Page 49 of Broken Cedar

We spend the rest of the morning ticking off items from Colt’s list of jobs. We work the way we’ve always worked. On autopilot. Knowing what needs to be done, knowing what the other needs before they ask for it.

By noon, half the list he made that morning is already crossed off. My shirt is stuck to my back with sweat and my hands are blistered in places that haven’t blistered in years. There’s still dirt on Colt’s jeans from where I threw it at him, and every time I notice it, I have to fight another smile.

We break for lunch. Colt pulls the truck around to the back pasture, one hand on the wheel, his eyes on the horizon as he parks under an oak and kills the engine. We climb out, and Colt grabs the cooler from the truck bed. He sets it on the tailgate and climbs up beside me. He pulls out two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and hands me one. I unwrap it to find ham, cheese, and mustard. Colt’s favorite. We eat side by side on the tailgate, boots dangling, not quite touching.

Colt finishes his sandwich first. He balls up his wax paper and tucks it in the cooler. Takes a long pull from his water bottle. Looks at the view. Looks at me.

“What happens when you get back?” he asks.

I take a bite of my sandwich, chewing slowly before answering. “Work, mostly,” I say honestly. Or as honest as I’m capable of being, which these days feels like not enough. “I’ve got a project launching in June. Big client. The kind that could mean a promotion if it goes well.”

“You like your job?” he asks, his gaze out on the horizon.

A breeze stirs the grass around us. Somewhere farther down the pasture, one of the yearlings nickers.

“Yeah. I mean—it’s good. It’s…I’ve worked hard to get where I am. You know?”

“I know.” He says it simply. Like there was never any question.

I look at him. “What?”

He shrugs, picking at the corner of his water bottle label. “You always liked solving things. You reorganized Mom’s pantry when you were fifteen because you decided the spices belonged in alphabetical order.”

I smile despite myself. “Well, her pantry was a disaster.”

“It was.”

I laugh, and the sound surprises me because it comes so easily. For a moment, we’re not two people trying to figure out what happened between us. We’re just us.

Then Colt looks back out at the pasture. “You still write?”

The question catches me off guard. “What?”

“Write,” he says. “You used to do it all the time.”

I blink at him. “I haven’t written in years.”

“Why?”

I open my mouth, then close it. Because there are some questions that sound simple until someone who knew you before asks them. “I don’t know,” I admit softly.

Colt nods slowly, like he understands something I haven’t quite reached yet.

“Figured you’d still be doing it.” There’s no accusation in his voice, just the quiet certainty of someone who remembers a version of me I forgot existed.

I take another bite and look at the horses. Look at the sky. Look anywhere but at Colt, because looking at Colt right now means confronting the fact that I am two days away from leaving and the thought of it sits in my chest like something with edges. Sharp and uncomfortable. The pain of wanting two things that cannot coexist.

I mean, what if I stayed? Not as a visit. Not as an extended vacation where everyone politely pretended not to notice I had an expiration date. Really stayed. Woke before sunrise every morning with Colt beside me. We’d run out of coffee and I’d drive into town before breakfast. Payroll would end up spread across the kitchen table while Colt worked through invoices beside me. Branding season would leave my back aching and my jeans permanently dust-stained. By summer I’d be helping Mom teach riding lessons.

Maybe that’s what it really means to come home—not to a place, but a rhythm. Knowing every horse by name. Knowing which gate sticks when it rains. Knowing the south pasture needs checking after every storm because the corner post always shifts.

Falling asleep beside Colt every night. Waking up beside him. Not because we’re caught in some impossible, stolen week where every moment feels precious because it’s temporary. Because it’s Tuesday. Because tomorrow comes after today. Because this is just our life. The realization should feel like giving something up. Instead, it feels like remembering something I already knew.

Colt is watching me. Has been watching me for a while, I suspect. His eyes track the shift in my expression. “What are you thinkin’?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. The lie tastes like ash. “Just thinking about work stuff. Emails I should answer.”

He nods. I know he doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. Just accepts the lie, without demanding more than I’m ready to offer. It should make me feel better. It makes me feel worse.