Chapter 6
DIEGO
I hadn’t slept well. Three hours of restless dozing didn’t count as actual sleep, but it was all I’d managed after our shift ended. Memories of Doc on that stretcher, of Gillian’s face tight with fear, had chased me through what little rest I’d gotten.
Now, squinting against the afternoon sun, I drove across town to Doc’s neighborhood.
The modest ranch homes with their neatly trimmed lawns were a stark contrast to the historic downtown where the saloon sat.
Doc’s place was easy to spot—the only house on the block with a porch swing and those distinctive wrought-iron railings shaped like horseshoes.
I told myself I was only checking on Doc. The town grapevine had already confirmed he’d been discharged this morning—Mrs. Kovalchik had mentioned it when I’d stopped for coffee at Pour Decisions. A welfare check wasn’t unusual. People looked out for each other here.
But I knew better. This wasn’t about Doc, not entirely.
It was about that moment in the Emergency Department when Gillian had stood alone in that sterile waiting area, fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across her pale face.
She’d wrapped her arms around herself like a shield, shoulders hunched inward, looking smaller and more fragile than I’d ever seen her.
Even during that last awful fight before she left for law school, she’d never seemed so breakable.
My hands had physically ached watching her stand there, fingers twitching with the overwhelming urge to cross that linoleum floor and pull her close.
To wrap my arms around her trembling form and absorb some of that raw fear radiating from her in waves.
The need had been a physical weight in my chest, making it hard to breathe properly.
But I’d forced myself to stay rooted in place, knowing that crossing that line would only complicate things further.
How leaving her there in that cold, antiseptic hallway had torn something open all over again—the same wound that had never quite healed since the day she’d chosen law school over whatever we might have built together.
I’d wanted to stay with her through the long night ahead, to be the steady presence she could lean on. But duty had pulled me away, the radio crackling with another call, another emergency that demanded my attention. The job always came first—it had to.
Four years hadn’t changed a damn thing, apparently.
One glimpse of her standing in that doorway, hair mussed and worry lines creasing her forehead, and I was right back where I started—wanting to be her shelter when the storms hit, her safe harbor in whatever chaos life threw at her.
Even knowing she’d never wanted that from me, not really. Not enough to stay.
I parked at the curb, noticing another car already there—a blue sedan I didn’t recognize. As I walked up the path, I caught sight of someone on the porch. A woman in a floral dress stood with her back to me, hand raised to knock.
The door opened, and there was Gillian, framed in the doorway. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot, stress etched in the lines around her eyes.
The woman on the porch thrust a casserole dish into her hands.
Gillian glanced down at it. “Mrs. Fenton, really, it’s too much—”
“Nonsense,” the woman—apparently Mrs. Fenton—replied. “Vernon needs proper food to recover, not that bar food he subsists on. And you look like you could use a decent meal yourself.”
Gillian’s eyes flicked past Mrs. Fenton and landed on me. Something crossed her face—surprise, relief, anxiety, all in quick succession. She shifted the dish to one hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“Diego.” My name emerged softly, almost a question.
Mrs. Fenton turned, her face brightening. “Oh! Look who’s here. One of our brave firefighters. Did you come to check on Doc too?”
I nodded, climbing the remaining steps to join them on the porch. “I wanted to see how he’s doing.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” Mrs. Fenton patted my arm. “You boys do so much for this town. Tell Doc I said hello.”
“I will.” Gillian’s eyes didn’t leave my face as Mrs. Fenton returned to her car. I could read the exhaustion in the shadows beneath them, the way she held herself a little too straight, like she might crack if she relaxed.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Grumpy.” Her mouth quirked in a half-smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Doctor told him to rest, which means he’s trying to do everything but. You’d think being a doctor himself, he’d behave better.”
For a moment, we looked at each other, the weight of the unspoken hanging between us. At last, she stepped back, gesturing with the casserole.
“Do you want to come in? I was about to...” She trailed off, as if she wasn’t sure what she was about to do.
