Page 13 of Promise

Get out of the car, Dart.

My mind played tricks on me, her voice a whisper just above the ring in my ears and thump in my chest.

Still, I quickly unbuckled and scrambled out the window. I stood on the door frame for a split second, swaying slightly, then raising a hand to let everyone know I was okay.

Bruised and shaken, I still walked away under my own power.

I blink at the bright light of The Ferryman’s Rest, a local bar near the river, and an old haunt of mine and my friends.

Home, it was the first word that whispered through my head after Doc diagnosed me and Max said I was done for the season.

Come home to me, Dart.

My mind had definitely been fucking with me, hearing her sweet voice like a whispered plea. Damn concussion caused that plea to return to the scene of a different crash. A damaged marriage.

The analogies were endless. The heart of a car is the engine, and her heart was certainly dead toward me. Her tone flat as tires. Her enthusiasm at my return was like a shattered windshield.

Every mile put between me and Florida was a range of emotions. Questions like speed bumps of doubt. Hairpin turns ripe with an urgency to get here. The home stretch was all anxiety.

The finish line was Rogue River, West Virginia, that house, and Trin.

And I am a jackass.

Sneaking into the house was stupid.

I didn’t know what I expected. I shouldn’t have expected anything.

And she had a baby.

Just what the fuck? Why didn’t any of the guys tell me she was pregnant? That she’d met someone? That she’d moved on?

The trembling in my hands could no longer be attributed to the memory of the accident. My sides were black and blue for more reasons than the crash. My heart hammered against my ribs, banging at my chest.

You idiot. You lost her. You’ve actually lost her.

Yet, what did I really think? That she’d be sitting here, waiting for my return? Holding her breath while I raced around a circle, chasing my tail and my pride? That she’d keep her hands at ten and two on her heart, like I’ve kept mine?

I pump the brakes on my racing thoughts.

Her moving on is why I left, right? I wanted her to be happy again. Wanted her to heal. Make new dreams, maybe love someone who wasn’t a failure.

I need a drink, and I shove open my truck door, breathing in the subtle smell of moving water and thick pines. Even the scent of the town is similar and yet not quite the same as I remember.

The Ferryman’s Rest is my destination. A purposely dingy-washed exterior looks like the outside of a well-worn riverboat. The kind used for hauling cargo, not people. The interior walls are weathered wood with captain’s wheels and knotted rope décor, along with low-lit lanterns hanging from the ceiling. But most of the decoration is overshadowed by the neon beer advertisements, fishing paraphernalia, and river-related quotes that litter the walls. This place feels a little like entering a bait and tackle shop that serves beer.

And the inside remains the same as it was three years ago, as if time stood still in my absence.

Trinity might have moved on, but The Ferryman’s Rest has not.

I used to come here after a hard day working construction, or on long evenings when Trin had an overnight shift at the hospital.

Here was where I hung out with friends.

The same guys currently sitting at a table near the back.

Hutch Hudson.

Marshall Grant.