Page 145 of When It's Us
I nod, because he’s right. And he’s given me a lot to think about—both him and Hudson.
Feeling the need to break up some tension, I say, “Don’t you have some cattle to herd?”
He lifts a brow at me. “What do you think I’m doing right now?”
I can’t help but grin.
Ginger
It’sbeenaweeksince coming back from Timber Forge. The twins and I left the grocery store after stocking up on things we need for the week.
I’ve made plans to bring the boys to Seattle in two weeks to look for an apartment. I haven’t officially decided that’s the move we’re making, but I promised myself I would at least consider the idea. The only way I’ll ever truly know if Seattle is where we should be is to go there with the intent to at least give it a try.
I’ve been fighting off a migraine all day, so thankfully, the drive back home from the store is quiet. The boys’ low chatter drifts from the back seat, both blessedly unaware that I left the other half of my stupid, trusting, broken heart in Montana.
I grip the steering wheel too tight, eyes burning, when the road trip playlist I made while with Hutch shuffles on. I don’t let the tears fall—not yet anyway. I’ll wait until the boys are asleep to wallow in my misery alone with a glass of wine and the seven-dollar hunk of chocolate cake I just bought.
It's not like I spend every night crying alone in my bed. Sometimes I do it in the shower, or out in the backyard after the sun has gone down and there’s no one around to see it.
Women are resilient, but I’m convinced that’s largely in part because we break in quiet places when we can’t take another second—stolen moments in the bathroom or the garage in between switching the laundry and making dinner. Then, we put a smile on our faces and do it all over again the next day.
I miss him so damn much. I miss his easy smiles and his stupid jokes. I miss the way he looks at me and the feel of his heartbeat against my back. I miss the woman I am when I’m with him. The woman he showed me it was okay to be.
I can’t even find it in me to be angry with him anymore. I was, at first. Angry that he pulled away when we wereso close. Close to what, exactly, I don’t know. But I know it wasmore. And he wouldn’t even try. But I can’t stay angry. Because Hutch never lied to me. He never made promises he didn’t keep. He told me right from the start that he was broken. That he didn’t know how to love someone the way they deserved.
So this heartbreak, this crushing weight on my chest that feels like it’ll never let up?
That’s not on Hutch.
That’s on me.
For hoping he might be wrong about himself. For hoping what we shared was enough.
My phone dings on the center console.
I don’t have to check to know it’s not him. It’s the leasing agent—the one for the apartment close to the park, with three bedrooms that I can barely afford.
I leave the text unread.
I blocked Hutch’s number the day after I got home. He had called once and then sent a text I read twice.
I’m sorry. Please let me know you’re okay.
Eight words that were just enough to crack something in my chest wide open. I blocked him because I couldn’t waste more time trying to convince myself they meant something.
Not because I don’t care, but because I do. Too damn much. And if that’s all the text was—just him making sure I was okay—I couldn’t bear to hear from him again.
Another text comes through from Peter, confirming that I received the email for our flight. At least I don’t have to worry about spending money since he offered his miles to fly us out.
I ignore that one, too.
I don’t know if I’m ready for Seattle. I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready for something else again.
But I do know this: no one can figure this out but me. No one is coming to save me. So I’ll have to do it myself.
I’ve thrown myself back into work and getting the boys ready for school. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind full. I ordered their uniforms last night, picked out new backpacks they’ll be excited to unzip, and even let them choose those ridiculous sneakers that light up when they run or stomp their feet.
I’ve made checklists. Practiced packing their lunchboxes like it’s a goddamn love language. I keep telling myself that if I can focus on the routine, the rest of the ache might fade into the background.
