“Cole, that’s a lot of work and it’s far.”
“Just a 20-minute ride out, Maggie. I need the alone time and I can’t sleep. Please just don’t talk me out of it.”
“Just call her, Cole!”
“No. If she wanted to be here she would be here, Maggie.”
“Cole. She told you she loved you.”
“She did and she left, Maggie.”
“Because you let her.”
“Damnit, I know!” I yell—voice cracking louder than the thunder rolling in the distance.
Maggie looks at me with pity and sadness—eyes soft, mouth tight, rain streaking down her face.
“You know we’re all upset Layla is gone. She meant something to all of us.”
“I know she did.”
That’s why it hurts, because she hurt all of us. Not just me. But it is my fault. I should’ve used my words. Spoke up. Told her how I felt. Instead of the push and pull that I was doing. I should’ve done a lot of things. I should’ve grabbed her after she said it, kissed her until she understood she was never temporary. I should’ve said it back. I should’ve said everything.
It’s starting to get dark now—sky bruising purple, rain steady and cold. I climb onto Buttercup—her coat damp, muscles shifting under me—and head out toward the pastures. The ride is quiet except for the creak of leather, the soft thud of hooves in mud, rain tapping on my hat brim. The fence line is a mess—posts leaning, wire sagging, burn scars black against the wet wood.
Once I reach the pasture, I start hammering and repairing the fence—each strike ringing sharp in the dark, rain dripping into my eyes, mud sucking at my boots. I can’t get her off my mind. All the feelings hit me at once—regret, anger, longing, fear—and I start to sob. Quiet at first, then harder. I fall to my knees in the wet grass, mud soaking through my jeans, cold seeping into my bones. Lay down in the grass and just sob—face pressed to the earth, shoulders shaking, tears mixing with rain on my cheeks.
What kind of grown man falls to his knees and cries over a woman who’s gone? Me, I guess. But this is what I needed—the quiet without them hovering, so I can just think of her. Get it out of my system and return to normal tomorrow. There’s so many things I would’ve done differently. I would’ve answered her texts. I would’ve kissed her back the night she said she loved me. I would’ve told her she was the best thing that ever happened to me. I would’ve asked her to stay—not just the ranch, but with me. Forever.
The rain keeps falling—steady, cold, washing over me like it’s trying to wash away the hurt. It doesn’t. Nothing does.
Chapter 38
I love you
Layla
Waiting for the Uber to pick me up now from the airport… breathing in the Tennessee air and heat. It slams into me the second I step outside the terminal—thick, humid, alive with the scent of sun-baked earth, pine, wild grass, and that faint, sweet trace of hay carried on the wind. My lungs fill with it, and I swear I can taste the ranch already. Butterflies riot in my tummy—wild, frantic, hopeful, terrified. I couldn’t even last a week without being in his arms. Without seeing his face. Without him. Without the ranch. Tennessee is my home now. Not Seattle. Not the gray rain and concrete. Here. With him.
Your Uber has arrived, alert shows up on my phone. I walk over to the car that just pulled up—old sedan, AC blastingout the open window, faint pine air freshener mixing with cigarette smoke.
“For Layla?”
“Yes ma’am,” she says, smiling warm and tired.
“How are you darling?” she asks, glancing in the rearview as I slide into the backseat, leather warm from the sun against my thighs.
“I’m wonderful. How are you?” I ask, buckling my seatbelt, the click is loud in the quiet.
“Doing great honey. Where to?”
I give her the address to the ranch and she starts playing music. Old country, low and twangy, steel guitar sliding under the lyrics. I lean my head against the window, cool glass against my temple, watching the airport fade in the side mirror.
I’ve always wanted to love someone like Cole. Steady. Quiet. Strong in ways that don’t need words. I hope he’ll forgive me for leaving. I hope he’ll give me the chance to show him how much I love him and that I will never leave ever again. My fingers trace the edge of my phone in my lap—no messages. No missed calls. Just silence. It stings, but it doesn’t surprise me. He’s never been the type to chase. But I’m the one chasing now.
This is the longest car ride. The highway stretches forever—billboards blurring past, semis rumbling by, the sun baking the dashboard until the air inside feels thick and warm. My knee bounces. My heart won’t slow. Every mile feels like peeling off a layer of the city I tried to force myself back into.
But as soon as we turn onto the ranch driveway—gravel crunching under the tires, dust rising in the late-afternoon light—my stomach flips. Not from nerves. From finally being back home where I’m supposed to be. The trees open up, the fields roll out wide and green, the barn in the distance with its tin roof glinting. I can smell it already—hay, earth, horse, home. Tears prick my eyes. I blink them back.