All I knew was that I wanted to say yes.
I followed Gillian back to the kitchen, where evidence of the town’s generosity covered nearly every surface. Casserole dishes, foil-wrapped plates, and pie tins created a mismatched landscape across the countertops and table.
“I don’t think I’m going to have to cook anything the entire time I’m here.” She set Mrs. Fenton’s contribution among the others. Her attempt at humor fell flat, undermined by the exhaustion in her voice.
I wanted to ask how long “the entire time” might be, but instead watched her methodically rearrange containers to make room in the fridge. Her movements were efficient but sluggish, like she was operating on fumes. She probably was. I doubted she’d slept last night, either.
“How’s Doc doing now?” I leaned against the door frame, giving her space.
“Better, I guess.” She didn’t glance up from her task. “They confirmed it was a TIA, like you suspected.” Her hand paused on a container lid. “The doctor was pretty clear that if he doesn’t make serious changes, the next one could be... worse.”
“And Doc’s taking that well, I’m sure.”
That earned me a snort. “He’s being completely pissy about it. Within half an hour of getting home, he tried to sneak out to open the bar while I was in the shower.”
“Sounds like Doc.”
“He can’t keep doing what he’s doing.” She finally turned to face me, arms crossed protectively over her chest. The morning light through the kitchen window caught the copper in her hair, but it also deepened the shadows under her eyes.
“The doctor said no stress, no late nights, no lifting. Basically, everything running a bar involves.”
Her voice cracked on the last word. She cleared her throat and looked away, blinking rapidly.
“I’m sticking around for the next couple of weeks to try to get something sorted out. After that...” She let the sentence dangle unfinished between us.
I nodded, absorbing what she wasn’t saying. Two weeks. Long enough to handle this crisis, then back to her real life. Back to a world where our paths didn’t cross.
“How are you holding up?” I asked.
She gave me a tired half-smile. “I’m fine. Just need to figure out a game plan.” Her hand drifted to her phone, which buzzed with a notification. She glanced at it, winced, and silenced it.
“Still saving the corporate world one merger at a time?”
“Trying to.” She tucked the phone away. “Though I might have to renegotiate my workload while I’m here.”
We lapsed into silence. There was too much and not enough to say. She shifted her weight, then seemed to remember something.
“I never properly thanked you. For last night. For taking care of him.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with her gratitude. “I was just doing my job.”
Something dimmed in her eyes at that. Her shoulders stiffened slightly, and she nodded. “Right. Well, I’m still grateful.”
The distance between us expanded, suddenly yawning wider than the few feet of worn linoleum floor that separated us.
The kitchen seemed to shrink around the weight of unspoken words and careful politeness, each of us trapped on our respective sides of an invisible chasm that had opened the day she left town.
For a moment, I saw us as we were four years ago—laughing in this same kitchen, her perched on the counter in cutoff shorts and one of my oversized t-shirts while I made pancakes from scratch, flour dusting everything including her nose.
Doc would shuffle in wearing his ratty bathrobe, grumbling good-naturedly about young people cluttering up his space while secretly pleased to have life filling his house again.
She’d swing her bare legs and steal blueberries from the bowl waiting to go into the batter, and I’d pretend to be annoyed while my heart did something stupid and hopeful in my chest.
The memory was so vivid I could almost smell the vanilla extract and hear her laugh echoing off the faded yellow walls. Almost feel the casual intimacy of her hand on my shoulder as she leaned down to kiss pancake batter from the corner of my mouth.
The memory faded like smoke, leaving only the present—Gillian exhausted and worried, still beautiful but somehow smaller than I remembered, looking wrinkled from the hospital and her hair escaping its careful arrangement.
Me standing here awkward and unsure, my uniform still smelling faintly of smoke, wondering why the hell I’d even come.
Maybe to prove to myself that seeing her again wouldn’t affect me, that I’d moved on as completely as she had.
