Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Sawyer
I’M IN THE bathtub when I see it.
A blur of movement, quick and dark, just at the edge of my vision. I bolt upright, heart hammering, water sloshing. Grabbing a towel, I scramble out of the tub, dripping, breath shallow, skin cold. I stand on the toilet lid, scanning the corners of the bathroom, willing it to be my imagination.
But it’s not.
There’s movement near the base of the wooden shelf where I keep the towels. I take a cautious step down, praying I’m far enough away that it won’t bolt.
I grab my phone, turn on the flashlight, and shine it at the bottom of the shelf.
There it is. Coiled. Still. And, for now, silent.
My worst fear. A snake.
I leap across the room, fling the door shut behind me, and jam the towel underneath the crack at the bottom to keep it from escaping. My hands are shaking. My skin prickles with panic.
How did it get in?
Could there be more?
A family?
I try to breathe. Try not to hyperventilate.
But I know one thing with certainty: I can’t handle this alone.
Still wrapped in a towel, I change clothes quickly and sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, searching.
Snake removal. Local wildlife control. Anything.
I find a service in Roanoke. Leave a message. Then another in Lynchburg. Same result. No answer. No help.
Frustrated, I toss my phone beside me on the bed and lie back, trying to hold still, trying not to think of what’s behind that door.
But of course, I do.
And that’s when Jake’s name floats up.
I hesitate.
A hundred reasons why not to call him race through my mind.
But desperation has a way of dulling pride.
I search his name in the local listings. Nothing. I remember the name of the farm he bought, and I know the road. I know the house. I know the strawberry field.
I’ve known it my whole life.
I throw on sandals, grab my phone and keys, and head out the door.
The drive is short. Familiar. The road lined with memories. New houses dot the area now, but the old landmarks are still there. Still standing.
The turnoff to Jake’s comes sooner than I expect. I brake hard, tires squealing a little on the gravel. I wince, hoping no one saw that.
The strawberry field comes into view first, lush, green, vibrant with impending fruit. A pang hits me. I remember walking these rows with my mother, her hands full of strawberries meant for pies and jam.
The house appears next. It’s beautiful. Cared for. Alive.
Unlike mine.
A yellow Lab barks and trots toward the Jeep, tail wagging. I sit still for a moment, then step out. The gravel crunches beneath my feet.
Jake appears in the doorway, clearly surprised. His expression shifts quickly to something neutral. I fumble for words.
“I’m sorry for dropping by like this,” I say, feeling incredibly awkward.
“Hattie,” he says, and the dog stops barking at once. Her tail still wags, and she ambles over, sniffing my knee. I rub beneath her chin, and she presses against me, all trust and softness.
It’s disarming.
So is he.
“Is everything okay?” Jake asks, closing the distance between us.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I tried finding a number for you, but… I didn’t know who else to call. I tried some wildlife services, but no one answered.”
He steps closer, brows furrowed. “What happened?”
I hesitate, then blurt it out. “There’s a snake. In my bathroom.”
Jake’s face shifts. For a moment, I think he might laugh. Then a smile breaks across his face, and despite myself, I smile too.
“You want help getting it out?”
“Would you? Please? I’ve managed to handle a lot of things in life, but snakes are not one of them.”
“No problem,” he says easily. “I’ll follow you over.”
“You don’t mind? I feel awful asking you.”
“I don’t mind at all. Come on, Hattie.” He whistles, and she trots after him to a dusty Ford truck with Farm Use plates. “We’ll see you there.”
*
I DRIVE BACK to the house, Jake’s truck following close behind. In my rearview mirror, I watch Hattie with her head out the window, ears flapping. Like a second passenger.
There’s something about Jake’s ease that undoes me a little. I’d forgotten this about him—his ability to lessen awkwardness, to dissolve embarrassment with kindness. There are people who pounce on vulnerability, who use it as leverage. Jake never did. He never made me feel small.
We arrive within minutes. I park. He pulls in beside me. Hattie jumps out, tail wagging.
Jake opens the tailgate and pulls out a long silver tool.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Snake tongs. One of humanity’s finest inventions.”
“Where’d you get those?”
“Hardware store. Had a mama rat snake in my potting shed once. Didn’t want to kill her, but I sure didn’t want her staying. And no, it won’t hurt the snake.”
“Good to know.”
“Mind if Hattie comes in?”
“Of course not.”
We enter the house, head upstairs. Hattie brushes against my hip, tail wagging like it’s just another Tuesday adventure. Her confidence somehow steadies me.
“I’ll put her in a bedroom while I deal with the guest,” Jake says.
He opens my bedroom door and gently shuts her inside. Her one-bark protest is short-lived.
Jake looks at me, all business now. “Where exactly is it?”
“Bathroom at the end of the hall. Under the towel shelves.”
“Do you think there’s any way it got out?”
“No. I blocked the door with a towel. Nothing else was open.”
He nods. “Okay. You stay back.”
I do.
He cracks the door, peers in. Then opens it wider and steps inside, kneeling to look under the shelves.
And that’s when it happens.
A black streak darts from the bathroom. Right at me.
I scream. Loud. Embarrassingly loud.
Jake bolts from the bathroom, grabs the snake mid-slither with the tongs, lifting it high into the air.
It’s huge. At least six feet long.
I collapse against the railing, heart pounding, chest tight, legs weak.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I cannot believe you just did that.”
He grins. “Practice.”
“Where are we putting it?”
He shrugs. “Outside.”
“She won’t come back, will she?”
“Probably not. We’ll check for entry points. But she might’ve slipped in through an open door or crack somewhere.”
We walk down the stairs, Jake holding the snake out in front of him, its long body hanging limply.
“She’s fine,” he says, reading my concern. “The tongs won’t hurt her.”
