Page 118 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Turned out I’d just taken the long way back.

I could still turn around. There was a turnaround less than a mile ahead. I knew that too. Knew exactly where it was. I’d used it plenty of times hauling equipment, adjusting routes, correcting mistakes.

That’s what this was. Right? A mistake.

Except it didn’t feel like one.

What felt wrong was leaving.

I tightened my grip on the wheel, my knuckles whitening, and finally let the thought finish itself instead of cutting it off halfway like I’d been doing all week.

I should’ve stayed.

Staying had never scared me because of what it might take from me.

It scared me because of what it might change.

With New York, staying wouldn’t be temporary. It wouldn’t be a few extra days tacked onto a project or a slow drift into something I could eventually step away from. Staying would mean choosing a place, choosing a rhythm that wasn’t dictated by contracts and deadlines. It would mean waking up and knowing where I was going to be next month, next year.

That kind of permanence had weight.

I’d built my life around motion, around the idea that I could always move on once the work was done. I could finish the job and leave it better than I found it. That wasn’t avoidance. It was order. It was how I stayed useful without getting stuck.

But New York wasn’t a project.

She didn’t need fixing or managing. She was already doing the work, holding that place together with grit and stubbornness and a quiet refusal to quit. If I stayed, it wouldn’t be to help her. It would be to stand beside her.

And that was different.

Because standing beside someone meant they saw you when you stopped moving. They noticed when you hesitated. They expected you to be there tomorrow, not just until the last nail was driven.

I imagined it without meaning to, mornings that weren’t rushed, a kitchen that wasn’t borrowed, the inn settled into something steady and alive. I imagined knowing the rooms by heart not because I’d fixed them but because I belonged there.

The thought settled low and heavy. That was the part I hadn’t been honest about.

Leaving wasn’t just about protecting her. It was about protecting the version of myself that didn’t have to choose. The one who could say, “This is temporary,” and mean it.

With New York, temporary wouldn’t hold.

If I stayed, it would be because I wanted to. Not because she asked. Not because she needed me to.

And wanting that meant risking it. Risking the work, the balance, the rules that had kept everything else clean and contained.

I exhaled slowly, the road stretching out in front of me. I’d told myself my rules existed to keep people from getting hurt. What I hadn’t admitted was that they also kept me from ever wanting to stay.

The truth settled in, quiet but undeniable.

Leaving had been the safer choice.

Staying would be the braver one.

And I wasn’t ready to pretend those were the same thing anymore.

The words landed, heavy and solid, like a truth you didn’t argue with once you heard it said out loud, even if it was only in your head.

I should’ve stayed and talked. Should’ve explained. Should’ve given her the dignity of the whole story instead of deciding for her what she could handle.

I’d been an asshole, and I knew it.