Page 97 of Show Me

Get your head out of your ass and get to work. I shift into gear.

The road stretches out ahead, familiar, empty at this hour. Gravel pops under the tires as I pull away. Halfway down the drive, I glance in the rearview. The house is already smaller.

I look forward again. The truck picks up speed, and I don’t slow down.

Chapter Forty-Nine

Ruby

I push the blanket back and stand, the floor cool under my feet. The house feels… off. Not wrong. Just different. I move through it slower than usual, like something might shift if I go too fast.

My body aches in places I haven’t thought about in years. Good ache. Used ache. I pull my shirt on without underwear, too aware of the tenderness between my legs, the way my thighs feel like I ran miles. I don’t look at the bed. I don’t look at where he was.

The kitchen light is harsh after the dark. I squint against it, reaching for the coffee maker on autopilot, and then I see it.

The plate waits on the counter.

Eggs. Toast. Arranged like he tried to make it look like he didn’t try.

I stand there, hand on the coffee maker, staring at food I didn’t make in my kitchen that he touched after touching me. The intimacy of it feels heavier than what we did in the dark. Anyone can fuck. Not everyone stays to cook.

I don’t eat. Not yet. I walk to the window and look out at the shed, the pen, morning mist hanging low over the grass. The pigs are already fed. I see the fresh hay, the water bucket refilled. He did that too before he left.

The bed was cold when I woke. I didn’t notice at first. Just rolled over, reaching for my phone, and felt the lack of heat where he’d been. My hand stilled. My breath caught. I lay there too long, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sound of him in my bathroom or my kitchen or anywhere in my house.

Silence.

I sit at the table because my legs feel unsteady. The eggs are cold now, but I eat them anyway, mechanical, chewing without tasting. The toast has softened. He tried. He doesn’t know how I like my eggs, how I hate even a hint of runny yolk, and I didn’t tell him because this wasn’t supposed to be that.

Then I see it. The note on the counter, weighted down with my own sugar bowl.

Breakfast. Check cameras tonight.

No goodbye.

I sit there longer than I should, staring at the handwriting. My fingers trace the edge of the paper, pressing into the indentation like it might give something back. Four words.

Check cameras tonight? A reminder for me to do? Or a promise that he’ll check them when he gets here after work? There’s no explanation. That’s all I get.

He made breakfast. He fed the pigs. He left before I woke.

Of course he did. This is what casual looks like. This is what I agreed to. The chill in the bed, the food on the counter, the note that says he’s concerned about my safety even after he fucked me and left. It’s all part of the same thing. Concern without commitment—presence without staying.

Halfway through, I stop. Set the fork down. Pick it back up again. Finish anyway. The note stays where it is. I don’t throw it away. I don’t fold it either. I… leave it.

Like he left me, as I told him he could.

By the time I reach the office, the lot is already filling up. Trucks angled into spaces, gravel crunching under boots, voices carrying through the morning air.

His truck isn’t there. I don’t slow down.

Inside, I drop my purse behind the desk and power on the computer, the hum filling the space. The phone rings. I answer. Give directions. Confirm an order. Write things down I don’t need to double-check.

“Cole Construction.” Nothing. I wait.

“Hello?” Silence. My fingers tighten around the receiver.

It’s happened before. At the gym.