Chapter 17 Genevieve
Genevieve
I wake up slowly, cocooned in the warmth of a big, ridiculously comfortable king-sized bed. For a fleeting second, I forget where I am. Then the quiet hits me—no rustling, no soft breathing beside me—and I know before I even open my eyes that he’s gone.
Again.
My hand instinctively reaches across the empty space, hoping maybe, just maybe, Aspen stayed. But all I find is cool sheets and a familiar ache. I blink up at the ceiling, willing the rising wave of emotion to stay down.
That’s when it hits me.
Today is checkout day.
My stomach drops.
A lump forms in my throat as I sit up, the sheet slipping down my bare shoulders. This is it. The last morning. The last time I’ll wake up in this cabin. The last time I’ll wake up from a night like that… with him.
I glance toward the nightstand and spot it—another note. He’s left me a message, like he did yesterday. But this one doesn’t feel sweet. It feels like salt in an open wound.
I pick it up with trembling fingers.
“Let’s hang out tonight? I’ll come by the cabin around six after work.”
He has no idea I’m leaving today. No clue that by the time six o'clock rolls around, I’ll be a whole state away, halfway across the border with nothing but memories and heartache tucked away in my suitcase.
My stomach knots, twisting into something sharp and hollow. How am I supposed to tell him not to come? I don’t have his number, no social media, no way to reach him. I’m just… gone. Disappearing like a ghost after the best weekend of my life.
Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.
Maybe that’s easier.
Still, a part of me hates the idea of him showing up tonight, waiting outside the cabin with that crooked smile and easy charm—only to find it empty.
Cold. Like I was never even here. Maybe I’ll call the resort after we leave.
Ask someone at the front desk to let him know I had to go.
That way, I can avoid that final moment.
The one where he might look at me and ask me to stay—and I might say yes.
Because I can’t stay. No matter how much I want to.
I’m in school. I promised my mom I’d finish. It’s the one thing I’ve been holding onto, the one goal I haven’t let go of. I have to see it through. Even if leaving him behind feels like tearing out a part of myself.
I pull in a breath, blink back the sting behind my eyes, and step out of the bedroom.
Lana’s exactly where I left her, just like yesterday morning—half-on, half-off the couch, twisted in a way no spine should be. Her arm dangles off the edge like she fell mid-dramatic faint. She’s definitely going to need a chiropractor after this trip.
I walk over and give her shoulder a gentle shake.
“Lana, wake up,” I murmur.
She stirs, eyes squinting against the morning light. “What time is it?” She croaks.
“It’s time to get up. We’ve gotta get ready, check out, and hit the road,” I tell her. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”
We have school tomorrow—but I’m not sure if I’ll show up. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to walk across campus without my chest tightening.
Lana jolts upright like she’s been electrocuted. “Shit! Sorry! I forgot to set an alarm!”
She’s flailing now, disoriented and stressed, and I hold up my hand to calm her down.
“Lana, chill. We’ve got time,” I say, trying to soothe her. “Go hop in the shower and start getting ready. I’ll pack my stuff, then we’ll switch.”
She exhales like she just dodged a bullet and places a hand over her chest.
“Phew! Okay, thanks Gen,” she says, already on her feet and rushing toward the bathroom in her oversized t-shirt and fuzzy socks.
As the bathroom door closes and the sound of rushing water fills the space, I’m left standing in the middle of the cabin, surrounded by our mess—empty glasses, last night’s clothes draped over furniture, and a stillness that feels heavier now.
Because today, everything changes.
I start folding my clothes, each item a soft reminder of the long weekend I wish I could relive.
I separate out an outfit for the drive—something cute and comfortable, easy to move in.
A sweatshirt that still smells faintly like the mountains and leggings that hug me just enough to feel like a shield.
I hear the shower water shut off, and a second later Lana emerges, trailed by a thick cloud of steam and the smell of lavender body wash. Her hair is twisted into a towel and her eyes are still heavy with sleep.
I grab my own clothes and slip past her, heading into the bathroom where the heat clings to every surface like a lingering ghost. I turn the water back on, letting it warm up before stepping under the stream—and as soon as it hits my skin, memories flood me.
Last night.
Aspen. Right here. In this very shower.
His hands. His mouth. The way he held me like I was something sacred, something he didn’t want to stop worshipping. It was more than just sex. It felt like a confession, like every unspoken thing we didn’t have time to say was communicated in the way he touched me.
