Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
LIAM
One flustered excuse about checking on her parent’s cabin and she’s out the door before I can offer to go with her.
I watch her climb into a ride share, and when the taillights disappear down the street, I sink onto the couch with my head in my hands.
The cabin already feels all wrong without her in it.
I try to shake it off by keeping myself busy clearing the breakfast dishes, but it only makes it worse.
Her coffee cup is still on the kitchen table—a quiet reminder that she was here and now she isn’t.
Ten minutes later I give up on pretending I’m not wondering how she’s doing.
I grab my coat, a toolbox, the spare key to her parent’s cabin, and the little space heater I keep for cold-snaps and make the drive over.
The front steps are a sheet of ice. The lock sticks like always.
Inside is the kind of cold that lives in the walls.
“Knock-knock,” I call, even though I already can tell she isn’t here.
I cross the room to check the thermostat—it’s dead. The breaker is tripped. I reset it, wait for the faint click that means the furnace woke up, and set the space heater in her bedroom, angled away from the curtains because I like my best friend alive. I shoot her a text.
Me: Breakers were off. Space heater’s temporary. Text if anything smells weird. –L.
I lock up and force myself back out into the snow before I’m tempted to wait for her like a guy who doesn’t understand the word space.
Instead, I drive to the hardware store in search of heat tape that is sold out. The owner, Walt, insists he ordered more. “Truck’s late,” he says, apologetic, ringing up pipe insulation and a pack of batteries I don’t need.
I’m stepping back onto Main Street when I see them.
Ava and Derek stand outside the coffee shop, breath fogging between them. Derek’s got two cups in one hand and that practiced, I’m-just-checking-in smile on his face. He leans in like he’s telling her something private. Her shoulders are rigid inside her coat.
I stop in the shadow of the bookshop awning next door and force my jaw to unclench. She doesn’t need me charging across the square like a territorial idiot. She needs room to decide what she wants without me tilting the scale.
Derek passes her a cup. She takes it because she’s polite, not because she’s soft; I know the difference. He says something else that causes her chin to lift and that tiny, stubborn move eases a knot I didn’t realize I’d tied around my heart.
He reaches for a hug, but she sidesteps into a shoulder squeeze that barely qualifies. Small victory and big relief for me. I breathe again.
I could walk over now, slide into the space at her side that, lately, has felt like mine. But this isn’t a game I win by showing up louder. So, I turn, shouldering my bag of insulation, and head home.
I’m on my porch, key in hand when my phone rings with a New York number. I almost let it go to voicemail, then answer because distraction sounds like mercy.
“Liam Carter,” a woman says, bright and brisk. “Shannon from Voyage Collective. Wanted to chat with you about our Cove assignment that opened up again. Six weeks. Glaciers, fjords, Canada’s number one leisure brand, the works. We’d love to have you if you can leave right after New Year’s.”
I drop my head and drag a hand over the back of my neck. That’s next week. The version of me who lives out of a duffel bag would’ve said yes before she finished the sentence. The version of me standing on a snow-dusted porch, staring at the two cabins Ava and I grew up in, just…doesn’t.
I sink onto the top step, the cold biting through my jeans, and look at the thin trail of footprints Ava left between our doors. “It’s an incredible offer,” I say, meaning it. “But I’m not sure I can make January work.”
A pause. “Timing issue? We could push your shoot to February if needed.”
There’s a world where February is safer. Far enough away to pretend this week didn’t crack me open. That’s not the world I want. I want a shot with Ava and I’m not a guy who has ever given up on getting when he wants something.
“That might work,” I say, rubbing my thumb over the railing, feeling the old scar where we carved our initials when we were ten. “Can I get back to you? Can you give me a few days?”
“No problem,” Shannon says. “Door stays open. I’ll check in with you at the end of the week.”
We hang up and my breath leaves in a plume.
The snow crunches under tires in front of me.
I look up to see Ava getting out of a car.
She stands at the end of the driveway, her coat unbuttoned, coffee cup forgotten in her hand.
Snow dusts her hair. Her eyes are wide, like maybe she’s not sure whether to walk forward or bolt.
She’s breathtaking with flushed pink cheeks and bright, beautiful eyes that lock on mine and knock the air out of my lungs. Suddenly, I’m the one who feels like they should run before she sees too much.
“Did you get my text?” I manage, pushing to my feet. It’s the only thing I’m able to come up with when what I really want to say is that she looks like she belongs here with me.
She nods once. “I did, thanks. The breaker was off.” Her voice is low, careful. “I’m just here to get my things.”
“Anytime,” I murmur, wishing I had the guts to tell her that I’d move mountains for her.
For a heartbeat we just stand here in the thin strip of space that has raised us, challenged us, stranded us together this week. Her mouth opens like she might say something real, then it closes again, and she steps forward, walking past me towards my door.
“It’ll just take a minute,” she says, almost an apology. “See you at the Holiday Dance?”
“Yeah.” I tip my chin. “I’ll be there.”
She disappears down the hall to my bedroom as I stare into space until the sting in my chest settles into something steadier.
I’ve spent years making sure I never pushed, never said the thing that would ruin us.
Last night proved silence doesn’t keep you safe; it just keeps you lonely.
So that’s it. No more half-measures. When she’s ready to hear me, I’m going to tell her the truth plain: it isn’t the contest, and it isn’t the season. It’s her. It’s always been her.
Then I’ll kiss her like I mean it.