Page 58 of Broken Cedar

I refold each shirt with more care than they deserve, delaying the inevitable by seconds at a time. Every drawer I close feels like another small goodbye.

I unplug my charger from the wall. I should leave soon. Allow for traffic. I quickly check under the bed to make sure I haven’t missed anything. When I’m satisfied that I have everything packed, I close the suitcase and lift it by the handle. I carry it downstairs and set it by the front door. Mom must have heard me because she calls out, “Hallie, breakfast!”

I wipe my palms on my jeans and walk toward the sound of her voice.

Mom is busy at the stove flipping pancakes. Colt sits at the table. His plate is already half-empty. He looks up when I walk into the kitchen. Our eyes meet. For one impossible second, neither of us looks away. Then he drops his gaze back to his plate. The guilt that has been pooling at the pit of my stomach is becoming almost unbearable.

“There you are,” Mom says. “I made pancakes. Blueberry. Your favorite.”

They’re not my favorite. My favorite is chocolate chip. Mom knows this. The fact that she’s making blueberry means she’s distracted, which means she’s hurting, which means this morning is going exactly the way I feared it would.

“Thanks,” I say, pouring myself some coffee. I sit across from Colt but he still won’t look at me.

For a minute, nobody speaks. Then Colt clears his throat. “New fence is holding up good,” he says, still looking at his plate. “Thought that north section might give after all that wind.”

Mom nods as she flips another pancake. “That’s good.”

“Need to check the irrigation before it gets too hot.”

“Take someone with you so you’re not doing it all on your own.” Mom says

Colt shrugs. “Shouldn’t need help.”

The conversation dies as quickly as it started.

They’re talking about fences and irrigation because those things have solutions. Broken fences can be mended. Dry paddocks can be watered. There isn’t a job for saying goodbye.

“No rain in the forecast,” Mom says, flipping a pancake. “Smooth skies, they said. Smooth skies are good for flying, right?”

“Smooth skies are good,” I agree. My voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere else.

Colt keeps his attention on his breakfast, though I catch him glancing at me once when he thinks I’m looking at my coffee. The moment our eyes almost meet, he looks away again.

I can read the set of his shoulders from across the table. The familiar tightness that says he’s holding something back because holding things back is what he does, has always done, and right now what he’s holding back is the fact that I left his bed last night and didn’t come back, and we both know what that means.

“More coffee?” Mom asks Colt.

“I’m good,” Colt says.

He picks up his coffee, takes a sip, then sets the mug down with deliberate care. Nobody says anything. The silence settles over the kitchen again, heavier this time. I eat a bite of pancake. It tastes like nothing. I eat another bite anyway to appease Mom.

Colt pushes his plate away. “I’d better get to it,” he says, standing.

Mom nods. “Take water. It’s getting hot already.”

He reaches for his hat on the table, then pauses. “Storm’s supposed to roll through Wednesday,” he says, almost as an afterthought.

Mom nods. “We’ll be fine.”

He’s still talking about the weather. It’s easier than talking about goodbye. It’s his way of saying I know you’re leaving and I’m not going to make it harder than it already is, because making things harder has never been Colt’s style.

He nods and his eyes find mine across the table. “See you,” he says.

“See you,” I say back. My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.

He nods. The screen door whines, and then he’s gone, and the kitchen feels emptier.

Mom is washing a pan at the sink with her back to me. “He’ll be fine,” she says not turning around. “You know he’s not good with words.”