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The cold hits me when I step outside the diner. It matches the chill that seems to have seeped into my bones already, right about when I’d seen Coop’s face go pale as I’d told him I had to leave.

It hurts so much. I’d been worried about his reaction, but I hadn’t expected him to get quite that upset. I probably should have expected it. But I hadn’t.

I close my eyes for a moment, wishing I didn’t have to go. But then I glance toward Brenna’s car, parked just a few spots down. She’s sitting in the passenger seat, staring blankly out the window, sort of in my direction but sort of not. And I can see the tear stains on her cheeks, even from here. I don’t have a choice. I have to go. My stomach feels sick.

She blinks, and her eyes finally meet mine. There’s something of a silent question in her expression. Only I really don’t want to tell her how badly all that went in the diner, so I try to smile. With how well she knows me, she’ll definitely see right through it. But I hope she’ll also see that I’m not ready to talk about it.

More importantly, I just really, really don’t want her feeling guilty at all for needing me to take her home.

It’s all screwed up enough already without adding in more upset feelings.

I take a deep breath, but the frigid air seems to burn my lungs, and it’s not soothing or comforting like I’d wanted. Then I jog down the row of cars and climb in, taking my place in the driver’s seat. Brenna stays quiet as I put my seat belt on and start the car, but before I can shift into reverse, she reaches over and sets her hand on my thigh.

“I’m sorry, Josh,” she says.

I shake my head. “No, don’t be. I just...”

How do I tell her I think I just broke Coop’s heart? That it’s still all my fault, and she shouldn’t be apologizing? How do I tell her I’m scared I might have just ruined the amazing thing Coop and I had just found again? That I didn’t even really get to explain myself because as soon as he even heard me say I have to leave, all the light left his eyes?

I need to make sure he knows why I’m leaving and that I’m coming back. I’d tried to explain, but I’m not sure the words came out right or that he really heard me. And I’m not entirely sure he even believes me anyway.

My chest tightens, and I lower my head into my hands for a moment and take another deep breath. “D-do you know, um, if there’s a florist in town? I think I need to make a quick stop before we leave.”

When I glance over at Brenna, she’s nodding, and she pulls out her phone. A moment later, she lifts the phone to show me her screen.

“White Hills Florist. Opened at ten, just a few minutes ago. They’re just down the road, near the hospital,” she says.

“Do you mind? I know you want to leave now, but I really need to do this first. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”

She shakes her head and puts her phone back in her pocket. “It’s fine. And I’m sorry.”

I hate that she apologizes again. This isn’t her fault. But I have to do this. I have to do everything I can to make sure Coop knows I’m serious. I will not be leaving him again. God.

“I’ll hurry. I just...” I trail off when she puts her hand on my arm. It’s a little comforting, like her touch has always been. But even her warmth isn’t quite enough to keep the cold out. Not right now.

I start the car, and we head over to the florist. It takes me a few minutes because I have to write a note inside the card and words are really, really hard right now. Then I have to confirm several times that yes, I do want this bouquet of two dozen red roses delivered today to Coop at Mel’s Diner. There’s a moment where I wonder if the florist might refuse to make the delivery. We are in rural Nebraska, after all. And I have to try to ignore the way my heart’s racing with anxiety, ignore how I’m doing this very public thing that’s essentially announcing I’m gay. But then, the woman smiles, and her eyes soften a bit, and she asks me to confirm what time I want the delivery made.

Five minutes later, I’m climbing back into Brenna’s car, and I have a little bit of hope. Mostly, it’s hope that I haven’t just screwed everything up. Again. Hope that he’ll read my note and let us talk when I call later. Hope that I’m not making another of the biggest mistakes of my life.

Brenna’s quiet when I start up the car and pull out onto the main road, heading east. After a few minutes, when we’re several miles outside of White Hills, her hand sets on my thigh.

“I’m sorry for making you do this. I shouldn’t have asked this of you. I should have just stayed there and...”

“Bren, please, don’t apologize. Really,” I say. I take one hand off the steering wheel and reach down to cover her hand. “I don’t want you to feel like... like my mistakes are your fault.”

I glance at her, but she’s staring straight ahead of us now. She shakes her head slightly. “I tried to stick it out, especially since I knew you needed this week with Coop. But my mom and dad—they don’t mean to be, um, upsetting me. And they’re not really. I mean, it’s more just that... I need some space to—to grieve or... something. It was too much to stay there. I’ve never felt so trapped before, and I just really, really needed to get away...”

God, her words hurt, and I can feel my guilt flaring up again. I’m actually not sure I’ve ever heard her say anything like this before. I’m not sure she’s ever felt—or told me she’s felt—anxiety like this.

She’s always been so completely down-to-earth, with this quiet confidence about her. She’s not arrogant in any way, just easygoing, rolls with whatever comes. I’m the one with all the anxiety and shit always going on. And she’s always been here to support and encourage me. Always.

Now, I’ve caused her all this grief—which she somehow, somehow still doesn’t blame me for and understands and isn’t mad about—and I just can’t not be here for her too. I can’t not drive her home and make sure she’s okay. I can’t.

She takes her hand back, and when I look over at her again, she’s got her eyes closed and her head tilted back against the headrest. My heart clenches.

I want to say so many things to her. Apologize again. Tell her how beautiful and wonderful she is. Tell her how much I still love her. But I think she might need some space here, too, inside the car—space to just have her own thoughts and sort through them, away from her parents and without me forcing her to remember the life she’d had planned for us. So I put both hands back on the steering wheel and focus my attention on the drive.

And I try not to think about what Coop might be doing right now and whether he’s even going to accept the delivery.

