Page 118 of The Long Way Home
“That fire in Nashville,” she continues. “The warehouse that collapsed. The news showed a clip of it, and Rhett was on it. I almost didn’t recognize him. He was—he was on a ladder, pulling someone out. And there was a moment where he slipped.”
My stomach twists at the mere suggestion.
“He almost—” She doesn’t finish. “It terrified me. I didn’t realize he was risking his life every single day. I realized that my son could die before I ever speak to him again. Before I get to try and build a relationship with him.”
There it is. The desperation. The truth beneath it all. And it strikes somewhere raw, somewhere unprotected, because suddenly the fear I feel isn’t about this moment at all. It is about Rhett. About losing him the same way I lost Josh. The same way loss seems to follow everything I love, patient and inevitable.
“I reached out to you,” she continues carefully, “because you’re close to him. He cares for you. I thought maybe you could help me reach him.”
“I’m not helpingyoudo anything,” I reply. “You don’t deserve to talk to him, not unless he wants it.”
Victoria studies me, then speaks with a gentleness. “I just wanted to tell him I’m sorry. I wanted to help him heal from the situation I created. I know he still carries it.”
“Carries what?” I snap.
“Being left,” she says. “Being abandoned. It leaves a mark. Makes you chase the people you have no business having. Makes you hold on to love you’re afraid you can’t keep.”
The way she says it is too practiced. Like she’s naming something she’s lived with, not something she’s studied. A thought flickers through me:this happened to her, too.
“It makes you reach for the kinds of people who stay just out of reach. Because that’s what feels familiar. ” She tilts her head. “I think that’s why he held on to you all these years.”
And suddenly I’m not thinking about Victoria anymore. I’m not thinking about her past, or the loss that shaped her, or the way she speaks like someone who learned survival the hard way.
I’m thinking about myself.
“You don’t know anything,” I whisper.
Victoria’s eyes soften with something that looks too much like pity. “I may have left,” she says quietly, “but he is still my son. I know my son.”
My throat tightens until I can barely breathe. The edges of my vision blur, like my body is already preparing for impact.
Because suddenly everything rearranges itself. Maybe I’m not seeing what happened between Rhett and me clearly. Maybe I never was.
He said he has wanted me for a while now.A whilemeans after Josh died. After everything broke. What if I’m not real to him at all? Not in the way I thought. What if I’m just familiar? A mirror for an old wound. Someone who hurts in the same places he does. Someone who carries the same loss.
He misses Josh. I miss Josh. And maybe that’s all this is. Maybe I’m just the closest thing he has left. The thought lands hard and cruel, knocking the air from my lungs.
“I—I have to go,” I manage.
I don’t wait for her reply. I turn away, abandon the cart, push through the doors and into the cold. My heart pounds, loud and erratic, while doubt claws its way back to life.
I’m not easy to love. I never have been. I feel too much. I need too much. I unravel too quickly. Why would he be any different?
What if he wakes up one day and sees it clearly? Sees that I’m not enough to fill the space Josh left behind. That I was never meant to. I couldn’t fill that void for my parents, for Margo. How would it be any different for Rhett?
I will only ever a stand-in for something he lost.
I swallow, turn the key and drive home on autopilot.
I drop my bag by the door and head straight for my room, skipping the usual distractions. No music. No podcast. I can’t stand the thought of someone else’s voice in my head right now. I can barely stand my own.
I pull my suitcase from the closet and start packing for the lake. With Rhett’s schedule, I won’t have to see him until tomorrow. The thought steadies me more than it should. It buys me time. Time to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do next.
I fold and toss with mechanical urgency, not really seeing what I’m putting in. Shirts. Jeans. A sweater I don’t remember choosing. I zip the bag shut and sink onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath me.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen. I know this isn’t going to help, but I have to see it with my own eyes. I start typing.Nashville Fire.The results list is way too long, and I can’t find the specific video. So I try again:Rhett Hayes firefighter Nashville recent fire.
The first link brings up a video. I squint at the screen to try to make out the person better. The gear hides his face; it could be anyone. But then, when he nearly slips on the ladder, carrying a limp body, and my stomach falls with it, the newscaster’s voice-over cuts in.“That is Rhett Hayes, out of Nashville Station 9 right there. He was the true hero today. He pulled out three people on his own; the entire team saved seven total.”
