Page 62 of Broken on the Mountain
Saying it out loud, admitting I'm terrified of wanting too much from a schedule that only guarantees weekends, eases something tight inside. I'm not ashamed I told her about Mom. I'm just scared that history repeats itself in ways you can't control.
But these guys? They're not letting me drown in it.
Jamie squeezes my shoulder once more before heading back to the darts board, and Knox launches into some ridiculous story about a rescue gone sideways, and Travis steals the last of my fries with zero remorse.
And for a minute, the ache dulls.
Later, after the guys finally let me escape, I sit in my truck outside the post office with a small box on the passenger seat.
I've been collecting things all weekend without letting Piper see. Ever since we decided to see if it really is the mountains that are helping her feel brighter, less under pressure.
I start piling it all in. A new thermos in her favorite color. Trail mix with the chocolate chunks she likes. Hand warmers for Chicago's brutal wind. And more gummy bears, obviously.
And a note I wrote as I watched her walk away at the airport this afternoon.
You can take the girl from the mountain, but you can't take the mountain from the girl. From, Your Forever Friday
I stare at the box, fingers drumming the steering wheel.
This is probably too much. Definitely too much. She'll think I'm clingy or desperate or—
Just be yourself, Chase.
I grab the box and head inside.
The post office is nearly empty, just the clerk sorting mail behind the counter. She knows me like everyone knows everyone around here.
She smiles when I slide the box across.
"Priority shipping to Chicago," I say.
She weighs it, slaps a label on top, and rings me up. "Lucky girl."
"Yeah," I say quietly. "She is."
I walk past Timber Tavern on the way back to my truck, and through the window I can see Knox and Travis still holding court at the booth. Knox spots me and flips me off affectionately. Travis raises his beer. Charlie, wiping down the bar, catches my eye and salutes goodnight with his towel.
I climb into my truck and sit there for a minute, engine idling, breath fogging the windshield.
The ache's still there. Probably always will be on Sundays.
But it's steadier now. Less like drowning, more like a bruise I'm learning to carry.
I can't change Sunday.
But I can make Mondays less brutal. I can be the man who keeps showing up, who keeps choosing her without making my love another obligation she has to calendar.
That's what I've always done. Ever since the day I found myself all alone.
So that's what I'll keep doing.
I pull out of the lot and head home. When I unlock my apartment door, the silence doesn't feel quite as heavy.
Because it's not empty anymore.
It's just… waiting. Waiting for Friday. Waiting for her.
And I can do that.
