Page 47 of Made for Wilde

When we finally made it out of bed, it was almost dinner. We ate leftovers at his little kitchen table, our knees pressedtogether. We talked for hours, about my old life, his regrets, what we’d do if being together wasn’t so complicated.

After dinner, we watched the fire, and I fell asleep on his chest. I felt safe, cherished, and wanted in a way I never had before. That’s what terrifies me now.

The more time I have with him, the harder it is to believe that walking away is the right thing. I keep thinking about the way he looked at me, how gentle his hands were. I know what we said, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to lock this away and act like he never touched me.

It hurts more than I ever thought it could.

And now it’s Monday morning.

Eventually, I force myself up and shower. The hot water doesn’t clear my head or the ache in my chest.

Getting dressed is torture. My bra is tangled. My jeans barely zip. Koda moves around, putting the room back together, folding the blanket just so, all careful and quiet. I steal glances, memorizing the curve of his shoulders, the scar over his hip, the way the light softens the lines around his eyes.

The clock ticks toward six-thirty. No matter how slow I move, time keeps running out.

I wish I could freeze this moment and live in it forever.

Koda walks me to the front door, his hand resting on my lower back. The cabin is quiet, sun just beginning to slice through the trees outside. He opens the door and cold mountain air sweeps in, making me shiver.

He looks down at me.

“You sure you want to go?”

I force a smile.

“I have to. If I don’t, I’ll never be able to leave.”

His hand lingers on my cheek, thumb tracing the line of my jaw.

“I wish things were different.”

“Me too.”

I step outside. The mud from last night is half-frozen. Koda follows and locks the door behind us. He walks me to his truck, not saying a word, just holding my hand.

Each step away from the cabin feels like a little death.

I climb into the passenger seat. He shuts the door, then rounds the hood to the driver’s side. For a second, I think he might say something else, confess something that will make all of this make sense.

But he just starts the engine and shifts into gear.

The world at the bottom of the mountain feels like a different planet.

Koda pulls into the cracked parking lot of my apartment complex, his truck looming over the sad collection of sedans and hatchbacks. Streetlights flicker, casting everything in yellow haze. Then he parks, kills the engine, and sits there staring at the steering wheel.

The silence is suffocating.

I keep my eyes on the dashboard. Every second that ticks by is one less second I get to pretend I’m still his.

“I guess this is it then,” I say. “We go back to being strangers now.”

Koda’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look at me.

“Thank you so much for everything, Koda,” I continue. “For the ride and letting me stay over and?—”

“Charlotte,” he says, but I can’t stop now or I’ll fall apart completely.

“I had a really great time. It was...” I swallow hard.