“No. Yes… No, that’s not it… shit!”
There was a pause. Not silence—Rebecca thinking. Meanwhile, I felt ridiculous. Who had an existential crisis over buildings? They were wood and nails and rot. Nothing more.
“Go on?” she prompted.
Not impatient. Not curious in the wrong way. Just there. Giving me space instead of filling it. Rebecca had always known when to wait and when to lean in. She didn’t push. She didn’t try to fix things or soften them, so they were easier to swallow. She listened, and somehow that made it possible to talk.
“It reminds me of the places I looked for.”
“What do you mean?”
“Safe places back in the city.”
“Ah. How does that make you feel?”
“I don’t know.” I kicked at a frozen clump of dirt and nearly lost my footing again. “They’re solid. Enclosed. Good sightlines. And they’re empty. I know it shouldn’t matter if I’m selling everything, but?—”
“But,” she said, patiently. “They’re the kind of place you would’ve slept in when you were homeless and desperate.”
I looked back at the nearest cabin, the broken window, the land stretching out behind it, wide and indifferent. “Yeah.” I scrubbed a hand over my mouth. “I didn’t sleep much last night. I need to refill my script. Maybe I’m just too tired, but I don’t want this to mean anything when it means nothing at all.”
“But you don’t see structures the way most people do. You never have. You see whether they keep someone safe.” My heart hurt. “You’re not getting sentimental,” she went on, her words smooth and reassuring. “You’re assessing survival, that’s all.”
Cold seeped through my boots as I shifted my weight. “I shouldn’t have called.”
“You should always call,” she said, without hesitation. “Always.”
The call ended with her soft goodbye—she knew I wouldn’t want to keep talking, once I was coming out the other side of one of my meltdowns. I headed back toward the house, the version of me that measured the world by shelter and exits was wide awake now, front and center.
This was stupid.
That didn’t make it go away.
Chapter 12
Jesse
Deputy Wainright called as I headed back to the office, ready to spend precious hours of my day finding out where my dad had ended up. Olivia said there was no sign of him at home, and I was trying not to panic.
“Deputy?”
“Jesse,” the Deputy said. “First off, your father’s okay.” My grip tightened on the phone. “The truck’s done,” he went on. “Nose first into a ditch off the 287. Looks worse than it was, but your father’s okay. Don’t worry.”
I stood there with my heart hammering. Relief should have hit first. Panic should have come before the what-ifs. That was the order things were supposed to go in, right?
Instead, all I could think was, fuck. I knew what worry was supposed to feel like. I’d felt it before. This wasn’t it.
Was I upset? Nope. I was breathing normally. No rush, no spike, no image of a dad I was supposed to love and respect,bleeding or broken. All I felt was irritation at the phone’s interruption.
“Jesse?”
“Thank you, Simon. You need one of us to get the truck out?” The words came automatically, pure logistics, and even as I said them, I knew they sounded wrong. Where was my compassion?
“Nah, it’s all good, Philby Motors towed it, and said it’s fit for scrap. Ezra’ll call you for sure.”
“Thank you.” At least that took care of my dad driving.
I stood there, phone still warm, and the thought crept in sideways—what it might feel like to share the weight with someone. Anyone. Someone who could understand how I could hate a man so completely and still have him take up this much space in my head. I’d spent my life protecting him, smoothing things over, protecting everyone else from his confusion and his messes. And the question I never let myself ask pressed harder—who the hell was protecting me?
