Chapter 11
The latch clicks behind us with a sound so small and final it lands right in my chest, like a pebble dropped down a well.
For a second, the only sound in the hallway is our breathing, fast and uneven and tangled together, and Jordan’s hands are still at my waist, solid and warm through the thin cotton of my shirt.
The momentum of the kiss carries us a few steps in, boots scuffing against the hardwood, and then I see it.
The row of coat hooks along the wall—Drew’s hooks, hammered in the first weekend we moved in, his hands guiding mine around the level.
The farmhouse table we hauled home from a Montpelier yard sale in his dad’s pickup, the one with the knot in the pine that looks like a thumbprint.
The framed print above the mantel of a vintage hardware store sign he found at a flea market in Rutland.
My hands, which were gripping the front of Jordan’s flannel with enough force to wrinkle the fabric, go still. Not pulling away, just... stopping. My forehead drops to Jordan’s shoulder. Their shirt smells like cedar and night air and that particular Jordan-scent I’ve memorized without meaning to.
“Give me a second,” I say, quiet, into their shoulder. “Just a second to breathe.”
Jordan’s body tenses, then releases. Their hands drop from my waist like I’ve burned them, stepping back so fast they bump into the entryway table. The lamp wobbles, and they catch it, but don’t look at me, and the apology starts before I can blink.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…I read that wrong, I shouldn’t have pushed, I—”
“Stop.” I cut them off, voice sharper than I mean it to be, and take a breath. “That’s not what this is.”
They go quiet. Jordan stands in the hallway, arms at their sides, jaw tight, watching me with eyes that are doing that thing, the thing where they’re trying to read whatever is hiding behind my eyes, and coming up short.
The porch light spills through the sidelight window, catching the edge of their cheekbone, the sharp line of their jaw.
I cross my arms over my chest. Not defensive, just holding myself together, because if I don’t, I’m going to come apart at the seams, and I’ve spent too many years keeping my seams stitched to let that happen now.
“The problem,” I say, and my voice sounds strange in my own ears, stripped down and tired and more honest than I’ve been in months, “was never that I didn’t want you.”
Jordan’s eyes flick to mine, then away, then back. They don’t speak.
“The problem was that I wanted you enough to start imagining a future.” The words hang in the air between us, heavy and plain. “And imagining a future means admitting Drew isn’t coming back.”
I say it. I say the thing I haven’t said out loud in three years, not like this, not standing in the living room of the house he grew up in, with the person who loved him too, and the silence that follows is thick enough to touch.
“That’s the first fear,” I say. “The second one is worse. Loving someone means handing them the power to leave. And I’ve had enough of people leaving to last me a lifetime.”
Jordan’s hand finds the back of the couch, braces there. Their knuckles go white from their grip, but they don’t interrupt.
“I don’t want to stay in Sleighbell Springs because someone made a good enough case for it,” I tell them.
“I’ve spent three years letting this town happen to me.
Letting the store happen to me. Letting grief happen to me.
I don’t want that anymore. I want to stay because I decide to.
Not because of you, not because of Drew, not because Melvin grumbles at me every Tuesday.
Because I looked around and said, yes, this is mine. ”
The words come out in a rush, a little breathless, and when they’re gone, the room feels different. Lighter, somehow, even though my chest aches.
Jordan stands perfectly still for a beat, then two. Their mouth works, like they’re testing words before letting them out. “I don’t want to be the reason you stay either,” they say. Their voice is quiet, deliberate. “I want to be part of whatever you build after you decide.”
The distinction settles between us. Not small. Not small at all.
We stand there in the quiet. Jordan’s hand is still on the couch, their shoulders squared, their gaze steady on mine.
I take a breath. “Do you understand what you gave up? Turning down Burlington?”
The question lands, and I watch Jordan’s jaw tighten.
“I do,” they say. “The money scares me. I’m not going to pretend it doesn’t. Two weeks’ work, good pay, the kind of job that covers rent and then some. Yeah, it scares me.”
They shift their weight, lean into the couch.
