“They died during my senior year of high school.”
The memories crash in: my dad’s car accident, and before I could even fly home, the call from my mother’s assistant telling me she was gone, too. The deep, dark hole that’s never left since those fateful calls opens again.
“What’s your biggest regret?” slips out before I can stop it.
James doesn’t flinch. His footfalls don’t falter. “That I didn’t step in sooner to stop my dad from hitting my mom.”
His honesty stops me cold. I stand in the middle of the road. Tears well in my eyes, and I fight to keep them in.Well, fuck.I was... ignored. He had to live withthat. James keeps his eyes on me, steady and unflinching, waiting to see my reaction.
“Wow. Okay.” I clear my throat, trying to steady myself. “Hard truths it is. Do you… want to talk about it?”
“Nah. Not right now. Come on, let’s keep going.”
We let the silence wrap around us, turning over the weight of his words.
This man—his care, his understanding, the quiet way he’s moved through the past few days—it all makes sense. What kind of boy must he have been, so scared, and still brave enough to try to protect his mom?
“My turn.” He clears his throat. “What’s something you’ve never told Mason?”
Yesterday, when we sat beside each other and gave the barest hints of these hurts, I wanted so badly to lean into him, into the way he listens. And he didn’t just listen, he got it. Now I know why.
I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with the bitter air, and instead of deflecting, I see how it feels to speak the truth. “I’ve never told him the full extent of the neglect I experienced growing up. No one ever hit me, but… I’ve never admitted how crushingly lonely I was.”
His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t rush to fill the silence with empty reassurances. Instead, he asks, “What do you mean?”
“My parents didn’t have room for me in their lives. Nannies raised me until I went off to school. And I know how privileged it sounds to complain about not getting enough time with Mommy and Daddy. I was nothing more than a trophy. Something brought out during dinner parties to charm their friends, tucked away again the moment I became inconvenient. Honestly, my life didn’t change much after they died.”
He stays quiet, giving me space, letting me decide whether to go on.
The path curves around a stand of pines. Instead of heading toward town, I follow the trail, and we come to a covered bridge. Icicles hang from the eaves, scattering prisms of light around the entrance.
“I love this place.” I slow to a stop at the bridge’s entrance.
James steps forward, his eyes widening as he takes in the structure. “This is incredible.” He moves closer to examine the joinery. “These builders understoodhow forces work together. They knew that in certain configurations, pressure actually strengthens the connection rather than weakens it.”
I place my hand on the beam, feeling the grain of the wood, the strength that’s held for generations.
“How old is it?” he asks.
“Built in 1875, according to the plaque.”
“A hundred and fifty years, and it’s still standing.” He pulls off his mitten to run a hand along the beam. “This isn’t just construction. It’sart. A testament to what people can create when they build with purpose. To make something that lasts, that connects one place to another.”
Standing here on this bridge, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. Not at the law firm. Not back at the cabin. Not running alone on some distant trail. Just standing here, listening to this man talk about a bridge like a prayer I’d long forgotten how to say.
This is what Jules’s question was about and what I’ve been reaching for all these months. There is no need to pretend or search. Because it’s written in every glance, every conversation turned confession, every instinct that urges me to share more. It’s a connection that exists without even trying.
My stomach turns, and I catch myself against the bridge. Oh yeah. The purpose of the run.
The jarring reality of what I have to do rushes back. I close my eyes, pushing it down to the abyss. But it hovers right there, on the tip of my tongue, behind the tears threatening to spill. It won’t be tucked away, as if my body is saying, ‘Be brave and ask for what you want.’
“Sydney?”
“The pharmacy is a few minutes ahead.” I take off without looking back.
James stays a few paces behind as we continue into town, giving me the space I need.
My hands won’t stop shaking, and the flickering fluorescent lights in the pharmacy, straight out of a horror movie, don’t help. My trembling fingers grab what I need. The boxes go into the bathroom trash; the tests are buried deep in my coat pocket.
