Page 82 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
I reach the end of the letter, where she signs off with "XOXO, Skye," and the simplicity of it, the casual goodbye after everything we've shared, leaves me hollow.
I read it again, slower this time, trying to hear her voice in the words. Trying to understand. But all I can think is that she's gone. Just like that. No goodbye, no chance to tell her?—
Tell her what? That I want her to stay? That in the short time she's been here, she's become a big part of my life? What right doI have to ask that of her? This was always temporary. A beautiful detour in her life, nothing more.
I fold the letter carefully, sliding it into my pocket. I stand, taking another look around the room that was hers. The sunlight coming through the window highlights the emptiness, makes it stark and undeniable.
She's gone.
I make my way back downstairs, feeling every one of my forty-six years in the stiffness of my knees, the heaviness in my chest. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, the front door swings open, and Buck and Ford walk in, deep in conversation. They stop short when they see me, something in my expression making Buck's smile fade.
"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice sharp with concern.
I pull the letter from my pocket, holding it out without a word. Ford takes it, his brow furrowing as he unfolds it. Buck reads over his shoulder, his massive frame going completely still. The only sound in the bar is their breathing and the soft rustle of paper as Ford turns it over, as if expecting more on the back.
"She's gone?" Buck finally says, his voice hollow. "Just like that?"
I nod, unable to find words that feel adequate.
"So Jed finished up with her car," Ford says quietly. "She mentioned yesterday he thought the part would be in."
"She could have said goodbye," Buck says, a rare edge of anger in his voice. "She could have at least done that."
"She explains why," Ford replies, tapping the letter. "She was afraid she wouldn't be able to leave if she tried to say it in person."
"So instead she just... vanishes? Leaves a fucking note?" Buck's voice rises slightly. "After everything we shared? After the other night?"
I understand his anger. Part of me feels it too—a sharp, hot flare of betrayal that she would leave this way. But another part of me understands. It would have been hard, maybe impossible, to look us in the eyes and say she was going.
“At least she left a note,” Ford says softly, folding the letter again.
"A note isn't a goodbye," Buck insists, but the fight is leaving his voice, replaced by sadness.
"No," I agree, finding my voice at last. "It's not. But, apparently, it's what she could give us."
We stand in silence for a moment, the weight of her absence settling around us. I think of her laugh, the infectious smile she flashed when she was genuinely amused. The feel of her skin under my hands. The trust in her eyes when she looked at me. All of it gone now, existing only in memory.
"I always knew she'd leave eventually," I say, not sure if I'm trying to convince them or myself. "We all did."
"Knowing it and living it are different things," Ford replies, his voice measured but tight.
Buck runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've seen a thousand times when he's frustrated. "I just wish..."
He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't need to. We all wish the same thing—that she had stayed. That we had more time. That things could have been different.
"What do we do now?" Buck asks, looking between Ford and me.
It's such a simple question, but I don't have an answer. What do we do? We go on, I suppose. We open the bar, we serve drinks, we live our lives. Just like we did before she came. Just like we did after Miranda left.
But it won't be the same. It can't be. Skye carved out a space in our lives, in our hearts, and now that space is empty, echoing with her absence.
"We respect her choice," Ford says finally. "And we remember the good times."
It sounds reasonable, adult, mature. Everything Ford always is. But I can see in his eyes the same hollowness I feel in my chest.
I nod, clapping a hand on Buck's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get this place ready to open."
We move through the familiar routine—flipping chairs off tables, stocking the bar, checking inventory. The motions are automatic, requiring no thought, which is good because my mind is miles away, thinking about Skye as she drives further and further from Flounder Ridge. From us.
