As I turned toward the door, she caught my hand, squeezing once.
“This weekend,” she said, looking up at me. “I’ll be there.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” I said.
“I know you will.”
I kissed her forehead and stepped into the hallway before I could overthink it. She leaned against the doorframe, watching me with that same half-smile that made promises I wasn’t sure she’d keep.
When the elevator doors closed, I caught a last glimpse of her through the narrowing gap. By the time I reached the parking garage, my thoughts had swallowed me up again.
I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, telling myself I was imagining it. The flicker in her eyes. The small hesitation. The way she’d touched me like she wanted to memorize something she didn’t plan to keep.
She’d said she’d come this weekend.
She’d promised.
And I believed her.
Or at least, I wanted to.
Still, as I climbed into my truck and started the engine, the silence felt too heavy.
The city faded in the rearview mirror, and all I could think was that something about her goodbye had felt a little too much like a maybe.
Seattle fell away behind me in layers—gray towers, glass, the heavy hum of traffic. The rain chased me up I-5, then slowed to mist around Everett, the clouds thinning as I climbed into the hills. Every so often, a green highway sign flashedReckless River – 97 miles,82 miles,49, like a countdown I hadn’t realized I’d started.
I should’ve felt good. I’d just spent a night with the woman I couldn’t stop thinking about since the first time she walked into The Rusty Stag, all sharp wit and soft eyes, acting like she didn’t see me watching her. She’d said she’d come up this weekend.
That should’ve been enough.
Except my brain didn’t know how to leave things alone.
Every mile, I replayed her smile when I left. The way she’d leaned in the doorway in my shirt, trying to look casual and failing miserably. The way she’d said,I’ll be there this weekend, like she meant it, like she wanted to mean it, but something in her eyes had already started drifting somewhere else.
It was a look I knew too well. The kind people get right before they disappear.
I told myself I was being paranoid. I’d always been that way with her…half in, half waiting for the floor to drop. But I couldn’t shake it, the quiet doubt whispering under my ribs.
She’s coming, I told myself for the tenth time. She promised.
The words tasted hollow by the fifteenth.
Still, I pushed on.
The city turned into suburbs, suburbs into open road. The rain gave up somewhere past Arlington, and the mountains came back into view, peaks dusted white, the air sharper andcleaner. The closer I got to home, the easier my lungs worked. Reckless River had that effect. It reminded you to breathe.
By the time I hit the final stretch, the familiar landmarks started rolling by: the weather-beaten billboard that still advertised the fall cider fest even though it was December, the old gas station with the hand-painted sign that saidWorld’s Best Jerky, and the crooked mailbox that marked the turn toward the river road.
It felt like exhaling after holding your breath too long.
When I finally pulled into the gravel lot behind The Rusty Stag, it was close to four in the afternoon. The light had started to shift with the faint promise of snow clinging to the air. The tavern looked exactly as it always did, brick and wood and warmth, the strings of Christmas lights.
For the first time since I’d left, my shoulders relaxed.
Home.
I killed the engine and sat there for a second, listening to the tick of the cooling motor. Then I grabbed my jacket and stepped out into the crisp air, stretching the stiffness out of my arms. The smell of pine hit me, carried on the breeze from the woods behind the river.
