Page 11 of From the Wreckage

Everett

“Do you want to lie down for a while?” I ask, keeping my tone light. She’s pale beneath the kitchen light. Everything in me wants to keep her here to make sure she’s really okay.

But Brielle shakes her head. “I should be home when my dad gets there.”

Disappointment pulls at my chest, but I nod like I understand. “Yeah. Makes sense.” A beat passes, and then I say, “Let me take a look at your forehead before you go.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but when she looks at my face, she sits on the kitchen chair beneath the light.

I gently pry the bandage away from her forehead. The cut on her forehead is still red and angry-looking, but it’s not bleeding. “It’s not deep, so I don’t think you need stitches. Keep it clean and put some antibiotic ointment on it, okay?”

She nods. “I will.”

I nod stiffly and rebandage it for her.

Silence falls between us. We stare at one another before I finally say, “Will you… text me? Just to let me know how you’re feeling?”

Her hazel eyes flicker to mine, hesitant but soft. “If you give me your number, I will.”

I rattle it off, and she taps it into her phone, her thumbs quick and precise. A second later, my pocket buzzes.

Unknown: Now you have mine.

It shouldn’t feel like much, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hit me like a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach.

I add her name to my contacts. “Thanks.”

I help her back into my truck, buckling her in the way I did before. She’s quiet on the drive, staring out the window as if she’s trying to hold the pieces of her world together.

When we reach her cabin, she slips out before I can circle around to open the door.

“Thank you,” she says softly, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield. Then she hurries to the porch, keys already in hand.

I watch until the door closes behind her, disappointment heavy in my gut.

I put the truck in reverse and head back to my own cabin, my thoughts churning. The smell of her lingers in my truck—wildflowers and vanilla—and I inhale deeply.

The drive home feels longer and emptier. The urge to turn around is strong, but I fight it with everything I have, barely resisting.

By the time I park my truck in front of my cabin, she’s all I can think about—her voice, the way she trembled under my touch, the heated look in her eyes. All of it makes me want her, which is dangerous as hell.

I cut the engine and sit in the silence, staring out the windshield at the lake glimmering between the trees. The sun shimmers on the water, bright and blinding.

I should be relieved she’s safe. Instead, all I can think of is how badly I wanted her to stay longer.

Blowing out a sigh, I lean back in my seat. I should go inside, crack a beer, or flip on the TV to distract myself. Instead, I pull out my phone and read the four simple words she texted me.

I reread it, like somehow the meaning will shift. Like maybe the words will tell me she felt the same pull I did.

My thumb hovers over my screen, fighting the urge to type something—anything.

But I don’t.

She’s probably with her dad now, explaining what happened. The last thing she needs is me crowding her.

So I shove the phone back into my pocket and lean against the headrest, closing my eyes.

All I see is her.

She looked at me like I could be more than just the guy with the black truck.

Unable to stand it any longer, I open my eyes, push the door of the truck open, and get out. My footsteps are heavy as I go inside my cabin.

I stand in the doorway, staring at the chair where she sat. The kitchen feels emptier now, hollow in a way that gnaws at me. Her eyes, her voice, her trembling breath—it all lingers in the walls. In the air I breathe.

I rub a hand down my face, but it doesn’t shake her loose. Nothing does... and I have a feeling nothing will.

My phone buzzes, and I grab it, my breath stuttering in my lungs. But it’s not from her. It’s from Grayson.

Grayson: Gonna have to cancel tonight. Something came up with my kiddo. Next weekend work?

I blow out a relieved breath. I’d forgotten about getting a drink at The Timberline.

I text him back.

Me: No problem. Next weekend works.

The rest of the afternoon drags. I try pouring a drink, flipping through the channels, even pacing the length of the cabin like a caged animal. None of it works. Every thought circles back to her.

When dusk finally bleeds into night, I give up pretending I’m not restless. I step outside, the air cooler now, the forest alive with the hum of insects and the low whisper of wind through the trees.

The lake stretches out in front of me, black glass under the moon, still as death except for the faint shimmer where the breeze touches it.

And across the water, through the trees, the faint glow of her cabin windows calls to me.

I should look away. I should turn around and slam the damn door shut behind me.

But I don’t.

I stand there, staring across the lake, hoping for some trace of her. A movement, a shadow, anything to prove she’s there and safe.

And for the first time in a long damn time, I wish the night wasn’t ending.