Every time I pass the front window, my gaze drifts there. I catch glimpses — his shadow through a half-open garage door, the swing of his arm as he carries lumber to the side of the house.
And then my chest tightens, and I force myself to keep walking.
It’s not hard to avoid him when he’s at the Lawson house and I’m here. But the small-town closeness works against me — Mrs. Bennett from two doors down stops me on the sidewalk to say she saw “me and my fella” working on the porch together earlier this week. Someone comments on my social post from Friday with a dozen heart emojis.
It’s like the whole town is in on something I’m no longer sure I want to be part of.
And still, at night, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling and feel the weight of the folded note on my nightstand.
The days blur together, each one a little grayer than the last.
No texts. No calls. Not even a knock on the door. Just the constant hum of work across the street — the buzz of a saw, the rhythmic smack of a hammer, voices of other men joining in as the week goes on.
By Wednesday, there’s a whole crew at the Lawson place. Trucks parked along the curb, ladders leaning against the siding, music spilling faintly from a radio somewhere. It’s easier to ignore him when he’s part of a crowd.
Easier, but not easy.
Every once in a while, I catch myself pausing at the window, scanning for him. My eyes find the curve of his shoulders, the easy way he moves — and then I force myself to look away.
Nights are worse. The quiet feels too big, my mom’s restless murmurs drifting down the hall.
On Friday, just after midnight, I hear it — the low rumble of his motorcycle starting. I stand in the dark at my bedroom window, watching the taillight fade down the road until it’s gone.
And then… nothing.
Saturday, Sunday — no Damien. His house sits quiet and still.
By Monday morning, the sadness has settled so deep it feels like a stone in my chest. I bundle Mom into a coat and take her for a walk to the corner café, hoping the fresh air will shake something loose.
The bell over the café door jingles as I guide Mom inside, helping her out of her gloves.
And that’s when I see him.
Colton.
He’s at the counter, baseball cap pulled low, tapping his card against the register while the barista hands him a to-go cup. He turns, and the second his eyes land on me, his brows lift in surprise.
“Lyla?” he says, stepping toward me. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Colton,” I say, forcing a small smile. “Hey.”
He looks at me, then over my shoulder at Mom, his expression softening instantly. “Hi, Mrs. Hart. It’s… been a long time.”
She tilts her head like she’s trying to place him, then offers a polite smile before drifting toward an empty table.
I turn back to him. “You headed somewhere?”
He nods toward the duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Flying back to training camp. Just grabbing a coffee for the road.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that fills with everything unsaid. My stomach twists.
“Can I ask you something?” I finally say.
His brows lift. “Sure.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” My voice is quieter than I mean for it to be, but the words come anyway. “When we were together. When I was falling apart after Aaron… you were there, Colton. You saw me. You knew.”
He exhales slowly, looking down at the lid of his coffee like it holds the right answer. “Because it wasn’t my story to tell.”
