Chapter 14 #2
But she couldn't. Her fingers refused to crumple the paper, to destroy something she'd created with so much careful attention. She tucked it into her bag instead.
"Need boxes?"
The voice made her jump. Tarmek stood in the hallway, face carefully neutral, a stack of cardboard boxes in his arms.
"Where did you—"
"Storage closet. I keep some for... situations."
Situations. Like the departure of temporary houseguests. Like the systematic removal of someone who'd overstayed her welcome.
"Thanks."
He set the boxes down just inside the door and stepped back, maintaining the careful distance he'd kept since she'd started pulling away. Since everything had gotten too real and too complicated and too terrifying.
"Let me know if you need help."
"I can manage."
"I know you can."
The words hung between them, heavy with subtext. I know you can manage. I know you've been managing alone for years. I just wish you'd let me help.
But she couldn't let him help. Couldn't let him make this easier. Easier meant harder to leave, and leaving was already going to be impossible.
"Really. I've got it."
He nodded once, expression still neutral, and retreated down the hallway. She heard him in the kitchen a moment later—coffee maker gurgling, cabinets opening and closing with that precise efficiency.
Morning routine. Even now, even with everything falling apart, he maintained his routine.
That's why you don't fit, the vicious voice in her head whispered. He needs order. You are chaos. You'll only break him if you stay.
She focused on packing.
The boxes filled faster than she expected—or maybe she was working faster, desperate to get this over with. Paint supplies went into one. Clothes into another. Art supplies, books borrowed from Sam, the accumulated evidence of months spent pretending she belonged here.
Each item was a small goodbye.
By the time she'd emptied the guest room, the sun had fully risen, casting warm light through windows that had felt like home. Edie stood in the middle of the stripped space and tried to feel something other than grief.
It's just a room. Four walls and a ceiling. Nothing special.
But it was special. It was the first room she'd stayed in longer than a few weeks in years. The first room that had felt safe enough to really unpack in, to spread her chaos across, to treat like more than a temporary waystation.
Temporary, the mantra whispered. This was always temporary.
She picked up the first box and carried it to the living room.
Tarmek was waiting.
"I can help load the truck."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
They stared at each other across the carefully organized space, and Edie saw everything he wasn't saying written in the rigid line of his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands hung at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for her.
"Okay."
The word cost her more than it should have.
They worked in silence, moving boxes from the condo to his truck to the camper parked behind the arena. The routine was mechanical—lift, carry, set down, repeat. No conversation. No eye contact that lasted longer than a second.
The silence was suffocating.
Say something, Edie told herself. Tell him you're sorry. Tell him you wish things were different. Tell him the truth.
But the truth was too big, too messy, too likely to make her stay when she needed to go. So she kept quiet and kept moving and tried not to notice how his hands shook slightly when he set down the box containing her painting supplies.
"That's the last one."
His voice was rough. Wrong. Like the words had to fight their way past something lodged in his throat.
"Yeah."
She stood at the door of her camper—her camper, her mobile home, the metal box she'd been living in for years—and looked at the space that should have felt familiar.
The narrow bed with its colorful quilts.
The tiny kitchen where she'd burned more meals than she'd successfully cooked.
The walls covered in postcards and photos and memories from all the places she'd passed through.
It felt like a coffin.
Stop being dramatic.
"Do you need anything else?"
Tarmek stood at the bottom of the camper steps, too big for this space, too important for this moment. He'd helped her move out of his home without a single complaint, without a single attempt to change her mind, without anything but that grim silence that told her how much this was costing him.
I need you, she thought. I need you to tell me I'm making a mistake. I need you to fight for this.
But he wouldn't. He'd promised her space. Promised he'd support whatever she decided. Promised he'd let her go if that's what she wanted.
Stupid, honorable, wonderful male.
"I'm good."
"The heater—"
"I know. You fixed it." She couldn't keep the catch out of her voice. "Weeks ago."
His jaw tightened. "I should have told you."
