Page 89 of Broken on the Mountain
I sit across from Chase in our usual booth at The Bear Paw, waiting for my breakfast while guilt eats me alive.
Last night was perfect. This morning's hike down was perfect.
Well, almost perfect.
I woke at dawn to find Chase already awake, staring at the sunrise with that far-off look I've learned means he's overthinking.
When I asked what was wrong, he just kissed my forehead and said, 'Nothing. Just memorizing this moment.'
On the hike down, I tried to bring up next weekend and the Harvest Dance—testing the waters on how bad he wants me there—but he went quiet and pivoted to trail maintenance talk.
I should've pushed.
Because now, we're sitting in the same perfect booth, ordering from the same menu, the fairy lights twinkling over my head likeI'm not about to go and ruin everything by telling him I can't come next weekend.
Betty slides two plates across the table—French toast for me, drowning in rivers of maple syrup with fresh strawberries arranged like tiny hearts. Scrambled eggs for Chase, fluffy as clouds and studded with chives.
And of course, to go with today's theme, the bacon is perfect.
Crispy-edged and glistening to go with the fresh-squeezed orange juice Betty's served in mason jars.
"Eat up, sweetheart." Betty pats my shoulder, her flour-dusted apron smelling of cinnamon. "Chase, make sure she finishes every bite."
"Yes, ma'am." His voice is as flat as I feel this morning.
Polite. Wrong.
Didn't we just share a magical night under the stars?
Take me back there,please!
Betty's eyes narrow, flicking between us, reading the tension like she's decoding a foreign language. She opens her mouth, then closes it again, bustling away with a worried glance over her shoulder.
Chase cuts his eggs, not looking at me as I pick my fork up and try to eat something.
The French toast that looked like heaven thirty seconds ago now sits on my plate like an accusation, those strawberry hearts mocking me with their cheerful arrangement.
I force myself to take a bite.
This is torture.
Sweet, syrupy, absolutely delicious torture. And not the fun kind we had under the stars last night when his hands were in my hair and his mouth was doing things that should be illegal in a national park.
No, this is the kind where every chew feels like a betrayal, where the silence stretches between us like the miles I'm about to put there when I tell him I can't come back.
Just say it, Piper. Rip off the Band-Aid.
But my throat closes around the words, trapping them somewhere between my heart and my stupidly full mouth.
"The French toast is amazing," I try, forcing brightness into my voice. "You should taste it."
"I'm good."
"Chase—"
"Your flight's in two hours." He finally looks up, and those hazel eyes that usually light up when they see me are dim. Guarded. "We should leave by nine. Weekend traffic on the mountain road can be unpredictable."
Traffic.We're talking about traffic?