If so, I’d failed spectacularly. The familiar ache in my chest told me exactly how much distance I hadn’t traveled.
“If you need help with anything—the bar, Doc, whatever—let me know,” I said. “My shifts are pretty regular these days.”
“I will. Thanks.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture so familiar it made my chest ache.
We both knew she wouldn’t call. Just like I knew I shouldn’t have come. Some distances couldn’t be crossed with casual offers of help, no matter how sincerely meant.
Another awkward silence stretched between us, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of the TV from Doc’s bedroom. Gillian fidgeted with a dish towel, folding and refolding it with those long fingers I remembered so well.
I shifted my weight, suddenly aware I’d overstayed my welcome. “I should probably—”
“I need to say something.”
Her words stopped me cold. She’d squared her shoulders and was looking directly at me now, her green eyes determined despite the exhaustion shadowing them.
“Okay?” My voice came out cautious, braced for whatever was coming.
She took a deep breath. “It was really shitty of me to disappear on you like I did. You deserved better than that, and I’m sorry.” Her fingers twisted the dish towel tighter. “I just... I didn’t know how to do what I needed to do if I kept in contact.”
The apology blindsided me completely. Four years of wondering, of replaying our final weeks together over and over in my mind, trying to pinpoint the exact moment where things had shifted, where I’d lost her—and here she was, cutting straight to the heart of it with that raw honesty I’d always loved about her.
A thousand questions crowded my thoughts, each one fighting to be voiced first. Was she happy with the path she’d chosen?
Did she ever wonder what might have happened if she’d stayed, if she’d chosen differently?
Did she ever think about us during those long nights in law school, or when she was working late at her corporate firm?
Did she ever wake up wondering if she’d made the wrong choice, if the life she’d built was worth what she’d given up?
But looking at her now—really looking—I could see the weight she was carrying.
The exhaustion wasn’t only from Doc’s health scare or the long hours at his bedside.
There was something deeper there, something that made her seem fragile in a way that was completely at odds with the confident, determined woman who’d left Huckleberry Creek all those years ago.
But none of those questions were mine to ask. Not anymore. Not when she was standing here, vulnerable and exhausted, her grandfather recovering in the next room.
“I appreciate that.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “And I meant what I said last night. It’s good to see you.” I hesitated. “If you get the chance while you’re here, I’d love to have a proper catch-up. As friends.”
Friends. The word rang hollow. But anything else would probably come off as pressure she didn’t need right now.
Relief flooded her face, and she flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I don’t know what my time’s going to look like, but I’d like that.”
The doorbell rang before I could respond, its chime echoing through the house.
Gillian sighed. “And it looks like the casserole train continues.”
I rose from my spot against the counter. “I should get going, anyway. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know, okay?”
“Thanks.” She moved toward the front door.
I followed her through the living room, noting the laptop and stack of papers on the coffee table—evidence of her other life, the one that would take her away again in less than two weeks.
On the porch, an elderly woman I recognized as Mrs. Woodley clutched a pie tin to her chest. Gillian stepped aside to let me pass, and I nodded a greeting to Mrs. Woodley as I headed down the steps.
“Oh, Diego! Checking on our Doc, were you? Such a good boy,” she called after me.
I raised a hand in acknowledgment but kept walking. It wasn’t until I reached my truck that I realized Gillian hadn’t actually said yes to meeting up. She’d said she’d like to, but that wasn’t the same as agreeing.
Just like four years ago, when she’d said she wanted me, wanted us, but had still chosen to leave.
I climbed into the driver’s seat, soaking in the summer heat radiating from the leather. Through the windshield, I could see Gillian on the porch, accepting what looked like a pie from Mrs. Woodley, her smile warm but clearly strained.
I started the engine, forcing myself to focus on the day ahead rather than on the past—or on the fact that in a matter of days, she’d be gone again, and I’d be right back where I started. Except this time, I told myself, I wouldn’t be caught off guard. This time, I’d keep my distance.
Even as I thought it, I knew it was a lie.