Page 78 of Shattered Promise

The air is soft and damp when I step outside. The sun hasn’t quite burned through the haze yet, and the scent of rain still clings to everything. I hug Mason’s henley tighter around me and walk the path toward my cabin, humming to myself without even realizing it.

The grass is still damp beneath my shoes, sunlight catching on the dew like shattered glass. Everything feels hushed, like the world hasn’t quite remembered to start spinning yet.

It’s a short walk back to my cabin, maybe five minutes, but every step feels strange and lovely. When I round the last curve of the path and my porch comes into view, I stop short.

There’s a bundle of flowers lying just beside the door.

They’re crumpled slightly at the edges—wildflowers, mostly. Purple asters, baby’s breath, a few battered sunflowers. They’re a little worse for wear, like they’d been dropped and forgotten in a rush. I crouch to pick them up, the stems still damp with dew and rainwater.

A soft smile tugs at my mouth. I don’t remember seeing these kinds of flowers growing in the wild around here, so Mason must’ve gone out and bought them. Had them last night, before I launched myself into his arms and forgot the entire world existed beyond his chest and the sound of rain. The thought makes me press the flowers to my chest for a second, stupidly sentimental.

But I don’t care. He thought of me. That’s what matters.

Inside, my cabin is dim and quiet, smelling faintly of lavender. My flashlight is still on the living room floor, tipped on its side. I find my phone next to it, the screen lighting up with a flood of missed notifications.

I don’t check them yet.

Instead, I grab a canned espresso from the fridge, pop the top, and carry it to the table. I open my cabinet to grab a glass when I spot an unfamiliar mug on the shelf. It’s white with some chips along the rim and a blue pattern around the lip—tiny birds flitting across the sky. Huh, that’s strange. I don’t remember this being Nana Jo’s, but maybe it’s Mason’s, and I accidentally took it from his house. I pour my espresso into it and walk back to the table. My laptop’s already half open—just where I left it the last time I tried to talk myself into being brave.

Only this time, I don’t hesitate.

I roll up my sleeves and slide into the chair, the worn wood cool beneath my thighs, even through the sweatpants. The espresso is sharp and familiar on my tongue, and I roll my shoulders back, flexing my fingers before I type.

To: Debra Caldwell

Subject: Friday Meeting

Hi Debra,

I hope you're well. I just scheduled a meeting with your calendar for Friday morning. There’s been a personal situationI’ve been working through, and I’d appreciate the chance to talk face to face before returning to the office.

Thanks for understanding.

—Abby

I read it twice,then hit send before I can change my mind. My heart kicks once, hard, but then . . . stillness andclarity.

I open a new note tab and start a checklist. Sublet apartment, cancel utilities, retrieve car. I should feel overwhelmed and anxious. And I am a little, but mostly it’s like I’m finally moving with my own current instead of against it.

Maybe this is what it feels like to stop running.

I close the tab and click into my messages. Six texts from Beth blink at me, stacked neatly in a row, all from the last week.

Beth: I need your voice at the bar this week. You free?

Beth: Everyone’s asking for you!

Beth: Got an availability for Tuesday.

Beth: Friday is available if you’re free!

Beth: Seriously, you’re not ghosting me, are you?

Beth: I’ll be here all week. Come have a drink, you don’t even have to play if you don’t want to.

I stare at the last message, thumb hovering over the reply button. It’s been weeks since I answered anything from the city, since I let a single thing from that world claw its way into mine. But it doesn’t feel like a threat anymore. It just feels . . . distant.

I swipe out of the text thread without responding.