Page 12 of Broken Cedar

Instead, I sink onto the edge of the bed, still half-dressed, my jeans hanging open, my hair a mess around my shoulders.

The room smells faintly of cedar and old quilts. And beneath that…Colt. His scent still clings to my skin. I close my eyes. That doesn’t help because every time I blink, I see him. His face inches from mine. The way he looked at me afterward. Like he wanted to stay. Like he knew he couldn’t.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes until little bursts of light bloom behind my eyelids.

What the fuck just happened?

My body aches in places that have nothing to do with sex. It’s the ache of wanting something I can never forget. In one day’s time I’ll pack my bag. I’ll drive back over the mountain. By this time Monday morning, I’ll be back in my apartment. Back to conference calls. Emails. Traffic. Takeout containers in the recycling. The life I built. The life I chose.

I should feel relieved. Instead, the thought settles in my chest like grief. Because somewhere between this morning and tonight, I’ve stopped pretending that leaving fixed anything. It only postponed it.

I turn onto my side and pull the quilt over my shoulder, not even bothering to shower. The pillow smells like Mom’s laundry detergent. Not Colt. Already, I’m trying to hold onto things that are slipping away.

Sleep doesn’t come for a long time. When it finally does, I dream about home. And for the first time in eight years, I don’t know which place I mean.

Chapter Four

The kitchen is nothing like yesterday morning. Instead, it’s just Mom at the counter and Colt sitting quietly at the kitchen table. I stop in the doorway. Not because I’m surprised to see him. Because somehow, after everything that happened last night, Colt standing in my mother’s kitchen feels more dangerous than anything we did in the dark.

“Morning, Hallie,” Mom says as she places a plate piled high with leftovers on the table—deviled eggs and tater tot casserole.

I study Mom, checking for any sign that she knows what Colt and I did last night, but she seems blissfully unaware.

“Morning,” I mumble, my eyes darting to Colt before flicking away.

There’s an awkward silence because neither of us acknowledges the other. Colt shifts his weight, staring down at his mug of coffee, and I can’t tell if it’s out of a desire to avoid looking at me or just the comfort of routine.

It’s almost comical how everything feels different this morning. If only I knew what it meant for us moving forward. Who am I kidding? It’s like Colt said last night. This was just a one-time thing, to get it out of our systems. Now we pretend it didn’t happen, and everything goes back to normal.

Except it doesn’t feel normal. And I’m not sure I want it to be just a one-time thing.

Mom’s watching the two of us, likely trying to figure out why there’s so much tension between us. I busy myself by fixing a cup of coffee, careful to avoid Colt’s gaze.

“What’s the plan for the leftover food?” I ask, deliberately steering the conversation away from what’s undoubtedly lurking just beneath the surface.

Mom begins outlining her thoughts, and I lean into her chatter, offering to pack things up or find containers. Anything to keep my hands busy while I avoid Colt.

“Colt, can you help me return these borrowed tables?” she continues.

Colt nods, stepping closer, and I catch myself glancing in his direction, the urge to reach out to him tugging at me like an invisible thread.

“After, I thought we could go check the barn and see how that fence held up,” he suggests casually, as if nothing has changed between us. As if last night never happened.

I nod, though my insides twist at the idea of being alone with him again. “Sure, sounds good. I’m just going to make sure I’ve got everything packed and ready for my flight. I’ll need to leave super early tomorrow morning.”

He nods, a feather-light movement passing over his jaw.

I carry my coffee mug to the sink. I rinse and set it in the dish rack beside Colt’s, and climb the stairs to the spare room. My suitcase sits on the floor like an accusation. I don’t really need to pack, not until tonight. I just needed to escape the kitchen.

My laptop sits on the desk. I open it and the screen lights up with the familiar blue glow of my work login. I open my email. Forty-three new messages since yesterday morning. Client follow-ups. Meeting confirmations. A thread about Q3 projections that has generated approximately seven thousand words of corporate jargon, none of which I can bring myself to care about right now. I scan the subjects, flag the urgent ones, my fingers moving on autopilot.

Then it arrives. A new email, timestamped 9:17 a.m. From my boss. Subject: “URGENT: Q3 Planning Session Reschedule.”

The body is brief. The planning session we’ve had on the books for two months needs to move. Tomorrow, not Tuesday. Client conflict. Can I make it work?

It’s not really a question. In my world, the right answer is always yes. Yes, I can move meetings. Yes, I can rearrange my life. Yes, I can make it work because making impossible things work is part of the job.

My fingers hover over the keyboard. The response forms in my head. I could write it in my sleep. I don’t type anything. I just stare at the screen until the words blur. I should answer it. I should leave. Instead, I close the laptop and head downstairs.