Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Eli
Morning comes and I don't move.
The light creeps in through the thin gap between the curtains, pale and gray, cutting across the ceiling above my bed. I've been awake for hours. Long enough to hear the birds start up outside. Long enough to know exactly what time it is without checking.
Training started ten minutes ago.
I stare at the ceiling and let the moment pass.
I'm already dressed. Jeans. T-shirt. Boots laced tight. I did that before the sky even started to lighten, like if I got myself ready it would make the decision easier.
It didn't.
If I show up, I'll break.
The thought lands heavy and certain. Not dramatic. Just true.
I push my palms into the mattress and sit up, elbows braced on my knees. My chest feels tight. Like there's not enough air in the cabin.
I picture the barn anyway. The way the colt will pace when he hears footsteps. Addie checking her watch. Hazel stepping into the pen, scanning for me without realizing she's doing it.
I can't.
Not because I'm angry. Because if I look at her—really look at her—I'll pretend everything's fine just to keep her there another day. Another week. Another maybe.
Last night replays whether I want it to or not. The way she stood in front of me, eyes bright and terrified. The careful way she chose her words. The way she kept saying time like it didn't already have teeth.
I meant what I said.
I can't survive hoping again.
I stand and cross to the window. From here I can see the edge of the pasture, dew still clinging to the grass, fence line stretching toward the trees.
The world doesn't pause just because something broke.
I check my phone. No messages. No missed calls.
Good.
I grab my jacket off the chair and shrug it on. The fabric smells faintly like hay and her shampoo. My stomach turns but I don't take it off.
I step out onto the porch. The cool air bites, sharp enough to ground me.
I lock the door behind me and walk toward my truck, boots crunching against the gravel.
I don't know what happens next.
I just know I can't stand in that barn and act like maybe is enough.
I'm halfway to the truck when I hear boots on gravel behind me.
"Thought that might be you."
I stop but don't turn right away. I know that voice. Easy. Unhurried. Chace comes up beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, and glances past me toward the barn like he's just out here taking in the morning.
"You missed training?" I knew someone would come here looking for me.
"Didn't miss it," I say. "I know exactly what time it is."
He huffs out a quiet breath. "Addie noticed. Hazel did too." He pauses, toeing at the gravel. "Asked where you were."
My chest tightens. "What'd you tell her?"
"Nothing. Figured that was your call." He studies me sideways, not pushing, just taking stock the way he does. "Something happened."
I lean back against the hood of the truck and let out a slow breath. "We talked."
"That bad, huh."
I don't correct him.
Chace shifts his weight, giving me room without going anywhere. That's always been his way — close enough that you know he's not leaving, far enough that you don't feel cornered. He lets the silence sit between us until I'm ready to fill it.
"She asked for more time," I say finally.
He nods slowly, like he already knew. Maybe he did. "And you said no."
"I said no."
"Eli—"
"I can't live in maybe, Chace." My voice comes out rougher than I intend. "I've been living in maybe for five years. I'm done."
He's quiet for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is careful. "She's still here."
"She hasn't decided to stay."
"That's not the same thing as leaving."
The words land harder than I expect. I push off the truck and pace a few steps, jaw tight, hand scrubbing the back of my neck. Chace watches me without comment, letting me work through it.
"You know what kills me?" I say, stopping. "It's not even the leaving. It's the not knowing. Standing here every day not knowing if I'm building something or just — filling time until she figures out she doesn't want it."
Chace is quiet for a beat. "That's fair," he says finally. "It is. But Eli—" He hesitates, and I can see him choosing his words carefully, caught between us the way he always is. "She came back. And she didn't have to."
"I know that."
"And she's still here. Working the ranch, working that colt, working to earn something back with you." He pauses. "I'm not saying you're wrong to need more than maybe. You're not. But I don't think she's as far from a decision as you think."
Something tightens in my chest. "You don't know that."
"No," he admits. "I don't." He steps closer and claps a hand on my shoulder, solid and familiar. "What I know is that you skipping training this morning hurt her. And I think you know that too."
I don't answer.
He gives my shoulder a squeeze before letting go. "For what it's worth — you're not wrong to want more than maybe. You never were."
He turns back toward the barn, boots slow on the gravel. Then he pauses without looking back.
"Tomorrow?" he asks quietly.
I stare out at the pasture. "I don't know."
"That's fine," he says. "One day at a time."
He walks away and leaves me standing there alone with the quiet.
This isn't anger.
This is me choosing not to bleed out slowly.
***
By the time Chace heads back, the sun's higher and the morning's half gone.
I stand there another minute. Let the choice finish forming instead of backing out of it.
Then I go looking for Addie.
She's at the rail of the round pen, helmet on, colt walking slow circles. Hazel's not with her. That shouldn't matter. It does.
I don't step inside the pen. Just lean against the fence and wait until Addie notices me.
"Oh—hey." She slows the colt to a stop. "You coming in?"
"No." I clear my throat. "I'm heading out."
She frowns. "Out like… for the day?"
"Yeah." I pause. "For a while actually."
Her frown deepens. "How long's a while?"
"Through the show. I'll be there Saturday, but I'm done training."
She goes still. "What?"
"I'll handle logistics," I say quickly. "Hauling. Paperwork. Whatever you need. But training—Hazel's got it."
"The show's Saturday," Addie says. "You're bailing five days out?"
"I'm not bailing—"
"You're not going to be there." She gestures at the colt. "We've been working toward this for weeks. You, me, Hazel. And now you're just… what? Done?"
"It's not about the colt."
"Then what's it about?"
I hold her gaze. "It's about me needing space."
She studies me, and I watch her piece it together. The missing training this morning. The careful way I'm holding myself. The fact that I won't look toward the barn.
"Oh," she says quietly. Then: "Shit."
"Hazel's a better trainer than I am anyway," I say. "You'll be fine."
"That's not—" She stops. Regroups. "You're really not going to keep working the colt with us?"
"I'll be there Saturday," I remind her. "For hauling, setup, whatever you need. I just won't be training."
She nods slowly. Doesn't push. But I can see it in her face—the disappointment, the confusion, the concern.
"Okay," she says finally. "If that's what you need."
"It is."
I push off the fence and turn before she can ask anything else.
I'm halfway to the truck when movement catches my eye.
Hazel.
Coming out of the barn, scanning the drive like she's looking for someone.
For me.
She hasn't seen me yet. Hasn't looked this direction.
I could call out. Walk over. Pretend yesterday didn't happen.
Every instinct I have pulls toward that sound. Toward her. My hand tightens on the truck door.
I could turn around. Walk back. Take whatever she's willing to give me for however long she's willing to stay.
I could.
The door opens with a metallic click that sounds too loud in the quiet.
I get in.
I don't look back.
I just put space between myself and the place where I'd start bending again.
By the time I reach the far fence line, the sun's high enough to burn the last of the morning chill off my skin. I park, get out, and walk the line alone, checking posts that don't need fixing, tightening wire that's already fine.
It's physical. Mindless. Exactly what I need.
By the time my hands ache and sweat soaks through my shirt, the ache in my chest dulls to something manageable.
Not gone. Just quieter.
I lean against a fence post, breathing hard, staring at nothing.
This isn't me giving up.
It's me stepping back before there's nothing left of me to save.
I tell myself I made the right choice.
I almost believe it.