I leave Tal’s letter in his shed on one of the rabbit cages, along with some cash for the car. The rest I left on the table in the entrance hall where the post usually goes.
Then I head to my car, get in, adjust the seat, check everything once more, and start the engine.
With a deep breath, I pull away.
The urge to cry hits almost immediately, but I hold it back. Not yet.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to leave everything behind.
I’ve done it before. More than once.
The first time, I ran from my childhood.
The second, from Reid.
Each time, I rebuilt. A new place, new people, even a new version of myself—someone steadier, someone better. Someone who wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes.
It worked.
Until I came back here. Until I saw him again.
Now I’m right back where I started—only this time, I’m dragging other people down with me.
No more.
This ends now.
When I reach the fork in the road, I turn left off the metaled track and onto a smoother, wider asphalt surface. It’s a little out of my way, but today I’m choosing the longer, easier route rather than risking the older, steeper mountain pass. It adds time to thejourney, but I’m in no mood for any wild adventures. I just want to get home, lock the door, and go to bed.
The silence in the car starts to get oppressive, so I reach for my phone to play some music—then I pause, a thought occurring from nowhere.
I wonder if Reid fixed the radio when he sorted out the heat sensor?
Only one way to find out… I tap the button on the steering wheel.
Sound fills the car.
The radio works.
I blink, surprised. It hasn’t worked in years.
Of course he fixed it. That’s just like him.
The heater is stronger too, and the whole drive feels smoother.
Talon is not the sort to just patch things up—he takes care of things properly.
“Thank you,” I whisper into the empty car, a dull ache settling in my chest. “Thank you.”
I can picture him—shrugging it off, rubbing the back of his neck, avoiding my eyes. One of those rare smiles when he lets his guard down. The way he listens, always catching everything even when he pretends not to.
My grip tightens on the wheel.
I don’t want to go.
But I have to.
This is for the best.