Chapter 12
TWELVE
BOONE
I’m not sulking. Sulking is pathetic.
Instead, I like to think I’m brooding. Brooding is what deep thinkers do.
And deep thinking needs to take place as far away from reality as a man can get.
I choose the far outpost for it anyway.
The smaller shed I use when I don’t want to be around people. Or Georgie. Or a woman whose life is about to take off so fast I might not even be able to see the taillights.
I sharpen tools that don’t need sharpening.
Re-stack firewood that was already stacked.
Check the ATV twice.
Anything except go back to the cabin.
Because every time I think about Erica in that grocery store parking lot, smiling politely while someone else announced her future, my chest tightens until it hurts.
I knew.
I always knew.
She was temporary. Brilliant. Bound for something bigger than this place, than me. I just didn’t expect the proof to come wrapped in congratulations and industry blogs.
The ATV engine cuts off behind me.
I don’t turn.
“Real subtle,” Knox says.
I grunt.
“Quincy sent me.”
That figures.
“She says Erica’s worried.”
I grit my teeth. “She’ll be fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I turn then, leaning against the workbench. “I’m not avoiding her.”
“You rode an ATV two miles into the woods.”
“Needed air.”
“You hate cardio.”
I glare at him.
He crosses his arms. “Try again.”
I exhale slowly. “I don’t want to screw this up.”
Knox’s brow creases. “By disappearing.”
“By getting in the way.”
He studies me. “You love her.”
It’s not a question.
I swallow.
“Yes.”
Saying it out loud knocks the wind out of me.
“I’ve loved her longer than she knows,” I add quietly.
Knox nods once, like that checks something off his mental list.
“And you think this proves she’s too good for you.”
“Yes.”
“She’s getting movie offers.”
“Rumors.”
“They don’t start unless something real’s happening.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “I helped her get here under false pretenses. I gave her a year to write. Now she doesn’t need me for that anymore.”
Knox’s eyes sharpen. “Is that what you think you gave her.”
“What else would it be.”
He steps closer. “You gave her space. Safety. Time. You believed in her when she wasn’t sure she should. That’s not nothing.”
“It’s not enough.”
“It’s not your call.”
I look at him.
He keeps going. “Yeah, you screwed up the way she got here. But you weren’t wrong for doing it. You didn’t trap her. You opened a door.”
My jaw tightens.
“And maybe,” he says, “you should stop deciding for her what she deserves.”
I stare at the snow beyond the shed door.
“She gets to choose,” Knox finishes. “Not you.”
The words sit heavy.
I nod once.
Knox claps my shoulder. “Go talk to her.”
She’s at the table when I get back, notebook open, fingers hovering uselessly above the keyboard.
She looks up like she’s been waiting.
“Boone—”
“I need to show you something first.”
She blinks.
“That sounds ominous.”
“Probably.”
I reach into my coat and pull out the spiral notebook.
The one full of things I never meant to hand over.
My throat tightens as I place it in front of her.
“I wrote those while I was gone,” I say. “They’re… letters. Sort of. I didn’t send them.”
Her eyes widen.
“I don’t want to explain them,” I add. “I want you to read them.”
She hesitates. “Now.”
“Yes.”
“And then.”
“And then I’ll be in the shed.”
She studies my face.
“…okay.”
I leave before I can change my mind.
I sit on a stool in my shed and wait. Every minute stretches.
I rehearse speeches I may or may not use.
I convince myself this was stupid. That there’s no way my letters will make any difference to her.
Then the door creaks open.
I stand.
Erica’s eyes are bright.
She doesn’t speak.
She crosses the space between us in three strides and throws her arms around my neck.
I freeze.
Then hold her like I’ve been waiting for permission my entire life.
“I fell for you too,” she says into my collar.
My chest caves in.
“You—”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. “You wrote to me every day while you were gone.”
“I didn’t send them.”
“I know. But you still wrote them.” Her voice softens. “You loved me without expecting anything back.”
I swallow. “That wasn’t the plan.”
“I think it was.”
I kiss her.
Harder than before.
Relief and hope and months of holding back crash together.
When we break apart, she smiles at me in that way that makes my knees feel like a rumor.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I might have to worry about you stealing my job.”
I blink. “What?”
“You’re pretty good at the romantic writing thing.”
I huff a laugh. “I had a lot of practice not sending it.”
She hooks a finger in my collar and tugs me closer.
“Still.”
I brush my nose against hers. “I’m only as good as my muse.”
Her cheeks pink.
“Flatterer.”
“Truth teller.”
She kisses me again.
And for the first time since she walked into my life, I don’t feel like I’m standing in the doorway of something waiting to be asked inside.
I feel like I belong here.
With her.