We cross the yard to the woods. Jake lowers her gently to the ground. She doesn’t hesitate, just races off into the leaves.
I exhale, finally, shoulders dropping.
“How do I even begin to thank you?”
“You don’t have to,” he says. “I get it. Lots of people are afraid of snakes. That one was harmless. A black rat snake. But still. I wouldn’t want to wake up with it next to me either.”
“Please don’t say that,” I say, laughing despite myself. “Now I’m going to have nightmares.”
“You can buy repellent, stuff that smells like peppermint oil. Supposed to keep them away.”
“Where do I get it?”
“Hardware store. Or online. I can send you the link.”
“Thank you. Really. Thank you, Jake.”
We walk back to the house. The sun is lowering over the lake, sky softening into gold.
“You settling in okay?” he asks.
“I’ve been making lists,” I say. “I’m getting the house ready to sell.”
He pauses. “Oh. Have you found a realtor?”
“No. Not yet.”
“I know someone. I can send you his number.”
“Thanks,” I say, hearing the note in his voice—surprise, maybe. Disappointment, too.
He watches me for a beat, then asks quietly, “Did you ever come back? After…”
I shake my head. “No. Not since—”
“Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t think so.”
We stand there, silence settling between us, full of what we’re not saying.
“I’ve thought about you,” he says. “Your family. I wanted to reach out, but…”
“I know,” I say, cutting him off gently. “Me too. It just seemed easier to leave it alone.”
“Right.”
But standing here now, I’m not sure that was true. Maybe we should have said more. Done more. Maybe the pain didn’t have to live this long without air.
“Would you like something to drink?” I ask.
“I’m good,” Jake says. He starts to turn, then stops. “Actually… I was thinking of grilling tonight. Would you want to come over?”
The invitation catches me off guard.
And for a second, just a second, something inside me lifts. The boulder shifts.
But then I remember why I’m here. What I’ve decided.
I can’t let Jake back in. Not now. Not when I have nothing to offer. Not when I’ve already decided to walk away.
“Thank you,” I say gently. “But I need to make some calls. Get things moving with the sale.”
He nods, too quickly. “Of course. I get it.”
“I’m sorry,” I add. “It’s not you. I just—”
“Tangled past and all that,” he says, forcing a smile.
“Sort of,” I say in a low voice.
He nods again. “Come on, Hattie.”
We walk back to the house together. Hattie bounds down the stairs, thrilled to see me. I scratch behind her ears.
“I remember you always wanted a dog,” I say.
“She’s a gem,” he replies. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.”
“She obviously adores you.”
“It’s mutual.”
He heads for the door, then pauses. “Okay then.”
He turns, hand on the knob. Then, just as quickly, he changes his mind.
“I’ll send you that link,” he says.
“Thanks.”
He opens the truck door. Hattie jumps inside. Jake slides in beside her, starts the engine, and waves as he pulls down the driveway.
I watch him go with intense regret, wishing I could have given him another answer.
But there is no other answer. I can’t fight anymore.
There’s no will for that left inside me.
Everything I had once lived for is gone: my family, my career.
I am a shell of who I used to be. It’s no one’s fault.
I’m rational enough to understand this. It’s the way it is.
The path my life has taken. The circumstances that conspired to take away the people I loved.
And more recently, my inward collapse, stealing my ability to follow through on a career I loved as well.
I walk inside, my feet heavy as lead. The boulder settles again on my chest.
I head into the kitchen and make a cup of coffee, not because I want it, but because I need to do something. Anything.
I sit at the table, open the Notes app on my laptop, and start searching for a local painter.
One number. Then another.
I’m not getting up until I finish this list.
Because it’s the only thing I have right now that still feels like I’m in control of it.
*
THE EMAIL ARRIVES just as I’m finishing up my list.
It’s from Kate, Michael’s sister. We met only once, at a dinner that felt too polished, too quiet. She was kind. Gentle. And mostly silent.
I start reading with a pit in my stomach.
Hi Sawyer,
I hope this isn’t too much, or too soon.
I was going through some of Michael’s things this morning—just trying to sort through a few boxes.
I found a letter with your name on it. It was never mailed.
I don’t know why. But I felt like you should know it exists.
No pressure at all, but if you’d like, I can text you a photo of it.
Or just send it in the mail. Let me know.
Warmly,
Kate
I stare at the screen for a long time, heart suddenly too loud in my ears.
A letter.
From Michael.
Written, sealed, and never sent.
I reply: Please text me a photo of it.
I close my laptop and go in the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, a dull knot of anxiety in my chest. My phone dings from the nightstand in the bedroom.
I drop the towel in my hand and walk over to pick it up.
The notification says it’s from Kate. I tap the screen and open the text, then click on the photo.
I immediately recognize Michael’s precise handwriting. Seeing my name in his ink makes something in my chest crack.
The letter is short. One page. No greeting, no closing. Just his voice.
Sawyer,
I know I’ve asked a lot of you, loving someone who lives by clocks and capital markets.
And I know I don’t always say what you probably need to hear.
But if I haven’t told you lately—thank you.
For showing up. For staying. For reminding me there’s a world beyond the one I try to control.
I don’t know what our future looks like.
But I know you’re the only one I want in it.
Michael
I read it twice.
And then I cry. Not with guilt. Not with regret. Just love for the kind, caring man he had been.
He knew something was coming.
Maybe not death. But change.
An ending. A shift.
He left me a kindness.
He left me a door I didn’t know I needed to walk through.
I close my eyes and whisper a thank you.
To Michael.
To Kate.
To the woman I was then, who kept showing up. Even when she was drowning.
Some things in my life are going to be left unfinished.
But this doesn’t feel like one of them anymore.