"Why didn't you?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it, and the look on his face nearly broke her.
"You know why."
Because you wanted me to stay. Because telling me the camper was fixed meant giving me the option to leave. Because you were hoping that if I stayed long enough, I'd choose to stay forever.
"Tarmek—"
"It's fine." The words came out flat. Controlled. Exactly the opposite of what she knew he was feeling. "You need space. I understand."
"Do you?"
"I'm trying to."
She wanted to scream at him. Wanted to shake him until he stopped being so goddamn understanding and actually fought for what they had. Wanted him to give her an excuse to stay—an ultimatum, a plea, anything other than this quiet acceptance that felt like surrender.
But asking him to fight wasn't fair when she was the one who couldn't commit. Wasn't fair when she was the one building walls and preparing exits and treating their relationship like something that was already over.
"I'm not..." She stopped, started again. "This isn't me leaving. Not yet. The mural's not finished."
"I know."
"I just need... I need to think. Without you right there. Without your coffee and your stupid organized cabinets and your..." Love. Your love that I don't deserve. "Your everything."
Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or hope.
"How long?"
"I don't know."
"Okay."
He stepped back, putting more distance between them. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the only visible sign of the control he was exerting.
"If you need anything—"
"I know where to find you."
"I'll leave you alone. Let you think. Whatever you need."
I need you to stop being so fucking perfect, she thought viciously. I need you to give me a reason to run.
But he wouldn't. He'd stand there and support her even as she walked away. He'd be patient and kind and understanding even as she destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to her.
"Tarmek."
"Yeah?"
I love you.
The words lodged in her throat, too big to escape, too terrifying to release.
"Thank you. For everything."
His expression shuttered.
"Sure."
He turned and walked away, that controlled stride carrying him across the parking lot towards the arena entrance. She watched until he disappeared through the doors, until she was alone with her packed boxes and her supposedly reclaimed independence.
The camper felt smaller than she remembered. Colder. Emptier.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, pressing her palms to her eyes until colors bloomed behind her lids.
This is what I wanted, she told herself. Freedom. Space. The option to leave without obligation.
She'd been chasing this feeling for years. The lightness of impermanence. The safety of superficial connections. The protection that came from never staying long enough to get hurt.
But none of those things felt light anymore.
They felt heavy. They felt like loss.
She unpacked mechanically, finding homes for things that no longer seemed to fit. Her clothes went in the narrow closet, her art supplies on the tiny shelf, her toiletries in the cramped bathroom. Everything exactly where it used to be, everything in its proper place.
It should have felt familiar.
It felt wrong.
She kept reaching for things that weren't there.
The coffee mug he'd bought her, the one with the ridiculous sloth print that made her laugh every morning.
The extra blanket she'd "borrowed" from the guest room closet and never returned.
The pillow that smelled like his shampoo—cedar and something darker, something uniquely him.
Temporary, the mantra insisted. It was only temporary.
But her hands shook as she hung up her scarves, and her throat ached as she tucked away her sketches, and when she finally sat down on her narrow bed—the bed she'd slept in for years, the bed that should have felt like home—all she could think about was the way Tarmek's arms had felt around her.
Safe.
Steady.
Gone.
Outside, the winter wind howled against the camper walls. The new heater hummed efficiently, keeping the space warm in a way it never had before.
Evidence of his care. Even now. Even when she was pushing him away.
She curled up on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, and finally—finally—let herself cry.
The tears came hot and fast, years of suppressed emotion breaking free in wrenching sobs that shook her whole body. She cried for the home she was giving up. For the future she was too scared to want. For the male who loved her enough to let her go.
This is what freedom feels like, she thought bitterly. Isn't it wonderful?
It wasn't.
It was awful.
But it was safe.
And safe was all she'd ever known how to choose.
The mural was nearly finished.
Edie stood in front of it the next morning, coffee in hand—coffee she'd made herself, in her own tiny kitchen, from grounds that didn't taste right no matter how carefully she measured them.