His laugh followed me down the hall. “If she shows up, brother. If.”
“You’re awful.” I laughed and shook my head. “No wonder I’m paranoid.”
I didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer. I just smiled to myself as I pushed through the door, the smell of cedar and the river drifting in on the cold air.
Because even though I could still hear the crack under my feet, I was standing on the only ground that had ever felt like home.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Melanie
The morning had started fine—too fine, really. The kind of fine that felt suspicious, like the calm before a cosmic punchline.
I’d been up early, coffee brewed, luggage neatly packed in the trunk, playlist queued for the drive. The sky was cold and bright, that pale-blue Seattle kind of day that made you believe maybe, just maybe, things were going to go right.
And then I’d turned the key.
Click. Nothing.
I frowned, tried again. The same hollow click echoed through the car like a laugh track from the universe.
“No,” I said flatly. “No, no, no, don’t you dare.”
But the car didn’t care.
I tried again—harder this time, as if willpower alone could jumpstart a dying engine. Click. Silence.
My head fell against the steering wheel with a groan. “You have got to be kidding me.”
For a minute, I just sat there in the driver’s seat, staring at the dashboard like it had personally betrayed me. The coffee in the cupholder was still steaming. My gloves sat neatly beside it. My phone was plugged in, already charged for the trip. Everything was ready.
Except me. And apparently, my car.
I twisted the key again, praying for a miracle. The engine coughed, sputtered, then gave up with the finality of a toddler midtantrum.
“This can’t be happening,” I muttered. “You’ve been fine all week!”
Fine, of course, being relative. The battery light had been flickering for months, and I’d ignored it because that’s what functional adults do. They pretend small problems don’t exist until they evolve into existential crises.
“Please,” I whispered, as if pleading would help. “I’ll take you to the good car wash. I’ll get you premium gas. I’ll stop yelling at traffic.”
Nothing.
I smacked the steering wheel once for emphasis. “Useless piece of—”
The car stayed dead, unimpressed by my tantrum.
Somewhere in the back seat, my packed duffel bag sat perched like an accusation. The t-shirt Drew had left last time was tucked inside it. I’d kept it there, folded carefully, because I’d been planning to give it back this weekend like a normal, organized, emotionally stable person who kept her promises.
Except now I couldn’t even leave the garage.
And Drew? He was going to think I’d made the whole thing up.
He’d laugh it off at first—teasing, easy. But underneath, I knew he’d be disappointed. That was the part that made my stomach twist. Because he wouldn’t yell or accuse. He’d just sound quiet. And that was always worse.
I exhaled hard, slumped back against the seat, and stared up at the ceiling.
“Of course, this happens now,” I said to no one. “The one weekend I actually need to go.”
