Chapter 8
EIGHT
GINA
I tell myself I’m happy for him.
And I am. I really am.
But happiness and fear are not mutually exclusive, and by the time I get back to the lodge that afternoon, my chest feels tight enough that I have to pause in the parking lot and breathe before going inside.
Summer has arrived in full force. The lodge is loud with life—kids running down the hall, someone arguing cheerfully over a reservation mix-up, the low hum of expectation that comes with the season finally turning in our favor.
This is what I wanted.
What I worked for.
What I came back here to save.
So why does it suddenly feel like I’m standing on unstable ground?
I spend the afternoon doing what I always do when my thoughts start getting dangerous. I stay busy. I check bookings. I talk to guests. I rearrange storage shelves that don’t need rearranging.
I do not think about Dane’s face when he told me about his contract.
I do not think about the way relief and pride lit him up before something more complicated settled in behind his eyes.
I especially do not think about what one more year actually means.
Because one more year is not nothing.
One more year is flights and schedules and distance.
One more year is Scottie asking questions I don’t have answers for.
One more year is me standing here, holding everything together, while he lives in two worlds again.
By the time Scottie gets home from school, I’ve convinced myself that this is manageable. That we can be adults. That whatever this is between Dane and me can exist without becoming something that breaks us.
Then Scottie says, “We’re happy for Coach Dane, right?”
“What makes you ask that?” I ask carefully.
“He said his team wants him back next year,” she says, dropping her backpack and reaching for a snack. “That’s good, right?”
“It is,” I say. “Very good.”
She nods, satisfied. “Maybe he can come to my tournament this fall.”
My throat tightens.
“Maybe,” I say, hating how small it sounds. “But he might be pretty busy with his team.”
The disappointment on her face punches me in the gut.
That night, I cancel on Dane.
Not outright. Not dramatically. I text him something vague about being tired. About an early morning. About another time.
He responds immediately.
Of course. Rest up.
No pressure. No guilt.
Which somehow makes it worse.
I avoid him for two days.
Not completely. That would be impossible in a town this small. But I keep my distance. I don’t linger after practice. I leave early. I send Scottie ahead with friends.
I tell myself I’m being careful.
I tell myself I’m protecting my daughter.
I tell myself this is the mature thing to do.
By the third day, Dane stops letting me get away with it.
He finds me at the rink after practice, just as I’m stuffing water bottles into Scottie’s bag.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
The word comes out too fast.
He studies my face. “You’ve been busy.”
“What can I say? It’s summer. Tourist season,” I say. “It’s like this every year.”
He nods slowly, clearly not buying it. “Did I do something wrong?”
The question catches me off guard.
“No,” I say. “This isn’t about you.”
He waits.
That’s always been his problem. He waits. He lets silence do the work.
“I just, need to keep things simple,” I add.
His brow furrows. “We weren’t simple?”
I wince. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then help me out,” he says quietly.
Scottie is already halfway across the rink, laughing with her friends. The moment stretches, taut and unavoidable.
“Come walk with me,” I say.
We step outside, the late afternoon sun still high, the air warm enough that the chill from the rink feels sharp by contrast. We stop near the benches out front, the same ones where we used to sit years ago, dreaming about lives we didn’t understand yet.
“At first, I thought this was something that would be temporary,” I say finally. “But I don’t want that.”
Dane’s jaw tightens. “Neither do I.”
“You say that,” I continue, “but your life is still somewhere else.”
“For now,” he says.
“And my life is here,” I say. “It has to be.”
He nods. “I know.”
“And I can’t ask Scottie to get attached to someone who is going to disappear again.”
The word hangs between us.
Disappear.
“I didn’t disappear,” he says carefully.
“You left,” I reply, my voice steady even though my chest aches. “And I don’t blame you for that. It was the smart thing to do. The best thing for you to do. But the result was the same.”
He exhales slowly. “I’m not planning to leave like that again.”
“You say that now. But what happens when you get back to your real life?”
The question lands harder than I expect.
He looks away, running a hand through his hair. “So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t want a vacation romance,” I say. “I don’t want something that feels good for a few weeks and then hurts for years.”
His eyes snap back to mine. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” I ask softly.
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
That hesitation is everything.
“I care about you,” he says finally. “About Scottie. About this place.”
“But you’re not choosing it,” I say.
“It’s my job,” he says, frustration creeping into his voice. “That doesn’t mean I’m choosing it over you. I never said I was choosing it over you.”
“You didn’t have to,” I reply. “I know how this goes.”
He steps closer. “You’re deciding this without me.”
“I’m deciding it for us,” I say. “Before it gets harder.”
“Harder than what?” he asks. “Than walking away now?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Silence settles between us, heavy and unresolved.
“I thought what we had mattered,” he says.
“It does,” I say immediately. “That’s the problem.”
His hurt is quiet, controlled. That almost breaks me more than anger would.
“I don’t want to be another chapter in your story,” I say. “I want to be the whole book. And if you can’t promise that—even eventually—I need to protect myself.”
He studies me for a long moment.
“I didn’t realize you thought so little of me,” he says quietly.
The words hit like a slap.
“That’s not fair,” I say, my voice cracking for the first time. “This isn’t about trust. It’s about reality.”
“Reality can change,” he says.
“That’s not a risk I can take with a child.”
That stops him.
“I won’t ask you to choose,” I say, wiping at my eyes before he can see tears fall. “But I won’t put my heart—or Scottie’s—in a position where we’re waiting on a man whose future isn’t here. We’ve survived that once before. I won’t put us through that again.”
I step back before he can reach for me.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am.”
He nods once, jaw tight. “So am I.”
We stand there for another beat, the summer air buzzing around us, life continuing like nothing has just fractured.
When I finally turn away, my chest feels hollow.
I know I’ve done the right thing.
I also know that right doesn’t always mean painless.
As I walk back inside—back to the life I chose—I can’t shake the fear that I’ve just let go of something that would have been worth the risk.