Page 232 of Wild Card 13

Her eyes were wet again, but her face was steadier. “Goodnight, Ty,” she said.

My heart cracked cleanly around my name. “Goodnight, Luce.”

I opened the door. Cold air moved into the house, sharp and immediate, slipping around us with the smell of snow and frozen lake and midnight roads. Lucy stepped over the threshold with Dottie trotting beside her. The dog paused once and looked back at me.

“Go on,” I told her softly.

Dottie’s tail wagged, then she followed Lucy down the porch steps.

I stayed in the doorway. I wanted to cross the porch. Wanted to stand beside her while she opened the car door. Wanted to tell her to text me when she got home, like I still had the right to worry out loud. Wanted to make sure the roads were clear and her tires were good and Dottie was settled before she pulled away.

I wanted old-boyfriend privileges with a woman I had taught not to trust old promises.

So I stayed at the threshold.

Lucy unlocked her car. Dottie hopped in first, because apparently loyalty had conditions and upholstery was one of them. Lucy looked back once from beside the driver’s door.

Snow drifted lightly between us.

I did not wave.

I did not call her name.

I only stood there, one hand on the open door, and let her see me not chasing.

Not leaving.

There was a difference.

This time, there had to be.

Lucy got into the car and shut the door. The engine turned over, headlights washing across the front of the house, the porch, my legs, the snow-covered edge of the driveway. For a second, her face was visible through the windshield. Glasses catching light. One hand on the wheel. Dottie’s head a vague shape beside her.

Then she backed down the driveway carefully, leaving tracks beside the ones she had made when she arrived.

I watched until her taillights reached the road. Watched until the red disappeared between the dark trees and there was nothing left but snow, tire marks, and the reflection of my own silhouette in the glass beside the door.

Eight years ago, I had watched from inside Betsy while Lucy’s house got smaller through the rearview. I had driven away and called it mercy because I was too scared to call it what it was.

Letting her leave tonight was not giving up. It was the first honest thing I knew how to offer.

I closed the door after her taillights vanished. The latch clicked into place. The house went quiet all at once. Empty.

The fire still burned in the living room. The bourbon still sat on the table. Dottie’s fur clung to the middle cushion of the couch, pale strands caught in the fabric where she had slept like she owned the place. Lucy’s warmth was gone from the entry, but the shape of her being here still pressed against everything.

Her coat was gone from my closet.

Her glass was still beside mine.

I stood exactly where she had left me, one hand resting against the closed door, and missed her so badly it felt physical.

Then I made myself stay there.

No truck keys.

No phone.

No clever text pretending concern was casual.