13. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
Jimmy
The suitcase gapes open on the bed like a hungry mouth waiting to swallow the remnants of my life. My hands shake as I fold a flannel shirt—the one Eve said brought out the blue in my eyes. I place it carefully in the case, feeling like I'm packing away pieces of my heart with each item.
My fingers nudge the framed photo on the nightstand.
"Oh, God," I murmur. "What have I done?"
With trembling hands, I wrap the frame gently in another shirt, tucking it into the suitcase like a fragile treasure.
The weight of my decision presses down on me as I reach for my phone. Bobby answers.
"I... I told Eve about the fire. It's over, man. Everything."
"Jimmy, take a deep breath, okay? How did Eve take it?"
"It was awful. I've never seen her look at me like that before. Like I was a stranger. A monster."
"I'm heading out tonight, just... driving until I can't anymore."
"Leaving now? in the middle of the night! You remember how you felt when your dad took off without saying goodbye."
His words stop me in my tracks, memories flooding back—the empty chair at dinner, the hollow birthdays, the gnawing uncertainty that never really went away. "Yeah. Like the ground beneath me just vanished."
"Don't do that to Ella. Stay 'til morning. Say goodbye properly."
I sink into the armchair, Bobby's words making my head spin. "You're right. I don't want to put Ella through that. No way."
"Good. You're not your father. You've got a chance to do things differently."
As I end the call, I notice a shadow in my doorway. Hank's weathered face peers in, concern etched in the lines around his eyes. "Jimmy? You okay, son?"
I force a half-smile. "Been better, Hank. Come on in."
Hank settles on the chair across from me. "Thinkin' of leavin', huh?"
I nod, unable to meet his eyes. "Thought about running off, just like—" I clear my throat. "Just like my old man."
"Tell me what this is all about?" Hank coaxes gently.
I inhale deeply, the words tumbling out. "I told her everything. How I left that damn greasy rag too close to the pilot light."
I choke on the words, the guilt threatening to overwhelm me. "I burned it all down, Hank. Our livelihood, our dreams, our marriage. All because I was careless."
"Jimmy." His voice is gentle but firm. "It was an accident. You didn't mean for any of this to happen."
"Doesn't matter what I meant. The bakery's still gone. And now... now Eve knows it's all my fault."
"Mind if I tell you a story?"
"Please," I respond, thankful for the distraction.
Hank leans back, his pale blue eyes distant with memory. "Years back, when my Martha was still with us, we hit a rough spot. Real rough. I was convinced she'd be better off without me. Came close to leaving, had my bag packed and everything."
My heart clenches at the thought of solid, dependable Hank nearly giving in to despair. "What stopped you?"
"Martha caught me as I was headed out the door," Hank continues, a sad smile playing on his lips. "She didn't beg or cry—just looked me in the eye and said, 'This isn't you, Hank Weatherby.' And darn it, she was right." He pauses, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I was letting fear and pride dictate my actions. Had to face my demons, not run from 'em."
"Is that what I'm doing?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Trying to outrun my demons and a mistake that seems unforgivable.
"Only you can answer that, Jimmy," Hank says, standing up. He places a firm, reassuring hand on my shoulder. "But remember, this town, your family... they're a part of you. Bolt now, and you might regret it for the rest of your days."
After Hank leaves, his words hang in the room, the truth of them heavy in the air. I catch sight of myself in the mirror—those same deep blue eyes that watched my father walk away. Now, here I am, contemplating the same escape.
"Damn it, Dad," I whisper, the ghosts of the past lingering close—a tear escapes, tracing a hot path down my cheek.
My hands shake as I pull the photo from its careful wrapping. I set it back on the nightstand, a silent declaration of... what? Hope?
I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Memories of Eve, Ella, and our life in Strawberry Falls swirl around me.
I remember the Cherokee legend—how strawberries led two lovers back together. But where's my sign? My strawberry?
Sleep tugs at my eyelids, promising escape from the uncertainty if only for a few hours. While drifting off, I realize the true question isn't deciding between staying or going. It's about whether I have the courage to live with whatever choice I make.
"Please," I whisper to the dark, "let me find the strength to stay."
One thought lingers as I finally succumb to exhaustion: it's never too late to turn back. Tomorrow, I'll face my daughter, my past, and the uncertain road ahead.