“Thank you,” I whisper.
Legend nods once, like if I say more he might have to feel something in public and would rather be shot.
Derby clears his throat. “I checked the locks.”
I look at him.
“Of course you did.”
“Back door sticks a little. I’ll fix it.”
“Derby.”
“What?”
I lift the keys slightly. “My door.”
His jaw tightens.
Then he nods.
“Your door,” he says.
The words cost him. That is why they matter.
Legend steps past us and heads toward the truck. “I’ll give you two a minute.”
Derby watches him go. Then we stand on the little porch together, looking at the trailer door.
Neither of us speaks.
Finally, I say, “This hurts you.”
Derby’s laugh is quiet and rough. “Yeah.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
His eyes cut to mine.
I hold his gaze, because he deserves that after the note I left.
“I should’ve told you before I went to Oregon.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry I hurt you.”
He swallows.
His voice comes lower. “I’m sorry you thought you had to save me.”
The apology moves through me like a hand over a bruise.
“I need this,” I say. “Not because I don’t want your house. I did want it. That scared me too.”
His mouth curves faintly. “My house scared you?”
“You were in it.”