Chapter 2 #2
Conversations don't stop exactly. They just... shift. Lower. My name surfaces in fragments I'm not supposed to hear.
"Is that—"
"She's back?"
"I heard she was in town, but I didn't think—"
Heat crawls up my neck. I force myself to keep moving, weaving between tables toward the bar like I have a destination, like I belong here.
A woman I vaguely recognize—someone's older sister, maybe—steps into my path and pulls me into a hug before I can react.
"Look at you," she says, pulling back to study my face. "I heard you were back."
I manage a smile. "Word travels fast."
"Always does." She squeezes my arm. "How long are you staying?"
"Just visiting. Helping Mae out for a bit."
"Well, it's good to see you."
She drifts away, and immediately someone else appears. Then another. Hands on my shoulders. Questions I don't have answers for.
"You still in Denver?"
"What brought you back?"
"Are you staying?"
I nod. Smile. Deflect with practiced ease, the same way I handle clients who ask too many questions in meetings.
When I finally reach the bar, I order without looking at the menu. The bartender—older now, grayer, but the same—slides the drink toward me without comment.
Like I never left.
I take the first sip too fast. It burns going down, but I welcome it.
"There she is!"
I turn and Shae is already there—all red curls and bright energy that cuts through the noise of the bar like she brings her own light source. She pulls me into a hug that smells like her perfume, something floral and sweet, exactly like her.
Relief loosens something in my chest.
"I can't believe you're actually here," she says, stepping back to look at me with those sharp green eyes that miss nothing. "Thought you'd bail."
"You didn't give me much choice."
She grins, wide and unapologetic. "Damn right I didn't."
We fall into it easier than I expected — voices overlapping, catching up in fragments.
Shae's halfway through her vet tech program and has opinions about everything she's learning.
But it's different being here instead of Denver.
Here, we can't avoid the elephant in the room: everyone I left.
Everything I ran from. The life I walked away from.
Shae squeezes my hand once. She knows.
"You look good," she says, then grins. "Exhausted, but good."
"Gee, thanks."
"What? I'm being honest." She nudges my shoulder. "How's Mae really doing?"
"Not great. She's been downplaying it."
"Sounds about right." Shae rolls her eyes. "Stubborn runs in your family."
Before I can think about it too hard, I hear it—a laugh near the door. Loud, easy, unmistakable.
I look up and shake my head, but I'm smiling.
"Of course," I mutter.
Chace Walker.
He stands just inside the doorway like he owns the place, one hand already reaching for a beer, the other lifted in greeting. His grin is pure trouble—crooked and confident.
His eyes land on me and light up.
"Well I'll be damned," he says, already heading our way. "City girl actually came back."
I barely set my glass down before he's there, wrapping me up in a hug that lifts me clean off the floor.
"Put me down, Chace Walker," I say, swatting his shoulder as he spins me once.
"Nope. This is happening."
When he finally sets me down, he ruffles my hair like I'm twelve.
I swat him away. "Don't."
"You love it."
He steps back, looking me over with exaggerated appreciation. "Well damn. Look at you, all sexy and sophisticated. I could eat you up!"
"You say that to every woman who walks through that door."
"Most of them," he admits, grinning. "But you're the only one I've known since braces and bad bangs."
I laugh despite myself. "Shut up."
It's easy with Chace. Always has been. All charm, no spark—exactly how I like it with him.
Shae elbows him. "Leave her alone for five seconds."
"Can't. Missed her too much." He takes a pull from his beer, then gestures around the bar. "Besides, someone's gotta show you around. Place has changed. New jukebox and everything."
"Wow. Revolutionary."
"Hey, don't mock small-town progress." He grins. "We also got a strip club last year."
Shae throws a napkin at him. "We did not!"
Chace dodges it with the reflexes of someone who's had a lot of things thrown at him. "See, this is why I have trust issues.”
The three of us fall into conversation—Chace filling the space with stories about who stayed, who left, who came back when life didn't go the way they planned. Shae adds color, correcting his exaggerations, laughing at the right moments.
