29. Buzz #3
The movement was simple. Familiar in the way winter made small acts of care familiar.
Sleeves. Collar. The soft weight settling around her.
My hands brushed the wool near her shoulders, and for one dangerous second, I remembered helping her into my hoodie in Betsy when we were kids, the two of us laughing in the cold like love had no sharp edges.
I let go immediately.
Lucy reached up and pulled her hair free from beneath the collar. Her curls spilled over the wool, loose and soft and still wild from my hands.
Dottie nosed my knee. I looked down at her. “You take care of her.”
Lucy made a tiny sound behind me.
I glanced up. “That was for the dog.”
“I gathered,” Lucy said, looking up at me.
The entry light was low, warmer than the kitchen. It caught the tear tracks on her face, the green edge of her glasses, the tired softness around her mouth. She looked wrecked. Beautiful. Braver than I had ever been at eighteen.
“I’m still angry,” she said. “And hurt.”
“I know.”
“And confused.” Her voice shook on that one. “And I hate that part.”
“I know.”
Her eyes searched mine like she expected a flinch. A protest. A plea.
I gave her none of them. Not because they were not in me. Because they were. But needing forgiveness and earning it were not the same thing. I had confused too many things in my life already. Love and silence. Sacrifice and fear. Letting go and giving up. I was done confusing this.
Lucy drew in a breath that shook at the edges. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For understanding that I still need time to process this.”
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
She shook her head slightly. “I mean it. Thank you.” Then she stepped into me.
I froze for half a heartbeat because I had prepared myself for the door. For distance. For watching her leave while my whole body tried to turn into a mistake.
I had not prepared for her arms around me.
Lucy hugged me carefully at first, like she was not sure where the pieces of us fit anymore. One hand curled into the back of my hoodie. The other pressed flat against my shoulder. Her cheek rested briefly against my chest, and the entire world narrowed to the weight of her there.
I did not grab.
I did not pull.
I gave her one second to change her mind.
Then I wrapped my arms around her. So gently it almost hurt more than holding on hard would have.
Her body trembled against mine. I lowered my face toward her hair but stopped before my mouth touched. Her curls smelled like cold air, smoke from the fire, and something that had been living in my memory for so long I no longer knew if it was real or grief.
Lucy held on for three breaths.
On the fourth, she stepped back.
My arms fell away.
Her eyes were wet again, but her face was steadier. “Goodnight, Ty,” she said.
My heart cracked cleanly around my name. “Goodnight, Luce.”
I opened the door. Cold air moved into the house, sharp and immediate, slipping around us with the smell of snow and frozen lake and midnight roads. Lucy stepped over the threshold with Dottie trotting beside her. The dog paused once and looked back at me.
“Go on,” I told her softly.
Dottie’s tail wagged, then she followed Lucy down the porch steps.
I stayed in the doorway. I wanted to cross the porch.
Wanted to stand beside her while she opened the car door.
Wanted to tell her to text me when she got home, like I still had the right to worry out loud.
Wanted to make sure the roads were clear and her tires were good and Dottie was settled before she pulled away.
I wanted old-boyfriend privileges with a woman I had taught not to trust old promises.
So I stayed at the threshold.
Lucy unlocked her car. Dottie hopped in first, because apparently loyalty had conditions and upholstery was one of them. Lucy looked back once from beside the driver’s door.
Snow drifted lightly between us.
I did not wave.
I did not call her name.
I only stood there, one hand on the open door, and let her see me not chasing.
Not leaving.
There was a difference.
This time, there had to be.
Lucy got into the car and shut the door.
The engine turned over, headlights washing across the front of the house, the porch, my legs, the snow-covered edge of the driveway.
For a second, her face was visible through the windshield.
Glasses catching light. One hand on the wheel. Dottie’s head a vague shape beside her.
Then she backed down the driveway carefully, leaving tracks beside the ones she had made when she arrived.
I watched until her taillights reached the road. Watched until the red disappeared between the dark trees and there was nothing left but snow, tire marks, and the reflection of my own silhouette in the glass beside the door.
Eight years ago, I had watched from inside Betsy while Lucy’s house got smaller through the rearview. I had driven away and called it mercy because I was too scared to call it what it was.
Letting her leave tonight was not giving up. It was the first honest thing I knew how to offer.
I closed the door after her taillights vanished. The latch clicked into place. The house went quiet all at once. Empty.
The fire still burned in the living room.
The bourbon still sat on the table. Dottie’s fur clung to the middle cushion of the couch, pale strands caught in the fabric where she had slept like she owned the place.
Lucy’s warmth was gone from the entry, but the shape of her being here still pressed against everything.
Her coat was gone from my closet.
Her glass was still beside mine.
I stood exactly where she had left me, one hand resting against the closed door, and missed her so badly it felt physical.
Then I made myself stay there.
No truck keys.
No phone.
No clever text pretending concern was casual.
Just the quiet house, the dark lake, the fire burning low, and the first rule I had ever set for myself that actually mattered.