The sticky note still shouted from the cabinet: Do not sleep with Drew
I saluted it. The rule stood. Not because I didn’t want him —God, I did —but because the wanting is not the problem. The staying was the work.
I pulled the suitcase toward me and, this time, it didn’t fight. I folded sweaters, rolled jeans, tucked socks into boots like tiny contraband. I packed my life and left room for something new.
Outside, Reckless River went on being its infuriating, enchanting self. Inside, I set an alarm for 7 p.m., opened my calendar, and typed Call One Thirty-Day Pilot with a little heart emoji I will deny using if anyone asks.
And for the first time since the squirrel incident, since the chili cookoff, since the kiss that rearranged me, I felt like the ground under my feet was not a trap or a test.
It was a path.
One I could walk. One day at a time. One call at a time. One small, steady yes.
Chapter Twenty
Drew
I stared at the text like it might sprout antlers and start singing Jingle Bells.
Thirty days. Two calls a week. One visit each way. No disappearing acts. No grand gestures. Just… trying.
I locked my phone. Unlocked it. The words didn’t move. Stubborn as a snowdrift.
Riley had to have slipped something extra into Melanie’s coffee—something beyond caffeine. Honesty syrup. Courage dust. A holiday blend labeled Sanity. Because this agreeing to an actual plan was not how my Decembers usually went. December, historically, was for sleigh bells and mistakes. A kiss, a flinch, a graceful retreat. Not a calendar invite with emotional accountability.
Around me, The Rusty Stag hummed with post-festival exhaustion. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed too loud. Thesmell of cider and fried onions clung to the air like the town’s collective hangover. Reckless River had finally exhaled.
I slid my phone face down under the register like contraband and grabbed the order pad, pretending my hands didn’t shake. Inside, everything was misfiled…hope where panic should be, relief labeled regret.
That was when Callum came out from the back, carrying a box of bar napkins like a man auditioning for sainthood. He set it down, wiped his hands on his jeans, and gave me that big-brother look that says I can smell your crisis from three counties away.
“You look like an overcooked turkey,” he said. “Want me to call a doctor, a priest, or Riley?”
I stacked clean glasses because when in doubt, polish. Ritual beats panic nine times out of ten.
He leaned on the bar, one eyebrow raised. “You eat today?”
“I drink coffee,” I said. “That’s basically food.”
“Sure. If you’re twenty-one and immortal.” He tilted his head toward the window. “You watch her drive out?”
My throat tightened. “Saw her car.”
“And?”
“And what?” I snapped. “She left. Seattle’s still there. Geography hasn’t failed us.”
He hummed. “Translation. You feel like someone hit you with a snow shovel.”
“Colorful, but fine.”
He reached over, eased a glass out of my death grip, and studied me. “You’re going to tell me why your face looks like a sad Christmas cookie, or am I supposed to guess?”
“No,” I said.
“Cool, cool.” He straightened, still watching me like he was trying to read fine print. “Lydia says you look awful, too.”
“Tell Lydia she’s glowing. It’s rude to compare.”
