Chapter 28
JULES
My suitcase sits open on the bed, mouth wide, patient, accusing. I fold last night’s sweater, the one that still smells faintly of wet grass and laughter, and place it carefully onto a stack I don’t remember making.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I tell myself it’s the coffee I never drank.
I should pack faster. Quick is kinder, like ripping off a bandage. But each item hits the suitcase heavy, like a stone in water. Ripples carry me back to all the versions of myself who thought love meant holding on.
The mirror catches me mid-movement, unforgiving and honest. Swollen eyes. Tangled hair. But there’s something in my look. Something like beginning.
Salt, I think.
He said love is like salt. The thing you only notice when it’s gone.
The thought steadies me.
Maybe that’s what this ache is: the aftertaste of something that once gave everything flavor.
“I’m done shrinking just to feel chosen,” I whisper softly.
I need to know I’m enough, not for someone else, but for myself.
The tears come quietly, tangled up in everything at once. And for the girl who survived by shrinking, and the new one who refuses to.
Growth hurts. Shedding old skin can feel like breaking apart.
But maybe this ache is proof I’m still alive.
I sit on the edge of the bed, palms pressed to my knees, breathing until my ribs settle back into rhythm with my heart.
And still, I can feel his mouth on mine.
The warmth of it. The certainty.
Something in me woke back up when he kissed me.
People say after a serious breakup, you should spend a year alone.
I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know I owe myself enough silence to hear what I actually need, without shaping myself around someone else’s expectations.
I slide a few Polaroids into the suitcase and zip it closed slowly, the sound drawing a clean line through the room.
My phone buzzes once on the nightstand. I don’t look. I turn it facedown and promise I’ll deal with the world after I deal with me.
Then comes a knock. Soft. Careful. My name drifts through the door in Calvin’s low voice.
I close my eyes and exhale.
I don’t know if I’m ready to see him.
When I open the door, I choose me first.
I pull the door open.
Calvin stands there holding my dog-eared copy of Eleanor Oliphant, his thumb tucked in the pages like he’s holding my place.
“You left this in the kitchen,” he says. “Didn’t want you forgetting something important.”
“Thanks.” My voice sounds worn thin.
He doesn’t step in. Doesn’t crowd me. His eyes flick briefly toward the suitcase on the bed before returning carefully to mine, careful not to make a shape out of it.
“How are you?”
I swallow past the lump. “I’m… okay.” I take a breath. “I’m not running. I just have to catch the bus.”
He nods and waits.
For a second, the easy thing would be to fall back into last night, to pretend a kiss could be a bridge strong enough to hold everything. I wish it were.
“I’m not ready, Cal.” My voice is braver than I feel. “This isn’t a test, and I’m not asking you to chase me. I just need space to hear my own voice again, without everything else’s drowning it out.”
He studies the floorboard like it’s holding the house up. His throat works once before he speaks.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I hear you.” A pause. “How much time?”
“I don’t know.” I meet his eyes. “Long enough to be honest. Long enough to be alone without feeling like I’m failing at it.”
The breath he lets out sounds painful.
“If time is what you need,” he says, “then I hope it’s me you come back to someday. But don’t ever settle for less than you deserve. Especially not from yourself.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He offers me the book.
Just before releasing his grip, he says, “I’m not asking for promises. Just… I’ll be in your corner.”
His kindness stings. I nod because anything more will break me in half.
“I’m not asking you to wait,” I say carefully. “I just need quiet long enough to figure out who I am when I’m not trying to belong to someone else.”
He nods. His mouth tilts, though it never quite becomes a smile. His hand lifts, then falls. “Take the time you need.”
Everything in me leans forward for him, for the comfort of what we could become.
I take a small step back instead.
“You could have anyone,” I say, not unkind. “But I won’t be the person someone circles back to when it’s convenient. I need to be chosen fully, or not at all.”
Silence settles between us.
Somewhere down the hall, the old pipes groan like the house itself is tired of listening to heartbreak.
We stand in the doorway, two people not pretending to be okay.
“My taxi’s almost here,” I say at last.
He nods again. His mouth starts to form a word, then lets it go.
“Goodbye, Cal.”
“For now,” he says, and steps back.
I close the door.
I write the note before I leave my room. If I try to speak, I won’t.
Cal—
Please don’t follow me. I need to do this on my own.
If there’s a way back, let it find us in its own time.
—J
I fold it once and slide it into the paperback, just inside the front cover.
I pull my suitcase into the hall, pausing at Calvin’s door. Shut.
I set the book on his doormat, turn, and walk away.
The house creaks with early movement. A floorboard groans. Somewhere downstairs, a kettle whistles faintly. The laughter from the wedding is already a memory, soft and slipping by the second.
My suitcase bumps against each step as I take the stairs to the lobby.
The front doors stand open.
Beyond them, the taxi idles at the curb, waiting to carry me toward whatever comes next.
Outside, Willow Ridge is stirring. A dog barks down the street. Somewhere a screen door slams. The morning air smells like damp leaves and fresh coffee, the kind of morning that feels stitched together from equal parts grief and possibility.
Faith is already on the porch, a warm mug between her hands and wisdom in her eyes. She folds me into a wordless hug, grip fierce and blessing-soft.
“It’s so good seeing you, Jules,” she murmurs. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman. You’ll always have a place at my table.”
Tears blur the morning light.
The driver loads my suitcase into the trunk while I climb into the backseat, my heart somehow breaking and blooming at the same time.
The vinyl smells faintly of old coffee as we pull away from the B&B.
I finally turn my phone over.
Renee Muir: Hey friend, congrats on the feature! I just saw you’re shortlisted for the promotion you applied for. Can’t wait to hear what you decide. Call me when you’re back.
I stare at the message until the words stop blurring. It’s not the reason I’m leaving. But it is a door that wasn’t there yesterday.
For the first time in a long time, the future feels like a question worth answering.
“Station or airport?” the driver asks.
“Station,” I answer softly.
I glance back one last time at the B&B.
The curtains stir faintly in Calvin’s window. His room is dark. I can’t see him, but somehow I still feel him there.
The house exhales behind me and I breathe with it.
I picture him with my note in his hands.
The man I asked to let me go.