I close my eyes and let the water cascade over me, trying to wash him away. But my body betrays me.
A soft ache coils in my stomach and settles lower.
My fingers move on instinct, slipping down between my thighs.
I circle my clit slowly, gently, just enough to feel a flicker of release.
But it’s not the same. It’s not him. I’m not even close to satisfied.
I’m just... filling silence with sensation.
I sigh and pull my hand away, frustrated and achingly aware of how empty I feel. I rinse off, scrub down quickly, and shut the water off with more force than necessary.
I’m going to need to get under someone else if I want any chance of getting over Aspen. That’s the old saying, right? But the thought of someone else touching me right now feels like betrayal. Even if he’ll never know.
I dry off, get dressed in my road trip fit, and go through my skin care routine on autopilot. Cleanser, serum, moisturizer—each step feels like a performance. I slap on my Tatcha rice moisturizer a little too aggressively, hoping the sting will ground me.
When I step out, Lana’s already halfway through cleaning the kitchen. I silently join her. There’s not much to do—just tossing out trash, wiping surfaces, pretending we were never here. It’s the kind of cleaning that feels more like erasing.
We move around each other quietly. She doesn’t press me.
She doesn’t need to. I think she can feel the shift in me, the heaviness I’m trying to carry like it’s no big deal.
But the truth is, as long as I’m in this cabin, I feel like I’m holding my breath.
Once we cross the state line, maybe then I can exhale.
Maybe then I can let go.
***
The Nebraska state sign greeted us a hundred and fifty miles ago, but it still doesn’t feel real.
We’ve been driving in silence, just the hum of the road and the low volume of whatever playlist Lana queued up earlier.
The sky outside is painting itself in warm swirls of orange, purple, and pink—the kind of sunset that demands your attention.
I’m a sucker for sunsets, always have been. But even this one can’t distract me from the gnawing ache in my chest.
I feel like I left something behind in Colorado. No, not something—someone. Aspen. And not just the physical version of him, either. I left a part of myself back there too. A piece I’ll never get back.
The thought that I’ll never see him again? Never hear his voice, never feel his touch, never even get the chance to say goodbye properly?
It wrecks me.
But I grip the steering wheel tighter and keep my eyes forward. It’s easier than looking back.
Lana read a book most of the drive. I’m thankful she didn’t ask questions. We had our music, a little light chatter early on, but she never once mentioned Aspen. Never probed. She knows me well enough to know when to speak and when silence says more.
Somewhere around Kearney, Nebraska Lana falls asleep.
While she rested, I called the resort. It felt like the only thing I could do—the only way to give him something resembling closure.
Rebecca answered, the same woman who checked us in, and when I asked if I could leave a message for Aspen, she didn’t pry.
Just listened and promised she’d pass it along.
Thank God for that.
All I said was that I was a friend of Aspen’s, that I had to leave earlier than expected, which is a lie, and I wouldn’t be able to make our plans tonight. No details. No emotion. Just enough to explain, not enough to unravel.
I just hope he doesn’t hate me forever for it.
“We’re here,” I say as we roll into the parking garage of our dorm. Lana stretches and yawns, blinking against the overhead lights.
“Yay,” she mumbles half-asleep.
We gather our bags and head upstairs. When I unlock our door and step inside, I’m surprised to feel something like relief. Or maybe it’s just numbness in disguise. Either way, it’s familiar and that’s something.
I grab a Raspberry Rose Poppi from the fridge, crack it open, and take a sip. The bubbles fizz against my tongue, floral and sweet. Lana walks out of the bathroom and wraps me in a hug from behind.
“Thank you so much again, Gen. That was such a fun, much-needed trip. I’m really glad I came,” she says.
I turn to face her and smile, holding onto her warmth for just a second longer than usual. “Aww, I’m glad you came too, Babe.”
Then she tilts her head, studying me. “Okay, I didn’t say anything in the car, but… are you okay?”
Shit. Don’t cry. Don’t make this a big deal. He’s just a guy. You barely know him. Get over it.
“No,” I admit, voice soft and a little broken. “But I will be.”
Lana nods, giving me a reassuring squeeze. “I’m here if you need me.”
“Thanks, love. I know.”
I slip away and head into my room, tossing myself onto the bed. The second my head hits the pillow, I close my eyes and hope the ache in my chest dulls with sleep.
It doesn’t.
But maybe, if I pretend long enough, I’ll start to believe it’s gone.