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"Ry, you've got to snap out of it," I scold myself.
Inside the house, I throw together a sandwich, it's just fuel these days, nothing more. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the windowpane. Even I can see it, the gruff exterior that's usually so comfortable in solitude now seems like a facade.
The phone rests on the coffee table, silent and accusatory. I've texted her good morning and good night, shared snippets of my day, and tried to bridge the miles with words on a screen. But each message feels more hollow than the last, a poor substitute for the warmth of her presence. At some point along the way, I kept forgetting to take my phone with me outside or into my shop with me.
"Should've checked that phone more often, Ryan," I chide, thinking of the missed calls and texts that might’ve piled up while I was lost in sawdust and wood shavings.
"Can't change that now," I say aloud, trying to shake the restlessness that's settled in my bones.
"Can't keep doing this," I admit, the truth bitter on my tongue. It's not just the ranch that's too quiet. It's my world, my life, without her vibrant energy charging through it.
"Long distance? More like long shot." I push to my feet, restless energy driving me forward. The idea of continuing this way, tethered by fragile digital threads, is unbearable. We're not built for half measures, Jules and I.
"Need you here, Jules," I whisper, though the declaration is for my ears alone. Or maybe it’s a plea tossed into the vast Texas sky, hoping somehow it reaches her in the hustle of Houston.
With a sigh, I collapse into the worn leather armchair, the one Jules claimed was her favorite spot in the whole ranch. I stretch out, trying to find comfort in its embrace, but it's no use. I close my eyes, and there it is, the soft echo of her voice from our last call.
"I wish you were lying beside me right now," she said, her voice a mix of longing and tiredness.
That simple sentence, that yearning, it's like a rope pulling me toward her. My heart's already beating the rhythm of a man about to make a decision he can't take back.
"Fine, Jules," I whisper to the empty room, "you win."
Next thing I know, I’m throwing clothes into a duffel bag, not bothering to fold them. My keys jingle impatiently as I snatch them from the hook by the door. I don't bother locking up. It’s not like I’m expecting company.
The drive to the small airport feels shorter than ever, my thoughts consumed by green eyes and red hair, by the heat of passion that might be waiting. I park the truck, grab my bag, and head straight for the private hangar where my plane’s been collecting dust, a billionaire's toy that's seen too little use.
"Let's hope she's ready for a surprise," I say to the pilot, who raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question it. He knows better.
As we take off, I lean back against the seat, trying to imagine the look on Jules’ face when I appear at her condo. Surprise? Joy? Annoyance for not calling first?
"Doesn't matter," I decide. "It’ll be worth it."
One hour. One hour and I'll be there, knocking on her door, ready to stoke the flames of whatever it is we’ve got burning between us. And I can't help but smile at the thought.
The seatbelt sign flickers off, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The low hum of the plane's engines is a stark contrast to the silent expanse of my ranch. I lean back, close my eyes, but my mind isn't on the flight.
"Can I get you something to drink, sir?" The flight attendant's chipper voice cuts through my thoughts.
"Whiskey, neat," I say. It's not yet noon and I know I shouldn’t be drinking alcohol, but what the hell. I'm breaking all my rules today, anyway.
I take the plastic cup, the amber liquid sloshing gently with the rhythm of the plane. It’s funny how a man can build barns, wrangle cattle, and carve art from wood, yet be undone by a woman with green eyes and dreams as big as Texas itself.
"Damn it, Jules," I mutter under my breath, swirling the whiskey. She's chasing her billion-dollar dream, and here I am, sky-high in more ways than one, trailing after her like some lovestruck fool.
The ice clinks against the sides—a sharp, jarring sound. That's us, isn't it? I'm the quiet ranch life she's said she loves, but she's the clink and clamor of the city. Can the two really mix?
"Another?" The flight attendant is back, eyebrow raised.
I nod, pushing the empty cup her way. This wasn't part of the plan. Me, leaving the comfort of my land, the simplicity I've fought so hard for. But then again, neither was falling for a fiery redhead with ambition that could light up the Houston skyline.
"Thanks," I say as she hands me a refill. I take a sip, letting the burn ground me. It's a temporary fix, but it'll do until I see her.
"Visiting someone special?" she asks, trying to make small talk.
"Something like that," I reply, keeping it vague. What would I even say? 'Oh, just flying into the arms of the woman who might just be the love of my life, hoping we can figure out how to blend her world with mine?'
The thought should scare me more than it does. But instead, there's an exhilarating sense of rightness mingled with the fear. I've always been a man who took risks, but they were calculated, measured.
