Page 33 of Tee the Season
“Morning,” she murmurs, already withdrawing.
“Morning.” I want to pull her back, keep her close, tell her everything.
Instead, I let her go.
She slips out of bed and grabs her robe. “I’ll make coffee.”
The pour-over setup sits on her counter. She measures beans with the same precision as every other morning, but there’s something different in the way she’s moving today. Stiffer.
She makes two cups, and when she hands me a steaming mug with a snowman on it, her smile is small and sad, and she won’t quite meet my eyes. I grip the mug too tight, the heat biting into my palms.
“I…” I start, desperate to reassure her, but trailing off when I realize I can’t. Not right now.
“You don’t have to explain.” She’s looking into her coffee, not at me. “I get it.”
“Get what?”
“Storm’s over.” She says it as a fact, not a question. “You’re probably dying to get down to that seventy-degree Texas weather. To see Sophie.”
The assumption stings. The easy out she’s giving me.
“Tabitha—”
“Thank you for everything,” she continues, filling the silence I’m leaving. “For being Santa, for the tech setup. If it weren’t for you—”
“It was nothing.”
“I mean it.” She finally looks up, and her eyes are bright, but she’s not the sort of woman to let me see her cry. I haven’t earned that. Not yet. “You didn’t have to do any of that. It was really kind.”
Kind.
The word sits wrong, makes me want to put down my mug and shake her. I wasn’t being kind. I was helping her, supporting herevent, and learning what it feels like to be part of a community. Learning what it feels like to fall in love.
But I can’t say that. Not yet. Not until I know for sure this job is real, that staying is possible, that I’m not about to promise something I can’t deliver.
“What we had these past few days…” She trails off and takes a sip of coffee. I watch her throat work as she swallows. “It was really special. I won’t forget it.”
Won’t forget it. Not “don’t want it to end,“ or “wish we had more time.” Just the acknowledgment that it’s already over in her mind.
My frustration builds, hot and sharp. The mug burns my palms, but I don’t let go. “That’s it? We just…what? Shake hands and pretend this didn’t mean anything?”
“It meant something.” Her voice is quiet but firm. “It meant a lot.”
At least, she agrees with me on that.
I breathe a sigh of relief until she continues, “But that doesn’t change reality.”
“What reality?”
She meets my eyes fully now, and I see it, the armor she’s wrapped around herself. Beautiful and guarded, already protecting herself from the hurt she’s sure is coming.
“Your life out there. Mine here. Facts we’ve both known from the start.”
The resignation in her voice cuts deeper than anger would. She’s not fighting me. She’s not even sad, really. She’s just…accepting. As if she knew this was always how it would end. And I don’t blame her.
I could tell her. Should tell her. Right now. Break through that armor and explain about the interview, about Hays picking me up, about how I’m not heading to the airport because I see the possibility of a life here. With her.
But pride kicks in, sharp and defensive. If she’s already writing the ending to our story, why should I put myself out there just to get rejected?
