Page 28 of Broken Trails
“I-I… I’m so sorry.”
“Forget it.” My heart hammers against my ribcage, and I ignore the ache building behind my eyes. The wheels of my trolley squeal as I storm away, past shelves that blur as I blink too fast.
I don’t care what’s in the basket, I just need to get out.
At the self-serve checkout, I scan items like a robot, ice cream trembling slightly in my hands. My fingers fumble for my card as a group of women at the next register glance my way. I meet their stares head-on, jaw tight. I can survive a few whispers.
Outside, the sun feels too bright, and I walk quickly to my car, pretending the warmth doesn’t feel like punishment.
Back at the glorified shoebox the real estate agency called a “rental retreat,” I drop the shopping bags on the chipped bench and power up my laptop. I tell myself it’s just a quick check, nothing more. But as soon as my inbox opens, my fingers fall into rhythm, and hundreds of unread emails flood in.
Client updates marked all good. Project notes flagged ahead of schedule. Threads full of check-ins and light-hearted banter. They’re fine. More than fine. The tension in my shoulders loosens just a fraction, relief creeping in, yet it doesn’t settle the guilt pressing at my ribs.
They’re doing well without me. My team. My clients. The life I built.
The people I left behind.
Jeff’s voice echoes in my head, clear as glass and twice as sharp: “You come first. They’ll be fine.” He’s said it to me too many times now. Hammered it in. Begged me to believe it.
With a heavy sigh, I shut off my laptop and let the silence spread around me like a cool embrace. No matter how hard I try to will it away, the ache is still there. The pull to fix things, to hold the world together like glue.
But maybe, for once, I don’t have to be the one who does.
I blink open my eyes, lids still heavy with the kind of sleep that hits like a freight truck—unwelcome, jarring, and far too sudden. What time is it?
My body feels exhausted, but for the life of me, I cannot pinpoint why. I roll over sluggishly, instinctively searching for the time, though no clock or phone sits within reach. I exhale through my nose, dragging myself upright, the weight of unrest clinging to my skin like a second layer.
The cold tiles in the bathroom sting against my bare feet, grounding me as I lean over the basin, letting cold water rush over my hands before cupping it to my face. My reflection stares back at me, blurry at first, but gradually sharpening.
Eyes ringed with sleep, hair a tangled in a defiant mess of auburn curls that seem to frizz with every breath I take. I grab my toiletry bag, yank out my brush, and start tugging it through the knots, wincing as I try to force some kind of order onto the chaos sitting atop my head. I don’t try to be gentle. I don’t have the energy for gentle. Not today.
When I’m at least satisfied enough to not look like I’ve just crawled out of the gutter, I flick off the light and wander backinto the living room. The floorboards creak underfoot as I cross to the couch, where my phone sits exactly where I left it—plugged in, screen black. I tap it. The time flashes up in bold white numbers. 3:14.
I blink. That can’t be right.
I stare at the screen again, heart picking up speed as my brain tries to make sense of it. I got home around nine this morning—dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter, made a coffee, and curled up on my bed for what I thought was a quick minute. But I must’ve blacked out completely. Six hours. I’ve been asleep for six hours in the middle of the day, and I don’t even remember shutting my eyes.
That’s not like me. I don’t do this. I don’t lose time like that, not unless I’m sick—or spiralling. But I know exactly what this is. No routine. No structure. Nothing familiar. Just this temporary house in a town I swore I’d never come back to. Everything I used to be is unravelling quietly at the edges while I try to pretend I’m fine. But I’m not fine. I’m unmoored. My days blur. Nights stretch too long. I forget to eat. Forget what day it is. I’m floating through this weird limbo, and the only thing that feels real anymore is the exhaustion.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze.
My heart lurches, one painful beat after another—each one louder than the last as a cold dread slices through me. I just stand there, not making any effort to move, eyes fixed on the front door like I can will it to vanish.
It’s not him. It can’t be Liam. He doesn’t know where I’m living. He’s not supposed to. No one told him. Unless my mother—
Fuck.
My stomach clenches. I swallow hard, trying to steady my breathing, but it’s no use. The panic is already curling its fingersaround my throat, tightening. Because what if it is him? What if he found me? What if the past I finally clawed my way out of is standing on the other side of that door?
I edge toward the front door, each step careful, deliberate. My fingers slide the safety lock into place more out of instinct than strategy. I pause, letting the silence stretch, grounding myself with a few steady breaths before cracking the door just enough to peer through. I release the breath I’d been absentmindedly holding, because of all people—of course—it’s him.
Michael stands out the front, that insufferable, smug grin pulling at his mouth, one side deeper than the other, forming that damned dimple he seems so proud of. He raises a brow at the sound of the lock still engaged.
“Relax with the locks. I’m not here to rob you.” I keep the chain on, eyes narrowing. His gaze flicks to it and lingers. “Were you expecting someone else? What’s with the Fort Knox treatment?” His tone lacks the usual teasing edge. There’s something measured about it, a beat slower, more observant.
I straighten. “Why are you here? How did—how did you get my address? This is trespassing.”
