“Goodnight, Eric,” I said.
I got in the car.
I went back through the evening, looking for the moments when I might have been unfair to him. He’d been attentive. He’d been mostly pleasant, and I’d spent two hours feeling like I was one step behind a conversation that had already decided where it was going without me. Maybe I was too guarded. Maybe all the time being on my own had made me so accustomed to my own company that anyone showing straightforward interest registered as a problem to be managed. I tried on that version of events and held it up to the light.
It almost worked.
Then I thought about his eyes moving over me in the doorway, and his hands at my shoulders by the door, and the easy laugh about Jasper needing to be tutored—and the low, persistent unease that had been sitting in my chest all evening sharpened into something I couldn’t reason away, and I stopped trying.
I started the car.
The drive back felt longer than fifteen minutes. Honeybrook Hollow came into view—porch lights and dark shopfronts and the settled peace of a town that went to bed at a reasonable hour and felt good about it. I rolled down the window a little to let the cool air in and thought about meeting my sisters at Twilight Tavern.
I turned onto Sycamore, found a spot to park, and checked my reflection—better now, something having quietly settled back into place. I grabbed my bag.
Somewhere between cutting the engine and reaching for the door handle, without any permission from me whatsoever, my mind drifted to whether Jasper would be working tonight.
I caught the thought, looked at it for exactly one second, and put it down.
You’re here for sister night. That’s it.
Chapter 2
Jasper
The exam room smelled of disinfectant and recycled air—clean in a way that was never comfortable. The chair across from the desk was molded plastic, bolted to the floor as if it didn’t trust anyone to stay put. A faded anatomy chart hung crooked on the wall, with knee joints highlighted in clinical blues and reds, the damage neatly labeled as if today had always been inevitable.
The doctor was kind about it. That was the worst part.
He didn’t hedge or soften the truth, just explained it in a calm, steady voice like this was information I’d know what to do with. My knee had healed well. Better than expected, even. Full range of motion. Strength within normal limits. No pain during everyday use.
“Your ACL repair healed well, but the cartilage damage means your knee won’t tolerate repeated high-impact stress. You’ll be okay eventually,” he said, folding his hands on the desk between us. “For civilian life.”
I nodded. I’d gotten good at nodding in agreement while spinning out on the inside.
“But under sustained load,” he continued, tapping his pen once against the paper, “it isn’t stable enough to meet re-enlistment standards. Long distances. Uneven terrain. Weight over time. It’s not something we can waive.”
He saidweas if this was a shared disappointment.
I waited for the rest of it—for the next step, the workaround, the version of the future that still resembled the one I’d been counting on. But the room stayed quiet, filled only by the low hum of the lights overhead.
“You did everything right,” he added, as if that mattered. “Your physical therapy went according to plan, but it just wasn’t enough to get you back to where you needed to be. I’m sorry, Jasper.”
I thanked him. Shook his hand. Walked out with the same controlled gait I’d practiced for months. It was steady, evenly paced, and most importantly, no limp. The hallway outside echoed faintly with footsteps that weren’t mine, doors opening and closing around other people’s futures.
The door clicked shut behind me, the sound sharp in the quiet hallway. I stood there longer than necessary, one hand still on the handle, like the doctor might call me back and tell me he’d made a mistake.
You’re healed. You’re functional. But you won’t be cleared to reenlist.
Functional.
I walked out into the late afternoon, the sun already low and burning gold, throwing long shadows across the parking lot and hitting everything at a slant that made the ordinary look almost cinematic. My knee felt fine. Strong, even. That almost made it worse. I stood in the parking lot for a moment with my keys in my hand, not quite ready to move. Shadows stretched long across the asphalt, the sky above the tree line already deepening at the edges toward something darker. Somewhere nearby, a car alarm chirped and stopped. Life continued, careless anduninterrupted, while I stood there letting the truth settle where adrenaline used to live.
I pulled my helmet off the back of the bike and stood there holding it for a second, looking at nothing. Then I put it on, buckled it, swung my leg over, and started the engine. The motorcycle came to life under me with that familiar low rumble, and I sat there for a moment with both hands on the grips and the vibration moving through me before I finally pulled out of the lot.
I’d come home to heal. That was the plan. Finish physical therapy. Work a few shifts at the local bar. Keep my life light enough to pick back up and move on. But now there was nothing to pick back up.
I rode without really thinking, muscle memory taking over. Sweetbriar Highway stretched ahead of me, familiar and unremarkable. I had nothing but the engine, the road, and the quiet inside the helmet, which was exactly what I needed.
