Page 87 of Seeds of Christmas

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I turn back to the window, watching the landscape blur past. Trees and snow and mountains, and none of it matters because everything inside me is screaming.

This is what I wanted.

This is what I asked for.

So why does it feel like the worst thing that’s ever happened to me?

“So,”Carter says after another stretch of silence. His voice is back to that careful neutral. Professional. “We’ve got tonight at the motel. Then tomorrow morning, we go back to Site One for the final readings. After that, we’re done. We can head back to campus.”

I nod. “Right.”

More silence.

Then he adds, “And then you don’t have to see me again.”

The words hit me like ice water.

Don’t have to see me again.

Not won’t. Not might not.

Never have to.

Like it’s a relief. Like the idea of not seeing me is something he’s looking forward to.

I go very still.

“Right,” I manage. My voice is barely a whisper. “We’ll be done.”

“Yep.”

The word hangs in the air between us.

Done.

With the research. With the data collection. With whatever this was.

Done.

I want to say something. Want to take it back. Want to tell him that’s not what I meant, that I don’t want to never see him again, that the idea of going back to campus and watching him from across the quad and pretending we’re strangers makes me want to scream.

But I don’t say any of that.

Because I’m the one who did this. I’m the one who pulled away. I’m the one who said things were moving too fast.

This is what I wanted.

Isn’t it?

I look out the window and watch the world blur past and try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing.

That protecting myself is more important than this ache in my chest.

That being careful is better than being hurt.

That I’m making the right choice.

I don’t believe any of it.

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