We lapsed into silence. There was too much and not enough to say. She shifted her weight, then seemed to remember something.
“I never properly thanked you. For last night. For taking care of him.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with her gratitude. “I was just doing my job.”
Something dimmed in her eyes at that. Her shoulders stiffened slightly, and she nodded. “Right. Well, I’m still grateful.”
The distance between us expanded, suddenly yawning wider than the few feet of worn linoleum floor that separated us. The kitchen seemed to shrink around the weight of unspoken words and careful politeness, each of us trapped on our respective sides of an invisible chasm that had opened the day she left town.
For a moment, I saw us as we were four years ago—laughing in this same kitchen, her perched on the counter in cutoff shorts and one of my oversized t-shirts while I made pancakesfrom scratch, flour dusting everything including her nose. Doc would shuffle in wearing his ratty bathrobe, grumbling good-naturedly about young people cluttering up his space while secretly pleased to have life filling his house again. She’d swing her bare legs and steal blueberries from the bowl waiting to go into the batter, and I’d pretend to be annoyed while my heart did something stupid and hopeful in my chest.
The memory was so vivid I could almost smell the vanilla extract and hear her laugh echoing off the faded yellow walls. Almost feel the casual intimacy of her hand on my shoulder as she leaned down to kiss pancake batter from the corner of my mouth.
The memory faded like smoke, leaving only the present—Gillian exhausted and worried, still beautiful but somehow smaller than I remembered, looking wrinkled from the hospital and her hair escaping its careful arrangement. Me standing here awkward and unsure, my uniform still smelling faintly of smoke, wondering why the hell I’d even come. Maybe to prove to myself that seeing her again wouldn’t affect me, that I’d moved on as completely as she had. If so, I’d failed spectacularly. The familiar ache in my chest told me exactly how much distance I hadn’t traveled.
“If you need help with anything—the bar, Doc, whatever—let me know,” I said. “My shifts are pretty regular these days.”
“I will. Thanks.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture so familiar it made my chest ache.
We both knew she wouldn’t call. Just like I knew I shouldn’t have come. Some distances couldn’t be crossed with casual offers of help, no matter how sincerely meant.
Another awkward silence stretched between us, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant murmur of the TV from Doc’s bedroom. Gillian fidgeted with a dish towel, folding and refolding it with those long fingers I remembered so well.
I shifted my weight, suddenly aware I’d overstayed my welcome. “I should probably?—”
“I need to say something.”
Her words stopped me cold. She’d squared her shoulders and was looking directly at me now, her green eyes determined despite the exhaustion shadowing them.
“Okay?” My voice came out cautious, braced for whatever was coming.
She took a deep breath. “It was really shitty of me to disappear on you like I did. You deserved better than that, and I’m sorry.” Her fingers twisted the dish towel tighter. “I just... I didn’t know how to do what I needed to do if I kept in contact.”
The apology blindsided me completely. Four years of wondering, of replaying our final weeks together over and over in my mind, trying to pinpoint the exact moment where things had shifted, where I’d lost her—and here she was, cutting straight to the heart of it with that raw honesty I’d always loved about her.
A thousand questions crowded my thoughts, each one fighting to be voiced first. Was she happy with the path she’d chosen? Did she ever wonder what might have happened if she’d stayed, if she’d chosen differently? Did she ever think about us during those long nights in law school, or when she was working late at her corporate firm? Did she ever wake up wondering if she’d made the wrong choice, if the life she’d built was worth what she’d given up?
But looking at her now—really looking—I could see the weight she was carrying. The exhaustion wasn’t only from Doc’s health scare or the long hours at his bedside. There was something deeper there, something that made her seem fragile in a way that was completely at odds with the confident, determined woman who’d left Huckleberry Creek all those years ago.
But none of those questions were mine to ask. Not anymore. Not when she was standing here, vulnerable and exhausted, her grandfather recovering in the next room.
“I appreciate that.” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “And I meant what I said last night. It’s good to see you.” I hesitated. “If you get the chance while you’re here, I’d love to have a proper catch-up. As friends.”
Friends. The word rang hollow. But anything else would probably come off as pressure she didn’t need right now.
Relief flooded her face, and she flashed a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I don’t know what my time’s going to look like, but I’d like that.”
The doorbell rang before I could respond, its chime echoing through the house.
Gillian sighed. “And it looks like the casserole train continues.”
I rose from my spot against the counter. “I should get going, anyway. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know, okay?”
“Thanks.” She moved toward the front door.
I followed her through the living room, noting the laptop and stack of papers on the coffee table—evidence of her other life, the one that would take her away again in less than two weeks.
On the porch, an elderly woman I recognized as Mrs. Woodley clutched a pie tin to her chest. Gillian stepped aside to let me pass, and I nodded a greeting to Mrs. Woodley as I headed down the steps.
