He turns, his gaze flicking to my packed bag. “You’re up,” he says, voice wrapped in a calm that feels like armor.
“Yeah.” I grip the strap of my duffel. It might as well be a life raft.
He gestures to the table. “Sit. Eat first.” There’s a stubborn warmth in his eyes.
I drop into a chair, fingers curling tight. Jack sets a plate in front of me—two perfect pancakes slick with butter and syrup. He slides into the seat across from me, mirroring my silence.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I whisper.
He shrugs. “You need fuel for the drive.”
I force down a bite, surprised by the simple comfort in the taste. We eat in a quiet heavy enough to bend the air. That unspoken thing—everything I want but can’t say—crowds the table between us.
I take my last bite and set my fork down. “Thank you.” My voice cracks.
Jack’s gaze holds mine. “Anytime.”
I steel myself. “I should go.”
He leans back. “You sure?”
Am I? I nod anyway, the word clawing up my throat. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Jack stands. “I’ll walk you out.”
I grab my bag.
The hallway feels too short, the front door looming. Outside, my car is parked in the sunlight, as if nothing ever happened.
On the porch, Jack places his hands on his hips. “You know you can stay. You don’t have to go back.”
My hands shake, but I force out the truth. “I do. I can’t just hide here forever.”
His jaw works. “If you change your mind…”
“I’ll keep in touch.” The promise tastes thin, but it’s all I can give.
He steps closer, his eyes dark and unreadable. “You’d better.” There’s a charge in the air. For a heartbeat, I want him to closethe distance, to say something reckless or just kiss me and end my doubts.
He doesn’t. Instead, he reaches out to brush a strand of hair behind my ear, fingers rough and gentle. The touch is brief but leaves every nerve alive and aching.
“Drive safe, Beth,” he says, voice low, almost breaking.
I nod. “Goodbye, Jack.”
I get in the car, hands trembling as I start the engine. Jack stands back, arms folded, jaw set. I force myself not to look in the mirror as I back out, because if I do, I’ll unravel.
And I don’t want that to happen.
***
The highway stretches ahead, sun flashing over the windshield, miles ticking by. I’d expected relief, maybe freedom. But alas, no such luck.
What am I really returning to? A family that thinks I can’t do anything right. A job that drains me. A town that won’t forget the girl who ran from her own wedding.
My grip on the wheel tightens. Maybe I should have stayed. But it’s too late now—the exit for home looms ahead, and I’m already slowing down, already giving up again.
Why do I do that?
