Page 51 of Broken Cedar

Chapter Thirteen

“Pot roast,” Mom says, carrying the Dutch oven to the table with oven mitts that have seen better days. She sets the pot down and lifts the lid. Steam rises, carrying the rich smell of meat that’s been cooking low and slow for hours. “Dig in before it gets cold. I’m not reheating anything.”

We dig in. The potatoes are perfect. Mom’s potatoes always are. Just the right amount of buttery and garlicky. Mom talks about the garden. The tomatoes are coming in early this year, she’s already harvested three, did we want to see them, they’re on the counter, they’re practically obscene they’re so big. Colt mentions the south pasture fence. One section needs replacing before summer. The posts are starting to rot, but if the weather holds, he’ll get to it next week.

It catches me off guard, how ordinary it all feels. This could be any random Friday. A normal family dinner. Mom is happy. I watch her across the table, the way she laughs without checking to see if anyone’s watching. She looks younger. I can’t recall a time she looked this happy since Jim died.

This is what you would be walking away from.

Mom’s laughter. Colt’s quiet presence. The impossible, devastating rightness of a family dinner that shouldn’t feel as natural as it does and feels more natural than anything I’ve experienced in years.

Colt’s foot finds mine under the table. I assume it’s an accident. A second later, he does it again. This time he leaves his ankle resting against mine. I glance up to catch the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He catches me looking. His expression says everything we haven’t said, and might never say.

Mom stands, reaching automatically for the Dutch oven.

“Leave it,” Colt says, tearing his eyes from mine.

She waves him off. “I’ve been carrying heavier things than this since before you were born.”

“I know.” He stands and takes it anyway.

She gives him an exaggerated look of annoyance that lasts all of two seconds before she smiles and lets him carry it into the kitchen.

After dinner, I step outside to watch the sunset. Colt finds me here. He sits on the top step beside me.

“I like having you here,” he says softly, his shoulder brushing mine. He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but I know what it cost him to say it.

“I know,” I whisper.

For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then Colt clears his throat, like he’s debating whether he should keep going. “Place feels different when you’re here.”

I turn my head to look at him. He’s still watching the horizon. “Different how?”

He shrugs, that familiar Colt shrug that tries to make everything smaller than it is. “Quieter.”

I smile slightly. “That doesn’t sound different.”

“It is.” He takes a deep breath. “Just…” He runs a hand over his jaw. “Feels less empty.”

The words settle between us. I rest my head against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

His shoulder shifts beneath my cheek. “I know.”

And somehow, that hurts more than if he’d said anything else. For years I’d told myself I’d outgrown this place. Sitting here now, Colt’s shoulder warm beneath my cheek, I can finally admit the truth. I never outgrew it. I just got very good at living without it. I didn’t understand the difference until I came home.

Because I can picture a life here. Not a perfect one. We’d still argue over stupid things. I’d still miss the city sometimes. There would be mornings where nothing went right and weeks where the ranch demanded more than either of us had left to give.

But it would be a life. A real one. And the strangest part is that my mind doesn’t argue with the idea. It starts solving the problem.

What would I tell work? Could I ask to work remotely? Would I have to resign? What about my apartment? My furniture? My plants?

The questions come one after another, practical and relentless. Instead of frightening me, they settle something inside me. Because practical problems have practical solutions.

The sky is fully dark now, but neither of us moves. My head rests against Colt’s shoulder while the horses settle somewhere out in the pasture, the occasional nicker carrying across the quiet.

I have one more day before I’m supposed to leave and go back to the apartment I fought so hard to afford. Back to the career I’ve spent eight years building. For days I’d been trying to convince myself I was ready to leave.

Now my mind has quietly betrayed me. It isn’t planning the drive home anymore. It’s planning how I might stay. The realization catches me off guard. Not because I’ve made a decision. Because somewhere, without even noticing, I stopped imagining goodbye. I started imagining a future.