll never be able to fix us.
Santos disappears into his room, and the soft click of the door closing leaves the house quieter than it was before. The tension that had been simmering earlier is still there, but now it feels more like an ache—something unresolved, waiting in the corners of our lives.
I glance at Halsey, who’s still standing in the hallway, her arms crossed like she’s holding herself together.
“How are you holding up?” I ask softly, my voice low, careful.
She meets my eyes, and for a moment, the guarded look she’s been wearing fades, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but then closes it, exhaling slowly.
“You need to at least tell me how you feel,” I say, almost begging.