Chapter 9 #2
The female trucker comes out of the store, coffee in hand, and takes one look at the situation. She catches my eye, raising an eyebrow in question.
I could run to her and weaponize our bond of womanhood—lie and say Caleb and Dad are abusive and I’m running away from them.
I could get in that truck and probably be gone before they could stop me.
I mean, they could always follow or call the cops.
The Silas I used to know would never involve the police, but this new Silas?
My feet don’t move.
“Harper’s not going anywhere,” Silas says to the woman, reading the situation instantly. “She’s seventeen and is coming home with us.”
“That true?” the woman asks me directly. “You underage?”
The honest answer—yes—sticks in my throat. Because admitting it means admitting I’m trapped. Admitting that no matter how fast I run, I can’t outrun the fact that I’m still just a kid with no money and no options and no way out.
“Yeah,” I finally say, the word scraping out like broken glass. “It’s true.”
The woman nods, and I can see the sympathy in her eyes. She knows exactly what this is—a runaway getting caught. Story as old as time. “Good luck, kid.”
She climbs into her rig and fires up the engine, and I watch my escape route disappear into the night with red taillights that look like eyes watching me.
“Car. Now.” Silas’s voice leaves no room for argument.
“Fuck you.” But the fight’s already draining out of me, exhaustion settling into my bones like concrete. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. I was just—”
“Just what? Just planning to hitchhike back to East Texas in the middle of the night?” His voice cracks slightly. “You have any idea what could’ve happened to you? That asshole who was following you around—”
“I had it handled—”
“You had shit handled, Harper!”
And there it is—the yelling I was waiting for.
“You think you’re invincible? You’re seventeen years old, and you were about to get in a truck with a complete stranger—”
“I do it all the time!” The words explode out of me before I can stop them. “You think this is the first time I’ve had to figure shit out on my own? Where the fuck were you when I was learning how to survive, huh? When I was twelve and thirteen and fourteen and—”
“I know.” His voice drops, and the sudden quiet is worse than the yelling. “I know I wasn’t there. I can’t change that. But I’m here now, and I’m not letting you throw your life away because you’re scared.”
“I have to go back to help a friend. I’m not scared—”
“Yes, you are.” Caleb’s voice cuts through, soft but certain. “You’re terrified.”
I turn on him, ready to unleash, but the look on his face stops me cold. He’s not angry. He’s not disappointed. He just looks... sad. Worried.
Like I matter.
Fuck.
“I just...” I swallow hard, hating the burn in my eyes that means tears are coming. “Dammit, I bet Marie’s worried. I told her I’d text when I got home.”
“You are home,” Silas says quietly. “And you’re coming with us.”
I want to fight. Want to scream and rage and make this as hard as possible. But I’m so fucking tired. Tired of running, tired of fighting, tired of being the girl who can’t hold it together.
So I follow them to Silas’s truck and climb into the backseat without another word.
The first few miles pass in silence. I pull out my phone.
HARPER: Home safe
MARIE: Are you okay???
I bite my bottom lip, feeling shitty about using sweet, na?ve Marie to help me try to get away with sneaking off.
HARPER: Yeah, got lost. Srry to worry u and ur mom
Silas drives with both hands on the wheel, jaw tight. I stare out the window at the darkness rushing past, at all the lights of places I’ll never go, lives I’ll never live.
And then I feel it.
Caleb’s hand, reaching back from the front seat. Not grabbing, not demanding. Just... there. Palm up, open, offering.
His fingers are still trembling slightly. I can see his thumb tapping against his palm—one, two, three—like he’s counting something invisible.
I stare at it for a long moment. At his long fingers and the calluses on his palm and the way he’s not looking at me, just keeping his hand extended like he’s got all the time in the world.
Even now, even stressed and tired and probably pissed at me, he’s still reaching for me.
Something in my chest cracks.
Before I can stop myself, I reach forward and take it.
His fingers close around mine, warm and solid and real. Not possessive, just... present. Like he’s saying, I’m here without words. Like he’s promising, You’re not alone, even though I don’t deserve it, even though I just tried to run away from everything he and Helen are trying to give me.
For three heartbeats—maybe four—I let myself have it. Let myself accept the comfort, the warmth, the impossible idea that someone might actually want me to stay.
Then Z’s face flashes in my mind. Z, alone in that shitty trailer with Frank and no one looking out for him. Z, who asked me to marry him so we could save each other. Z, who’s never left me, never given up on me, never looked at me like I was anything other than exactly who I’m supposed to be.
I yank my hand back like Caleb’s touch burns.
Will I always feel torn in two like this?
“Don’t,” I whisper, and I don’t know if I’m talking to him or myself.
Caleb’s hand hovers for a second before he slowly pulls it back to his side.
The rest of the drive home—home, what a fucking joke—passes in silence.
And I spend every mile hating myself for two completely opposite reasons:
For not succeeding in my escape.
And for being so goddamned relieved that I got caught.