Page 179 of Tessa and Nash

Work has always been my most reliable form of control. Give me a system, a set of procedures, and a problem that can be broken into steps, and I will solve it… or at the very least convince everyone around me that I am close.

Emotions, unfortunately, refuse to follow procedural logic.

My gaze drifts to my phone sitting beside the file.

I stare at it longer than necessary.

The thought arrives quietly, unwelcome but persistent.

Call him.

The idea is so simple it almost feels absurd. A conversation would solve at least part of the uncertainty currently occupying my brain. Nash has never been particularly mysterious when given the opportunity to speak for himself.

I could ask him what he meant.

I could ask him whether he regrets saying it.

I could ask him why the memory of Old Mill Road keeps replaying in my mind every time I close my eyes.

Instead, I pick up the phone and unlock the screen.

His name sits near the top of my recent messages.

My thumb hovers over it.

I imagine what would happen if I pressed it.

He would answer. Of course he would answer. Nash McCoy has never been the type to ignore a confrontation.

He would probably say my name in that slightly exasperated voice he uses when he already knows I’m about to complicate everything.

And then I would have to explain why I ran.

I would have to explain why the words I love you felt less comforting and more like a crack opening beneath my feet.

I set the phone back down.

Some problems, it turns out, cannot be solved with a conversation you are not ready to have.

The screen fades to black.

The silence in the office deepens, though it never stays silent for long in Buckhorn. Even late in the evening, someone eventually wanders through Town Hall looking for a permit form or a misplaced document.

Right on cue, footsteps echo down the hallway.

A moment later, the door creaks open, and Virgil Tucker leans inside, his heavy coat preparing him to leave. “Evening, Tessa. Just on my way out.”

“Evening, Virgil.”

He glances at the files spread across my desk and whistles softly. “Looks like you’re trying to solve the whole McCoy mess by yourself.”

“Just reviewing the records.”

Virgil nods, though his expression suggests he’s less interested in the paperwork than the gossip attached to it.

“Well,” he says, shifting his weight, “seems pretty obvious what happened if you ask me.”

That sentence has become Buckhorn’s favorite opening lately.