by Pam Godwin
“I won’t leave you. I would sell my soul if it meant never losing you.”
I reel in a world of emotion and feeling, drowning in the torment of if only. It’s a tragedy to feel this much for another person. A burden and a curse.
“I don’t know what to do or where I’m supposed to be or how to process what I’m feeling. I’m lost, Jarret.” I suck in a shuddering breath. “You have to let me go.”
“For how long?”
“Forever.”
“No.” His jaw turns to stone. “Never.”
It’s the reaction I feared. The one I have no armor against. I’m cracking apart inside so painfully I have to separate from myself to deal with it.
I have to convince us both of the ugly truth. “We’ve been playing a twisted game. The only winning move is to walk away. You had to know this would end eventually.”
“You’re wrong.” He grips my nape, his fingers ice cold against my skin. “We both won the second you showed up at the ranch.”
“But I came here searching for answers. I’ve been searching for so long and feel like I’m everywhere and nowhere at all.”
“You’re where you’re supposed to be, where you belong.”
“I own nothing.”
“You own me.”
My lungs lose air, and tears careen down my face. The impulse to fall at his feet steals the strength from my legs. I pivot and open the car door, leaning on it for support.
“We’re in different seasons of our lives.” I scan the glistening snowdrifts, blanketing the night with ice-white dust. “Your heart is in spring, floating in the enchantment of first love. You’re still hopeful, still planting seeds and eager to watch them grow. But I’m in the autumn of my life. I’ve loved. I’ve lost, and now it’s late. I’m tired, Jarret. I can’t give you what you deserve.”
“You’re giving up.”
“I’m giving you up. Freeing you to move on. You think you love me, but when you find the next one, you’ll thank me.”
“Is that what I am to you? Just another man to love and lose?”
No. That’s why this hurts so goddamn much. I’ve been through breakups, walkouts, and abandonments. I cried. I moved on.
Jarret Holsten isn’t a man I can move on from. He’s the man I will never know as deeply as I want even as he forever owns my heart. This isn’t a break-up. It’s a separation of souls.
So strong is the barbed wire that stitches us together that the process of separating myself from him leaves behind bleeding, shredded hunks.
But I don’t tell him this. He’ll cling to it with a determination that will crush my own.
Instead, I gather the remains of my resolve and say, “I’m sorry.”
I’m always sorry. Always regretting. Apologies mean nothing if I keep doing things I’m sorry for. But it’s different this time. I’m the one walking away, not the other way around. Does that mean I’m finally doing the right thing? Or did I finally meet the right man?
I’m crumbling. Talking myself out of this. Losing my willpower. I slide in behind the steering wheel and reach for the door handle.
“I’ll change your mind.” He grips the door, preventing me from closing it.
“Not this time. Let go.”
“I’ll heal the damage I’ve done. I’ll carry you through this.”
“Do you have such little confidence in me? You think I can’t heal on my own? That I need to be carried?”
“No.” A pained whisper. “You’re right.” A sheen of wetness dilutes his golden eyes, and he steps back, hunching into the warmth of his coat. “You don’t need me.”
Everything inside me collapses and shatters, as if he swung a mallet at my chest. “Jarret, that’s not—”
“I’ll wait.” He stands taller, shoulders back, and adopts the confident stance so intrinsic to who he is. “Take your space, your time, whatever you need. But I won’t let you take forever. That belongs to me. Your forever is mine.”
He doesn’t give me a chance to argue. Strong and swift, his strides carry him across the lot and into the shadows on the front porch.
He’s letting me go with a stipulation. It’s temporary.
If I can’t give in, and he can’t let go, we’ll come to an impasse. He’ll grow bored. Lose interest. He has so many better options.
Options I can’t think about. Women I refuse to imagine warming his bed.
I can’t do this. It’s not too late to change my mind.
I grip the steering wheel, forcing myself to stay in the car as a sob breaks free, followed by tears, choking breaths, trembling bones. I’m falling apart.
