Page 1 of The Space Between
CHAPTER 1
Blakelyn
The hill countrysky is split in half—one side is drenched in sunset, the other already dipping into night, like even the damn atmosphere can’t make up its mind.
Kind of like me.
The steering wheel of my little white Honda is slick with sweat. I’ve had a death grip on it for the last ten minutes, even though the car’s parked. The keys are still in the ignition. The engine is idling like it’s waiting for me to finally get the hell out and face my new life. But my fingers won’t move.
I’m here. I’m actually here.
Juniper Falls.
The town name is printed on the side of the building I just passed driving in—rusted metal letters nailed to the planked wood of the old post office like some long-forgotten Western set. The air smells like cedar, river, and dust. Like things that don’t rush. Like people who know how to stay put.
I’m not one of them. Not yet.
I’ve never stayed in one place long enough for anyone to really know me. Not since I met Tyler. Not since I let someonebreak me down and wear me like a second skin. But I’m done with that. I’m done with him.
No more bruises in places people can’t see, but I certainly feel. No more apology gifts. No more promises that twist into threats. No more lies. No more silence.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I reach for the door handle with a hand that shakes. Clenching it into a fist until my knuckles go white, I take deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart.
You left, Blakelyn. You did it. You found some backbone and you got out of Hell.
Now, get out of the damn car.
I shove the door open and step out into the thick June, Texas air. The cicadas scream like they’re cheering for me. Or warning me. I can’t tell the difference yet.
The gravel crunches beneath my white sneakers as I make my way around to the back of the car. Popping the trunk, I stare at the contents like they belong to someone else.
Eight boxes. A duffel bag. A tote bag. And a folded quilt that used to lay across the foot of my grandma’s bed.
That’s all I brought.
That’s all I have.
It’s all I could grab without him noticing… but it’s all I need.
The cabin behind me is small, compact, and worn, but not in a sad way. It’s got a charm that feels old and untouched—like someone built it with their bare hands and meant for it to last. The front door paint is chipped. I know the porch will creak as I walk over it. And a rusty windchime sings from the eave in soft metallic tones. It’s nothing like the modern, sterile apartment I shared with Tyler and that’s exactly the point.
Hoisting a box, I head for the porch steps. They sag under my weight, the wood slabs groaning as I cross over them. The screen door squeals as I push it open.
Inside, it smells like cedar and lemon and just a hint of river dampness. The landlord said it came clean and furnished. He wasn’t lying. There’s a worn, but still life left in it, leather couch, a small wooden table with two mismatched chairs, and a full bed tucked into the far corner beneath a wide window. The kitchen is barely more than a small counter, a sink, an old fridge, and an ancient gas stove, but it’s perfect.
Setting the box on the table, I let out a shaky breath I didn’t even realize I was holding and look around. Then, I laugh. It bubbles up out of my chest so fast it shocks me. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I double over from the mirth as full bellied laughter fills the quaint cabin.
I’m not crying. I’m not. This isn’t a breakdown. It’s just…release.
It’s the sound of a girl who finallyran… andlived.
It’sfreedom.
By the timethe sun is gone from the sky and the porch light flickers, I’ve moved all eight boxes inside and remade the bed with my own nice sheets and my grandma’s quilt. A few dishes I grabbed from a thrift store, along with two pans and one pot, are in the cabinets. I’ve lit the lemon sugar candle one of my students gave me at the end of last year and the smell is permeating the small space. The cabin already feels like home in a way nothing ever has. I don’t need much.
Just quiet. Just space. Just time.
Snagging a cold bottle of water from the mini-fridge, I open the front door and step outside to the porch. The river is right there—a mere thirty or so feet away, though the cabin is raised up on a hill. It’s low and winding, framed by cypress and oaktrees and lit silver by the moon. Somewhere downstream, a bullfrog croaks, low and satisfied.