I listen more than I speak. The edge of my nerves softens as the alcohol warms me, but something still feels off. Like I'm watching them instead of being with them.
Like I don't quite fit anymore.
A woman walks past and Chace's attention follows automatically, grin already forming.
Shae snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Focus."
"I'm multitasking."
"You're a disaster."
"That too."
I laugh, and for a second it almost feels like before.
Almost.
The door opens.
And before my mind can catch up, my body knows.
Eli Dawson doesn't announce himself. He never has. He steps inside and the room adjusts—not dramatically, just a subtle shift, like the air remembers him.
Recognition hits low and sharp, stealing my breath.
Five years.
Time has been good to him. Unfairly so.
He's broader now—shoulders that claim space, arms roped with muscle earned from years of ranch work.
His forearms are sun-darkened and marked with ink I don't remember, dark lines wrapped around tanned skin.
His hair is darker than I remember, almost black, cut shorter but still long enough to curl slightly at his neck.
Rough shadow lines his jaw, the kind that suggests he hasn't shaved in days and doesn't care.
Faded jeans sit low on his hips. Scuffed boots. Plain black T-shirt stretched across his chest, sleeves pushed high enough to bare those tattooed forearms.
He looks like a man who knows exactly where he stands.
Heat flickers low in my stomach despite everything I tell myself.
No. Not going there.
"Well, shit," Chace says, grin widening. "Look who finally decided to show up."
He moves toward Eli immediately, clapping him on the shoulder. Eli returns it, familiar and solid. Best friends. Still.
Chace pulls him toward us. "Been a minute since we've had the whole crew together, huh?"
The whole crew. The words point at the empty space where I used to stand.
Eli's gaze sweeps the room once—a habit I remember—before landing on me. Something flickers. Something hard.
His jaw tightens and he looks away first, like I'm not worth the effort.
It stings more than it should.
"Hazel." His voice is low and even. Not welcoming. Not cruel. Just there.
"Eli." I'm surprised my voice doesn't shake.
He steps closer and I catch his scent—soap and sun and something woodsy I'd recognize anywhere. The familiarity physically hurts.
I step back and cross my arms.
My body doesn't get a vote here.
"How long you staying?" Eli asks, but he's not really asking—he's confirming I'll leave again.
I tighten my grip on my glass. "Just until Mae's back on her feet."
"Good." There's an edge to it now, sharp enough to cut. "Wouldn't want you to get too comfortable."
The words land like a slap.
Chace laughs nervously. "Come on, man—"
"I'm getting another beer," Eli says, already turning away.
And just like that, he's done with me.
***
We fall into an awkward cluster after that—the four of us trying to pretend this is normal. Chace fills the silence the way he always has, talking about fence repairs and last spring's storm. Shae adds details, keeps things moving with sheer determination.
They're trying so hard to make this feel like before.
But Eli's jaw stays tight and I can't stop gripping my glass like it's the only thing keeping me grounded. Chace and Shae notice—I see it in the way their eyes flick between us.
They know this isn't working.
Eli listens more than he speaks. When he does contribute, it's clipped. He doesn't ask me questions. Doesn't offer anything personal. He's here but not present.
I notice him anyway.
The flex of his forearms when he lifts his beer. A faint scar along his knuckle I don't remember. The way he stands like the floor belongs to him, weight balanced, completely at ease in his own skin.
He's grown into himself. Become exactly who he was always meant to be.
And I wasn't here to see any of it.
My gaze drifts to his hands wrapped around the bottle and something in my chest cracks. I remember those hands—calloused and careful, teaching me how to gentle a spooked horse. Steadying me in the saddle. The last time they touched me, five years ago in the dark.
I turn to Shae fast and laugh at something she hasn't even finished saying.
It isn't subtle, the way Eli avoids me. His attention slides past whenever I speak, his answers neutral when forced to respond. The space between us is charged with everything we're not saying.
It shouldn't irritate me this much. I'm the one who left.
It irritates me anyway.
