Page 13 of Tracking Wolfe

I wasn’t going to tell Trace about Fletcher—that was several bridges too far, solemn promises or not—but I’d thought maybe I could go to his place, casual-like. Find out how he was.

And not have my nosy-as-fuck sister on my case about it.

Rosie

Did you eat? I could bring leftover brisket?

Not hungry but thanks. Think I’m going to head to bed early since I have to get up at dawn.

Rosie

You okay?

Yeah.

My fingers hovered over the screen. Don’t do it. She already suspects. Don’t fucking do it.

Who’s Trace dating?

My back teeth hurt.

It took a minute for her to type the response.

Rosie

Patrick Cushnie, but I think they broke up? Avery heard it from Helen Kimball. Helen’s friends with Patrick’s mom.

Fucking small towns.

My fingers flew over the tiny screen until I found Patrick Cushnie’s Instagram account. He was a good-looking guy. Huge. Fit. Young. Outdoorsy in a Montana—hunting and fishing—way rather than a Trace—hiking and rock climbing—way. After scrolling his stupid pics for a minute and ignoring another incoming text from Rosie, I found what I was looking for.

A photo from his ten-year high school reunion last year.

The fucker was younger than I was.

Rage began to build inside of me. Clean and stark. Hot and all-consuming.

How. Fucking. Dare. He.

It was one thing to tell me he wasn’t interested in me. It was another to say it was because of my age. I was thirty fucking years old. No longer a child. Not like this fresh-faced… electrical line worker or whatever.

I was back in the Rover before I spared another thought, anger spurring me with only the slimmest of reason and consideration keeping me from spinning out on the snowy roads.

Instead of chickening out and parking in the general SERA lot like before, I pulled directly in front of his cabin, blocking his own truck in. I slammed out of the vehicle and raced up to the front door before banging on it with my fist.

“Open up!” I barked.

Part of me knew this was stupid. Knew my actions were drawing a line in the sand between us we’d never be able to cross over again. But what had being careful gotten me?

My feelings for Trace had suffocated me for half my life. Had stolen years from me by kneecapping my ability to have a decent, meaningful relationship with anyone else—and I’d fucking tried, over and over.

Until it became obvious I was broken. Broken into Trace-shaped pieces that didn’t even fucking fit together since the most important one was missing.

And would always be missing, as long as he was unwilling to even give me a chance.

I turned thirty weeks ago and had never kissed Trace Bishop.

What was the fucking point?