***

We stop for gas almost three hours later, in a small town called York. Brenna actually slept almost the whole time, and when we pull up into the parking lot of the gas station, she frowns for a moment before offering to run in and buy some food for the road while I pump gas.

She’s usually one to want to stop at a sit-down restaurant to eat, so her offer surprises me a bit. But I quickly nod an agreement, and we both get out of the car. The tank doesn’t take long to fill, and when I’m finished, I climb back into the car and turn it on, cranking the heat up all the way to stave off the chill seeping in through the windows.

Then I swallow hard and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. I haven’t checked it since we left White Hills, even though I’ve felt it buzz a few times now. And I don’t really know what I’m expecting. Coop’s working; given that it’s probably right in the middle of lunchtime rush right now, he wouldn’t be sitting there messing around on his cell phone. Or texting me.

I’d asked them to deliver the flowers at a quarter to two—just before his break, but when it shouldn’t be too busy. That’s still about forty-five minutes from now. So I shouldn’t be surprised when the notifications are not from him. I shouldn’t be. But my stomach sinks all the same.

One text message is from a patient of mine, asking a question about an exercise I’d given her. I reply with a short response and link to a YouTube video to remind her how the exercise is supposed to be done. The other notification is a text from my mom, and I’m still staring at my phone, trying to decide whether to read the message, when Brenna gets back into the car.

“Something important?” she asks as she sets a small shopping bag down on the floor and buckles her seat belt.

I frown but don’t answer right away. Instead, I take the plunge and tap on my mom’s name. It’s a short message. Just a brief request for me to call her when I get the chance. I swallow hard.

We don’t talk a lot, me and my mom. Just slightly more often than I talk to my dad, I guess. Holidays, birthdays, funerals... weddings. So unless someone died...

I clear my throat. “My mom wants me to call her,” I say, still staring at the words on my phone screen.

Brenna’s quiet for a beat, then says, “Oh.” I hear her shuffle in her seat. “Are you going to?”

“She probably . . . heard about the wedding.”

“Probably.”

My stomach twists into knots. I don’t know if I have the strength to think about this right now. I don’t know if I’m ready to tell her—which really means telling them, both of my parents—and I don’t know if I ever will be.

And just like always, Brenna is here for me. She sets her hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently.

“No one is entitled to know, Josh,” she reminds me softly. “It’s for you to decide, when you want to. If you want to.” Then she pulls her hand back, and I glance over at her.

“They’re my parents,” I say, although it’s a weak argument. “But—”

It’s suddenly there and sharp and degrading—my dad’s voice in my head. Yelling. Cursing. Angry and intense.

It broke me before. It scared me enough that I shut myself away, rejected my feelings, lost my best friend. He made me loathe myself, hate myself, hide myself. I’d learned to pretend—pretend I was someone else, with feelings I didn’t have.

And my mom, she just stood back and watched it all.

“But?” Brenna asks, her voice still gentle and soft and understanding.

“But I-I can’t.” That’s all I can manage. Her hand is on mine again, and she takes away my phone and sets it down on the center console.

“Then don’t, Josh. Not now at least. Not until you’re ready, or until you want to tell them,” she repeats. “They are not entitled to know.”

“But the wedding?”

“We called it off. Mutually. For personal reasons. That’s all.”

It makes sense, and I nod. She’s right. She’s always right, I think.

“You can call her later—tomorrow, or whenever you’re ready—and you can tell her just that. And you don’t have to tell her any more than that. You don’t ever have to tell them.”

I nod again, and I glance back at my phone. The screen is black now, not even the time showing. Somehow, that makes it easier, not seeing my mom’s name there, reminding me.

“You’re—you’re right. I’ll... call her tomorrow,” I say, and when I look over at Brenna, she’s just smiling encouragingly. “And I’ll tell her it was mutual. And personal. And that’s it.”

“Good,” she says as she shifts back to settle in her seat. Her eyes lift up, and she leans forward a bit and looks out the windshield toward the horizon to the south. “You know, I think it might rain. Those clouds coming in look a little dark?”

It sounds like something so normal to talk about—the weather. Almost out of place now. But I suppose she’s trying to redirect the conversation, and that’s also probably the right thing to do.

I glance in the same direction she’s looking, and there are indeed some dark clouds moving in. Normally, I’d think it’s beautiful. However, given that I need the roads to stay clear so I can get back to White Hills, hopefully tomorrow, and rain could mean ice, which could mean uncertain road conditions, it just makes my stomach turn.

I shake my head. “Maybe rain, just a bit? But I haven’t heard anything about it being something to worry about. So, um, maybe it’s—it’s a quick-moving storm, and—”

Brenna’s hand settles on top of mine again, and I hadn’t even realized I started trembling. “Josh.”

I twist back to her, and she smiles at me—that same smile of hers that’s kind and gentle and understanding.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry. I’m sure you won’t have any trouble getting back.” She pauses, and her expression turns sad as she goes from reassuring to uncertain. “I’m really sorry for making you do this. I, um... I hope it’s not... I don’t want to cause you guys any trouble or—”

“Bren, you’re not causing any trouble. Really.”

She arches her eyebrows at me with a skeptical look that’s also got a hint of something silly in it. “So you spent almost two hundred dollars on flowers earlier just because? You always had to have a pretty good reason when you’d buy me flowers.”

If she wasn’t grinning now, that comment might have hit very differently. But she’s clearly teasing me, and something about that feels much better and much more normal than all of our awkward apologies to each other in the last few hours. And it seems like she wants to be very sure that I know she’s joking, because she punches my arm lightly and then winks at me.

I manage a small smile, and I’m about to make some goofy comeback when the rain suddenly starts falling in large, heavy drops. We both grimace.

I put the car into drive. “Ready to go?”

She nods. “Yeah.”