Conor emerges from the porch with a bag and my purse and sprints across the snowy lot in a whipping tangle of red hair.
I wipe my face as she approaches the car, my gaze drifting to the stable.
She leans in and glances out through the windshield. “Chicken will always have a home here.”
“Thank you.” I take a breath and let it out.
“I called my phone from yours, so you have my number. Here.” She plops my purse on my lap. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”
“Conor…”
“I packed as much of your things as I could.” She tosses the bag into the passenger seat. “When you land, wherever that may be, text me your address. If you don’t, he’ll hire a private investigator with money he doesn’t have, and he will find you. If you tell me where you are, I’ll be able to give him updates and keep him away as long as I can. Okay?”
I look back at the silhouette standing beside Jake in the shadows of the porch.
She follows my gaze and returns to me. “He’ll be okay. He has us. You’re the one I’m worried about. I know how badly this hurts. I’ve been there.”
She’s a helluva lot stronger than I am.
I remove the keys from the purse with a shaky hand. “I’m doing the right thing.”
“You’re doing the brave thing. He’ll wait. For as long as it takes.”
“I don’t want him to wait.”
“That’s not up to you.” She steps back and shoves her hands in her coat pockets. “Text me. You won’t want to, but you’ll do it. No matter what happens with Jarret, Lorne and I are your family.”
Her soft smile hits hard, but her words center me. I don’t know if I’ll ever reach out to her. I’m not that brave. But it’s nice to know she wants me to.
She closes the door and returns to the porch. I don’t watch her retreat or let my eyes drift to the dark shadow under the overhang.
I put the car in gear and maneuver through the snow and onto the dirt road. My chest is so tight I can’t breathe, but I hold it together until the ranch fades in the rearview mirror.
When the misery floods in, it’s an avalanche. Uncertainty claws from my chest. Determination holds my foot to the gas pedal. Heartbreak fills the car with godawful noise.
I turn on the radio and cry harder as Just A Fool by Christina Aguilera & Blake Shelton tortures me with cruel lyrics.
It’s okay. I’ll be okay. I might be falling apart, but it’s an opportunity to rebuild myself. I’m lost, but I’m going to find myself. I’m doing this for me.
Except I know that’s a lie. I’m doing it for him.
He deserves a woman who doesn’t resent him, who isn’t afraid of him, who wouldn’t even consider walking away from him.
I’m not good enough.
When I reach the edge of town, I leave the could’ve been’s, should’ve been’s, and never will be’s, and head south.
Destination unknown.
“You need to be patient.” Conor glares at me, her eyes as green as her sweater.
Two auburn braids fall past her shoulders in the same style Maybe wore, and it pisses me off.
I slam the refrigerator door, wobbling the contents. “It’s been two months.”
Two fucking months and Maybe hasn’t called. No messages. No updates. Nothing. I’m confined in a persistent fog of rage and helplessness. My p
atience flew the coop the moment she drove away.
Jake leans against the back counter, his face a tapestry of blue and yellow bruises. Mine looks worse. We talk with our fists, and we’ve been talking a lot lately.
“I’m calling the private investigator.” I pop the cap on a beer and move to push past Conor.
She blocks my path, anchors her fists on her hips, and raises an eyebrow.
I know that look. It judges and scolds with a terrible reminder. Not too long ago, we shut her out of our lives. We let her believe we abandoned her for six years, and here I am, raging about being ignored for two months.
“Fine.” I grit my teeth. “I’ll give her more time.”
“Thank you.” She gentles her expression. “And try to be a little more tolerable.”
I can’t promise that. Anger’s my trusted companion. It feeds me and keeps me breathing.
With a long draw from the beer, I storm out of the kitchen and into my bedroom.
