Page 66 of Three Months Yesterday

I don’t have an answer for any of that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m so desperate for connection, for something real in this suspended life I’ve been living that I’m ignoring warning signs I should be heeding.

“I’ll be careful,” I say finally.

“I know you will.” Ian’s voice softens slightly. “Call me if anything feels off. I don’t care how small you think it is or what time.”

“I will.”

We hang up, and the cottage feels emptier than before. I stare at my phone, wanting to call Ryan, needing to hear a familiar voice and unload everything—the stalker, the pregnancy, the confusion about where I fit in Madison’s life now. But when I dial it goes straight to voicemail.

I still don’t know what’s going on with him, except things are still complicated and all over the place. It’s not surprising he doesn’t answer, but I know he’ll call as soon as he can.

I set the phone down and look around the cottage. My guitar sits in its stand by the window, the fiddle propped against the wall. Music has always been my refuge, the place I go when the world gets too loud, and over the last two weeks it’s been everything it used to be. I pick up the guitar, settle onto the couch and strum a few chords.

Nothing.

I try another progression, fingers moving automatically through familiar shapes, but no melody emerges. No words attach themselves to the notes. The music feels locked away, inaccessible behind a wall I can’t scale. Just like it was before I got to Stonebridge Hollow.

I switch to the fiddle, rosining the bow with more force than necessary. The first notes screech across the strings, too sharp, too desperate. I try again, forcing my breathing to slow, searching for the zone where technique falls away and feeling takes over.

Silence answers me.

The walls seem to press closer, the clouds from outside the window suddenly oppressive. I told Madison I’d be right next door, that I was close if she needed me, but I can’t stay here—trapped in this cottage with my own thoughts, the silence screaming louder than any music I can make.

I need to move. To exhaust my body so my mind might quiet.

The gym. I’ve been there enough times that the staff have grown used to me. I grab my bag and keys, pausing at the 4Runner door to look toward Madison’s house. The light is still on and I wonder if she’s made the call yet. If Mark knows. What he said.

I’m not far, I promised her.

But I am. I’m running, just like I always do when things get hard. The difference is, this time I’m running toward something instead of away—toward the burn of muscles and the simplicity of physical effort, where the only thing that matters is the next rep, the next mile, the next breath.

And I’ll be back. I’m not running forever, just for a few hours.

The drive to town is quick. The gym is nearly empty when I step inside, and I wave at the college kid behind the counter, heading straight for the benches. I load the barbell with more weight than I should probably attempt alone, but I don’t care. I need the effort.

“That’s a lot for a Saturday morning.”

I look up to find Sam standing next to me, arms crossed over his broad chest. The tattoo shop owner. We’ve run into each other here a few times, exchanged nods and brief conversations about music and his shop. He’s got sleeves of ink disappearing under his T-shirt, a close-cropped beard, and eyes that miss nothing.

“Need the distraction,” I say.

Sam studies me for a moment and I feel the weight of that gaze, the assessment happening behind dark eyes. He knows who I am—everyone in this town seems to—but he’s never made me feel like a museum exhibit or anything. Never really mentioned my music or my past. He’s always treated me like another guy trying to work off stress.

“You need a spot?” he asks.

It’s not what I expected. Not you okay? or you want to talk about it? or any other questions people ask when they see you’re unraveling. Just a practical offer, no strings attached, no demand for explanation.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I do.”

Sam moves to the head of the bench without comment, positioning himself to lift the bar if I fail. I settle onto the bench, grip the cold metal, and push. The weight rises, heavy and real, my muscles straining against gravity. I lower it slowly, controlled, feeling the burn in my chest and shoulders.

“One,” Sam counts for me.

I push again. And again. The rhythm takes over, the simplicity of exertion crowding out everything else. Ian’s warning. The stalker’s letter. Madison’s pregnancy. The question of what happens next.

By the tenth rep, my arms are shaking. By the twelfth, I’m not sure I have another in me.

“One more,” Sam says, his voice steady. “You’ve got it.”