Chapter 18 #2
I wanted to let you know that I’m currently away due to an unexpected family emergency. As a result, all projects will be put on hold until Monday.
Thank you for your patience and understanding during this difficult time.
Warm regards,
Emily Garland
Owner | EJ Web Design
I reread the message twice before hitting send to all—better to rip off the bandage before I could second-guess myself.
Just as the confirmation ping faded, my phone came alive, buzzing in rapid bursts. I must’ve finally hit a patch of service. Text messages rolled in one after another—most of them junk, payment confirmations, spam—but one text froze me in place.
John: You there? You were supposed to text when you arrived. Starting to worry.
I inhaled slowly, forcing my pulse to steady. My last outgoing message still sitting above.
Undelivered.
I typed fast, running on borrowed time.
Me: Hey! Sorry—just getting your messages. Heading in for my first massage and ready to unplug for a while. If you don’t hear from me, DON’T WORRY. I’ve been needing to unplug for a while. Talk soon.
My thumb hovered, but before I could talk myself out of it, I pressed send. The message whooshed away, and guilt landed heavy in my chest. It wasn’t a total lie—I was taking a break—but the part about a spa week made my stomach twist.
The clock on my screen flashed. Forty-five minutes gone already.
I stood, downed the last of my coffee, thanked the old couple with a tight smile, and stepped back into the crisp morning air—every nerve in my body buzzing with the weight of what I’d just done.
The Jeep still felt massive when I climbed into the driver’s seat again, but this time I guided it onto the road with a little more confidence. The pine-lined road seemed to stretch a little longer in reverse—without another car leading the way, every bend made me worry I’d missed the turn.
With my hands tight on the wheel, I scanned for the familiar wooden sign. When it finally appeared, my grip loosened, and I turned down the long gravel lane, counting cabins until I found the one I’d come from.
Everything looked exactly as I’d left it—quiet, still, as though the morning had been holding its breath in my absence.
Until I climbed out of the jeep and rounded the corner.
Dean was sitting on the front step wearing running shorts and a tank top, one arm draped around George’s neck, his expression carved tight—too still. Guarded.
I froze mid-step.
His head snapped up the second he sensed me, but his face didn’t change. No relief, no irritation—just that blank expression I knew too well, like he was locking something down fast. He stood abruptly, and George trotted to my side with a soft whine, nudging his nose into my palm.
“I thought you left,” Dean said.
Not angry. Not sharp. But something about the way he said it punched the air from my lungs.
Of course he’d think that. He’d come back to the cabin to find the Jeep gone. Me gone. A woman he barely knew… But the flicker of distrust in his eyes—God, it made something inside me ache.
“I had to send an email,” I said, breath catching. “There’s no internet—I would’ve asked, but—”
He didn’t let me finish.
Dean took one step toward me.
Then another.
Then he stopped—just shy of a foot away, like he’d run up against some invisible line he wouldn’t allow himself to cross.
His chest rose sharply. Fell.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he whispered.
A knot pulled tight in my throat because there was something in his voice that hit me in a weird place.
I could see that my absence had done something to him—etched worry into the lines of his face, tightened him in a way he hadn’t been before. And I couldn’t stop the bubble of guilt that rolled in my stomach.
“You don’t know me,” I said quietly. “And I can only imagine how this must’ve looked. I’m sorry. I should’ve waited for you to come back. I should’ve—”
The words slipped out faster than I meant them to, bare and unguarded, and I had to fight to keep the tremor in my voice from surfacing.
I dropped my gaze to the ground and forced a slow breath into my lungs—one count, then another—giving myself a moment to steady the rush gathering in my chest.
When I looked up again, he hadn’t moved away. In fact—he was closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that I could feel his presence shift toward me instead of away.
“It’s okay,” he said quietly.
The words sounded like they surprised him as much as they did me.
His hand lifted, hesitated—then brushed my arm just above my wrist.
Not a claim. Not a test. Just contact.
The kindness of it caught me off guard. I’d been bracing for distance, for withdrawal—for him to harden the way people usually did when trust wavered. Instead, he was comforting me, like I was the one who needed reassurance.
Something unknotted in his face then. The tension didn’t disappear, but it loosened—softened into something warmer. More open.
And I realized, quietly, that he was letting me see it.
“I wouldn’t just leave you,” I whispered to him. “I know you have no reason to trust me, but when I give my word, I mean it. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
His jaw went slack, and his breath stuttered—just once. He gave a single, strained nod before he spoke again.
“I like to be prepared,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know if you were coming back, and I––”
He stopped himself, cutting the sentence short, like he’d already said more than he intended to.
Prepared.
The word sliced through me like a knife.
I understood it too well—the way abandonment rearranged you from the inside out. How not knowing became its own kind of wound. You learned to anticipate loss before it happened. To brace. To stay one step ahead so it couldn’t cut quite as deep.
I knew why I lived that way, but why did he?
My lips parted. “I—”
A bell chimed somewhere in the distance, and I blinked, pulled out of the moment in a flash. “What was that?”
He hesitated—just long enough for my pulse to trip over itself. His gaze moved over my face, like he was deciding something about me at that moment.
“Breakfast,” he said quietly.
Still, neither of us moved.
Not until George barked—sharp and insistent—snapping the invisible thread that had been holding us together.
“We should go,” Dean said then, voice steadier this time. “Everyone will be expecting us.”
He finally turned away, tearing his gaze from mine and dragging a hand through his hair like he needed a moment to steady himself.
I wasn’t sure why I felt so rattled, but I did. Then I realized, it was because against my better judgment, I wanted Dean to trust me. And my panic at the brief moment when he hadn’t—scared the hell out of me.