Maybe’s hair tie sits on the nightstand next to the cream I used on her welts. There’s a bottle of mint shampoo in the shower, little cotton shorts under my pillow, and random girly things in the closet. Her sweet, feminine scent lingers in every corner, and I’m terrified it’ll fade before I see her again.
I’m crawling inside my skin, missing her, cursing her, hating her, and aching for her. If she saw me in this state, she would be horrified.
I writhe in my bed at night, fucking my fist like a sex-addicted fiend. I snap at everyone who looks at me. My best friend has become a white calf named Chicken, and I can’t eat meat without feeling ill. I’m twisted-up, banged-up, so fucking desperate for her I can’t stand myself.
Does she think she’s the only one hurting? I want to bloody her ass for leaving me. I want to punish myself for letting her leave.
Is she safe? Does she think about me? Is she coming to terms with what happened? Or has she moved on with someone else?
My vision turns red, and I pace the room, vibrating with fury and needing an outlet. The walls close in around me, huge sections demolished from repeated collisions with my hands.
My fists flex.
From my pocket, I remove my phone and pull up Fuck You Bitch by Wheeler Walker Jr.
As the sneering song croons through the speakers, I move to a pristine wall and lay into it.
Swinging my fists, I break through sheetrock and send up a cloud of dust.
Fuck her. I let my arms fly, savoring the pain.
I hate her. I punch harder. Right hand, Left hand. My knuckles throb.
I fucking love her. I grip my head and roar.
FOUR MONTHS LATER…
I wake. The room is empty. The walls are bare, the air stale.
Jarret isn’t here. He isn’t near.
“I don’t care.” I push out of bed and move toward the window, opening it wide.
The summer morning breeze brushes its emptiness against my face and stirs the frizzy ends of my hair. It’s not the same breeze that kisses Julep Ranch. It doesn’t caress my skin or cleanse my lungs. It doesn’t carry the warmth of his breaths.
It’s insubstantial. Meaningless. I can’t relate to it.
I’m truly lost.
Closing the window, I let my fingers linger on the sill. Traffic motors by on the narrow street three stories below. People stroll along, walking dogs and carrying coffee cups. Purpose propels their steps. They have places to go. Loved ones to see.
Since living here, I’ve kept to myself and evaded all forms of relationships. I can’t risk anyone discovering I was married. Rogan was never reported missing, and if someone starts prying and retracing my steps, they might uncover the crimes at Julep Ranch.
I left Jarret because I want him to be free of my misery. I want him to be happy, unshackled by his past, and never ever confined to prison walls.
Where are you?
Are you alone?
Do you miss me?
Are you happy?
Dangerous thoughts. They possess my mind like demons, stifled by willpower but always fighting for dominance, hissing temptations under heated breath, and easily summoned in moments of weakness.
It’s been six months since I fled the ranch. That night, I drove south and ended up in a small town in middle Texas that reminds me of Sandbank.
I checked in at a motel and ate at a diner across the street. The server was exhausted and didn’t hold back her complaints about the waitress who just quit.
I asked for the job. I don’t know why. I guess it felt like an omen. Within a week, I was earning tips and moving into an apartment down the road.
Conor started texting me a month later. She checks in regularly, always asking about me, giving me updates on Chicken, and never mentioning Jarret. My responses are vague.
I’m fine.
I’m safe.
I’m not ready to tell you where I’m at.
Until last night.
She didn’t ask for my address. She demanded it. I knew my time of avoidance was over, so I sent it to her.
It’s a four-hour drive from the ranch. I expected him to be here this morning, but I’m glad he’s not. I’m not strong enough to battle him. I’m too selfish and fragile right now to send him back to his life without me.
I think about him constantly. When I’m hurrying out the door for work, I imagine his tongue on my neck, and my skin shivers. When I’m running in the park behind my apartment, I hear his voice in my head, and my body heats. When I’m waiting tables during the lunch rush, I feel the tickle of his fingers between my legs, and my thighs clench.
I miss him more during the day when I’m busy than at night when I’m lonely.