I catch the flex of his hands around the bottle and I'm back in the round pen—the two of us working a nervous colt together. Moving in perfect sync without needing words.
I shut it down hard, but the ache lingers.
There was nothing to end—that's the worst part. There was no blowup. No line drawn. I just let the space stretch. Let weeks turn into months. Let silence do the work I didn't have the courage to do.
And now here we are. Strangers who know each other too well.
"I'm heading out," Shae says eventually, shrugging into her jacket. "Early start tomorrow."
She hugs me, whispers: "You okay?"
I nod. "Yeah. Fine."
She doesn't look convinced. Her eyes flick to Eli, then back. "Call me tomorrow."
"I will."
"I mean it."
She squeezes my hand once, then disappears into the crowd.
I order another drink. The alcohol slides easier this time, smoothing the sharp edges. The tight coil in my chest loosens and laughter comes without effort.
Chace talks about the rodeo circuit, about watching from the sidelines this year instead of competing. A woman calls his name from the pool tables, and his grin returns immediately, the heaviness gone. The conversation dies before it can go deeper.
"Duty calls," he says, grinning. He glances at the empty space where Eli was standing a moment ago, then back at me. "Try not to drink too much while I'm gone."
"No promises."
He laughs and heads toward the pool tables, and I'm suddenly acutely aware of how empty our little corner has become.
Shae left. Chace is across the bar. And Eli—
I glance around, searching. He's nowhere. I can't even remember when he slipped away, just that one moment he was there and the next he wasn't.
The not knowing needles at me more than it should.
I take another sip.
Chace reappears near the pool table, laughing with a group I half-recognize. He catches my eye and lifts his beer in a silent question—you good?
I nod. Wave him off.
I take another drink. Whatever.
When I turn back toward the bar, Eli is there—close enough to make me startle. His hand closes around my elbow, firm and steady.
"Time to go," he says quietly.
I pull back. "You left."
"And I came back." His voice is even. "Let's go, Hazel."
"You don't get to decide when I leave."
His mouth sets in a hard line. "You're done."
"Five years, Eli." The words come out before I can stop them. "Five years and you never came to see me. Not once."
Something flickers across his face—there and gone so fast I almost miss it. Pain, maybe. Or guilt.
He goes very still.
I know I'm the one who left. I know I have no right to be angry about this. But the alcohol loosens something in my chest that's been sitting there since the moment he walked through that door tonight.
"Hazel—"
"You couldn't even pick up the phone."
His hand drops from my elbow. "We're not doing this here."
"When, then?"
"Not now." He reaches past me for my jacket and won't meet my eyes. "Let’s go."
The room tilts when I shift my weight. His grip returns automatically, steadying me.
"Let's go," he says, quieter now but no less final.
***
The ride home spins. I watch gravel blur beneath the headlights, the rhythm tugging loose memories I don't want. Too many nights riding shotgun in this truck. Mud on the tires. Music low. Silence that never needed filling.
Comforting. Disorienting. Both at once.
When he turns into the drive, my throat tightens.
"Eli," I say softly. "I'm sorry." We both know I’m not apologizing just for tonight.
He doesn't look at me as he cuts the engine. His hands grip the steering wheel, knuckles white.
"Don't." His voice is flat. "You’re drunk."
The words hit like a door slamming shut.
The porch light is already on. Aunt Mae stands in its glow. Eli opens my door and lifts me without comment, the motion smooth and practiced.
Mae's gaze flicks between us. "Eli," she says quietly.
He nods once, stepping through the doorway with me still in his arms. Mae holds the door open but doesn't say anything more.
Eli doesn't answer.
He carries me inside, moving through the house with the ease of someone who knows it as well as his own. He finds my room without hesitation and sets me down gently, hands lingering only long enough to be sure I'm steady.
I curl into the familiar shape of the bed, exhaustion pulling me under before I can fight it.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, a thought surfaces: I spent five years not needing anyone.
And the first night back, I needed him.
My body is still warm where he held me steady. I notice that. I hate that I notice that.
Sleep takes me before I can figure out why.