Page 53 of The Embers That Remain

I sat there for a second longer than I needed to after we hung up, my phone still in my hand; the screen had gone dark. I didn’t know if this would be the thing that finally worked or just another attempt I’d look back on later and barely remember. But the thought of doing nothing—of waking up every day with that same tightness in my chest—felt worse.

Outside, Jonah’s truck idled, a low, steady hum before shutting off. A bookshelf was strapped upright in the bed, ropes pulled taut across its sides like it might try to escape if they loosened. I pushed the door open and stepped out, the air hitting my face sharper than I expected.

“You alright?” Jonah asked, already dropping the tailgate with a hollow clang.

“Yeah,” I said, though it came out thinner than I meant. “I just feel like shit.” I reached for the straps, fingers working at the knots.

“I went to talk to Cali,” I went on, keeping my eyes on what I was doing. “Figured maybe we could clear the air. At least be civil.” I let out a quick breath that didn’t quite make it to a laugh. “There was another guy there. I hadn't expected that. And then”—I tugged harder than I needed to, the knot giving suddenly—“everything I’d planned to say disappeared.”

Jonah didn’t say anything, just moved to the other side and started on his end.

“I said some stuff,” I admitted, quieter now. “Didn’t mean most of it.” The strap slipped loose in my hands, falling against the side of the truck. “I think part of me just wanted her to feel the way I felt when she left. You know? Even for a second.” Jonah didn’t flinch or rush to tell me I wasn’t that person. He just let me sit in the truth of it. The last knot came undone, and the tension eased out of the rope all at once. It sagged between us, useless now. We stood there for a beat, neither of us reaching for the shelf yet.

“In the end I made things worse,” I said.

We lifted the custom-made bookshelf together, wood scraping softly against the bed of the truck as we shifted it toward the edge. It was heavier than it looked, forcing us to adjust our grip halfway through.

“Careful,” Jonah muttered, stepping backward so I could shift to where I didn’t trip on the walkway.

“I got it,” I said, adjusting my hold. We maneuvered it until the base touched the porch with a dull thud on the wood. I held on a second longer before letting go, flexing my fingers as the blood rushed back into them.

For a moment, neither of us moved.

“You gonna call her?” Jonah asked finally.

I shook my head, wiping my palms on my jeans. “No. Not today.”

He nodded like he’d expected that. We carried the shelf toward the front door, angling it sideways to fit through the open door. Inside, the air was cooler, dimmer; the smell of leather and books filled the space.

“Here?” I asked as we made it to his library.

“Yeah.” We set it down against the wall, easing it into place until it stood on its own.

Jonah stepped back, surveying it. “You want it anchored?” I asked.

“Later,” he said. “It’s fine for now.”

I walked back outside, needing the air again. The sky had that washed-out look it got in the late afternoon, colors fading into something dull and in-between. I leaned against the side of my truck, the metal still warm from the sun that worked to dry the pop-up storm earlier, and closed my eyes for a second. I’d gone there with something rehearsed, something measured. I wanted us to leave the past where it belonged and find a way to move forward. But the second I saw that man flirting with her, it all slipped. The sentences unraveled before I could even start them. My plan disappeared like fire devouring a field of dry grass.