I miss him with excruciating agony, and those pangs are permanent.
Stepping back from the window, I grab my phone and set Furnace Room Lullaby by Neko Case on repeat.
The haunting country song serenades me as I shower and get ready for work. I finish piling my hair into a bun and tilt my head at the sound of honking on the street.
Not just one horn. Multiple cars blare repeatedly, which is odd for this quiet little town.
I wander to the window and freeze.
Jarret’s truck sits out front with a trailer hitched to the back. The rig takes up more than half of the narrow street, preventing traffic from moving in either direction.
Standing on the front lawn three stories below, he stares up at me from beneath his hat, a braided lead in his hand, and Chicken beside him.
My heart rate explodes with fear and elation, and the hairs on my nape stand on end.
He’s here.
He brought Chicken.
I can’t breathe.
God, he’s gorgeous. Tight jeans, fitted t-shirt, tanned skin, muscles flexing from here to there. His face hides in the shade of his hat, but I feel the burn of his predatory eyes along my skin.
He came for me.
That means he hasn’t moved on.
But he has to. He can’t be here. How do I make him understand that without hurting him? How far will I twist and break him so he can be free of me?
I don’t have it in me to be cruel, but we can’t fall back together. I’m too mixed-up in guilt and distrust. He murdered my husband, and I didn’t tell him I was married. He’s a killer, and I’m deceitful. The blood has seeped too deep, the wounds too infected. We’re a toxic combination.
I have to stay away, even if it means wrapping myself in the hell of my own undoing.
We stare at each other through the glass, across the distance. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to speak or gesture at me to come out. He just watches, ignoring the honking around him, disregarding the entire world, as if I’m the only thing that exists.
We’re in our own universe, and I can almost hear his heartbeat in the magic of the moment.
He’s waiting for me. Waiting for me to go to him. Waiting for me to take him back. Doesn’t he realize how much happier he’ll be if he just lets me go?
With a steeling breath, I
close my eyes. Then I step out of view from the window. Sliding down the wall, I land on my heels and hug my knees to my chest.
The song cycles three more times. Tears sting my face, hot and relentless, pouring from splintered cracks.
Then the honking stops. I peek out the window.
He’s gone.
A week passes before I see him again. He brings Chicken and stands under my window. Nothing more. Just his unyielding stance, his silence, his direct eye contact. He’s sending an unmistakable message.
I’ll wait.
As summer withers into autumn, his visits continue. Once a week. Twice a week. The days are irregular. Sometimes he comes alone and watches me run in the park. Often, he arrives at night and sits beneath my window.
How do I deal with this? Indirect resistance to his presence, avoidance of conversation, procrastination—these are the only tactics I have. Of course, they’re not effective.
Meanwhile, I’m tormented by the fact that he spends eight hours in his truck on the days he visits me. He’s missing work, which he can’t afford to do. He’s stalking, which is the complete opposite of moving on. And he’s making me crazy.
I find myself looking for him, searching the streets, trembling on pins and needles for his next visit.
Then winter plunges the temperatures below freezing, and his routine changes.
He shows up at the diner where I work.
On my lunch break, I sit at the bar, watching the ice melt in my soda. He lowers onto the stool beside me and orders coffee from the server.
We sit together in silence as flurries of snow whistle past the windows. If anyone’s watching us, they don’t know we have history. They don’t realize how out of place and lost we are. A widow and a murderer, stuck in a broken love story.
Then he looks at me, and an electric spark tingles from my scalp to my toes and deep inside my bones. In that moment, I’ve never felt so alone.
I wish I’d never met him. I resent the unwavering love I feel for him. I silently will him to leave.
He finishes his coffee and walks out the door without a word or a glance.
And that’s how we spend the winter. Sitting at the bar during my lunch break. Sharing a moment of longing, regret, and uncertainty. Those are my feelings. He broadcasts something entirely different.
