32. Jude
Jude
One Month Later
The ratchet slips from my fingers and clatters onto the concrete floor just as footsteps enter the equipment shed.
I slide out from under the tractor, wiping grease across my forehead with the back of my arm.
Dazzling sunlight streams through the open doors, making me squint at the figure standing there.
He’s tall and muscular, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a thick, gray-streaked beard.
No hint of blond anywhere. No slender physique.
No sparkling blue eyes. A familiar wave of longing settles on my shoulders as Roman strides toward me.
Without a word, he tosses something. I barely catch it. My phone.
“The thing has been ringing off the hook,” he grumbles.
His disgruntled expression becomes an afterthought. Hope surges through me so fast it nearly steals my breath.
Taylor.
It has to be Taylor.
Heart skipping a beat, I swipe my finger across the screen. Roman snorts. “Wipe that look off your face. It’s not him.”
I unlock the phone anyway. My shoulders sag. Sure enough, the missed calls aren’t from Taylor. A text message from the same number arrives before I can even process the disappointment.
Marlette James: Just a reminder about our session this afternoon. Please confirm.
I stare at it for a moment. Six weeks ago, if someone had told me I’d be going back to therapy, I’d laugh in their face.
But now, I’m sitting on Mrs. James’ couch once a week, unpacking years of unresolved trauma.
It hasn’t magically fixed anything. It certainly hasn’t stopped me from aching for Taylor whenever I breathe.
But it’s a step in the right direction.
I set the device beside me on the concrete floor, disappointment resting heavy in my chest. Forty-four days. Yes, I’ve been counting. Not a single answered call or text—nothing. It’s as if Taylor vanished the second his plane touched down in San Francisco.
Roman leans against a workbench, arms folded across his chest. “You should get it through your thick skull,” he murmurs.
I already know where this is going. “Don’t fucking say it—“
“Taylor’s not coming back.” His expression hardens even more. “I don’t know what led you to believe he’d give up all that luxury for a place like this.”
“Okay, so maybe he won’t come back.” Although I can’t bear the thought of never seeing him again. “But why the hell won’t he answer the goddamn phone?”
“I’m thinking he doesn’t want a reminder of what happened. You saw the shit those assholes posted online.”
Which is exactly why I’ve been losing my mind.
Roman couldn’t bear to go down that rabbit hole, but I did.
I read every article and scanned every social media post, which left me wanting to burn every fucking house down.
More than anything, I wanted to comfort him. I still want to be his safe space.
I stare down at my greasy hands. Based on the amount of grime, one would assume I’ve been working my ass off the entire time. The truth is, I haven’t repaired a damn thing in nearly an hour. I want to hear his voice, just to know he’s safe and sound.
Hell, I’d settle for a text message—a single sentence.
I’m okay.
Leave me alone.
Anything. Just something to prove he’s still out there.
“I’ve been thinking about booking a flight to San Francisco.”
Roman’s expression turns to midnight. “Okay, now I’m certain you’ve lost your mind. You know we can’t go back there.”
I scoff. “He didn’t see our faces, Roman. If Wilson had any proof, we’d be arrested by now.”
“Well, I don’t want to take that chance, and you shouldn’t either. Give it a rest,” he says in a tone that makes it clear he’d give me a hard time if I tried to go.
I pick up the ratchet and turn it over in my hands. “If he’s in trouble...”
“If he wanted to reach out, he would’ve.”
The words hang in the air. I hate how much sense they make. Taylor knows where we are, and he has our contact information in his phone. He knows we would answer. The silence isn’t an accident, and that’s what hurts most.
Roman pushes away from the workbench. For a moment, neither of us says anything.
The shed falls quiet except for the distant sound of wind rattling against the metal siding.
He then turns toward the door, and I figure the conversation is over.
But just before he steps outside, he pauses and glances over his shoulder.
The hard expression he usually wears softens.
Just a little.
“For the record, I miss him too,” he mutters.
The door swings shut when he walks out.
I stare at the phone lying beside me on the concrete. I tell myself I should get back to work. There’s no use hoping every time my phone buzzes. I’d be a fool to keep waiting when he’d never asked me to.
Still, I pick up the phone one more time and check the screen.
Just in case.
Nothing.
My chest aches.
But I can’t quite bring myself to let go of that last thread of hope.