“But Burlington was an old pattern. Take whatever work appears. Leave when necessary. Never build toward anything. I’ve been doing that for years, Maddie.
Running this town like it’s mine, fixing chimneys and patching roofs, showing up for every damn thing, and then disappearing the minute something good comes along somewhere else.
” They run a hand through their hair, messing it further.
“Turning down Burlington wasn’t just about you.
That fight forced me to see something I’ve been avoiding.
I’ve been treating this place as temporary while telling everyone how much I love it.
That’s not fair. Not to you, not to the town, not to me. ”
The honesty of it hits me square in the chest. I uncross my arms, letting my hands fall to my sides.
“What happens when another job comes along?” I ask. The question I’ve been carrying, the one that wakes me up at 4 a.m. every night since all this started.
Jordan doesn’t flinch. “I can’t promise I’ll never leave town again,” they say.
“I’m too honest for that, and you’d see right through it anyway.
But I can promise this, that no decision that affects what we’re building gets made alone anymore.
Not by me, not by you. We talk. We figure it out.
” They pause, eyes on mine. “Permanent doesn’t mean I never leave town.
It means I come back because my life is here. ”
My throat moves as I swallow hard, and something in my chest cracks open, warm and terrifying.
I step forward, closing the gap between us, and kiss them. It’s brief and deliberate; I keep it that way on purpose, because if I let it go any longer, I’ll lose my nerve for what comes next.
“I need one day,” I say against their mouth. “Just one. Before anything else.”
Jordan nods. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for more. Their hand finds my cheek, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, and then they’re moving toward the door.
“One day,” they say. “I’ll be here.”
They slip out, the screen door swinging shut behind them with its familiar creak. I stand at the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass, and watch Jordan walk down the street.
The porch light catches the sandy bun, the broad set of their shoulders, the easy, unhurried stride that says they belong on these sidewalks. They don’t look back. They don’t need to.
I watch until the dark takes them, until all I can see is the warm glow of streetlamps and the outline of trees against the night sky, and the house around me feels both emptier and fuller than it did ten minutes ago.
One day.
I can work with that.
I wake up before the alarm, which is unusual for someone who treats the snooze button like a life partner.
The bedroom is washed in early light, the lavender walls still strange and new and mine, and for a long minute I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of yesterday settle into something I can carry.
One day.
I get dressed without overthinking it in one of my favorite vintage dresses, the one with the cherries on it, and slip on my good sneakers because today feels like a day for good sneakers.
I don’t check my phone. I don’t make coffee.
I just walk out the door and into a Sleighbell Springs morning that smells like cut grass and distant rain.
This is not a stroll. Let’s be clear about that.
A stroll implies leisure, meandering, the kind of aimless wandering you do when you have nowhere to be.
This is something else. My pace is steady, my eyes are open, and every step feels deliberate in a way I can’t fully explain, like I’m walking a boundary I’ve been skirting for years.
First stop: The Brew House. The bell above the door jingles, and the smell of espresso, cinnamon, the particular warmth of a place that’s been awake since five hits me.
Noelle is behind the counter, sleeves rolled, already in the thick of the morning rush.
She sees me, raises an eyebrow that says both “hello” and “where have you been,” and I just smile and order my usual.
While she pulls the shot, I drift to the back wall and the shelves I made for her.
I run my hand along the edge, feeling the grain under my palm.
Walnut, warm and smooth, sanded to a finish that catches the light.
I did this. One Saturday, sandpaper and stain brush, refusing help, refusing payment, because the shelves deserved better, and I needed something to do with my hands that wasn’t crying or staring at walls.
I hadn’t thought about it since. It was just a thing I did on a bad day.
Now I look at it, really look. The way the stain deepened in the knots, the clean lines of the joinery, the fact that it doesn’t match the rest of the shop but somehow makes everything else look right.
A man in a baseball cap nods to me as he reaches for a stirrer.
A woman by the window lifts her mug in a casual half-salute.
I am part of the morning here. I have been for a while.
I take my coffee and go.