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And I'm in love with him. Know it the way you know the ground's under your feet. Not because you checked. Because you're standing.

Terrifying.

Friday night. One day before the festival. Making dinner in my quiet kitchen, pasta water on the stove, radio playing something old and warm. Phone rings.

Portland area code. Not Claudia's number.

"Selene." Richard. Smooth as polished marble. The voice that told me what to think for eight years dressed up as concern. "I heard you moved to Oregon."

"I moved eleven months ago, Richard. That's not exactly breaking news."

"I know. I gave you space. Thought that's what you needed." The careful pause, the one he uses when he's about to make something unreasonable sound generous. "But I've been thinking about us, and I wonder if we should talk."

"There is no us."

"There could be again. We were good together, Selene. Stable. Comfortable. We made sense."

"We were miserable. I was miserable."

"You were restless. That's different. And I think you've had enough time to realize that restlessness isn't the same as unhappiness. You just needed a break."

My hand tightens on the phone. His talent. His superpower. Taking my reality and reshaping it until it fit his narrative. I wasn't unhappy. I was restless. I wasn't suffocating. I was dramatic. I didn't leave because the marriage was dead. I left because I didn't understand how good I had it.

"I hear there's a boy."

Blood goes cold. Actually cold. My hand holding the phone goes numb.

"What?"

"Small towns, sweetheart. People talk. Portland's not that far away. Someone told someone who told me." Pity dripping from every syllable, precise and surgical and designed to cut. "A lumberjack? Really? How old is he?"

"That is none of your business."

"Twenty-seven?" The number landing like a verdict from a bench he still thinks he sits on. "Selene. You left me because you said you needed to find yourself. And instead of finding yourself, you found a child playing with an axe. How long does that last? A season? When the novelty wears off and he realizes you're not the exciting older woman he imagined. You're just older."

Phone off. Slammed on the counter hard enough to rattle the salt shaker.

Standing in my kitchen with pasta boiling over and hands shaking and Richard's voice playing back on loop, saying the exact thing I've been afraid of since the first sandwich. Since the first time Jake looked at me and I felt something wake up that I'd been trying to keep asleep.

Too young. Too old. Fantasy. The autumn version, with pumpkins and pine and bonfire kisses that taste like cider. When winter comes and the festival's over and real life starts up with its routines and silences, he'll wake up next to me one morning and see what Richard saw. A woman who doesn't know how to be happy. A woman whose best years are behind her. Someone to outgrow.

Jake texts at nine. His usual goodnight. A photo of the finished festival grounds under lights, pumpkins glowing orange against dark timber, the stage complete, the bonfire ring stacked and ready.

Jake:

Tomorrow. I built that stage thinking about you standing on it.

Fingers hover over the keyboard. Three responses typed and deleted.

Me:

We should talk.

He calls immediately. Of course he does. Jake Danvers doesn't text when a voice will do. Doesn't let things sit when he can address them. Shows up. Always shows up. The man is constitutionally incapable of giving space when he senses someone he loves is hurting.

"What's wrong?" No hello. No preamble. Just the question, sharp with concern.

"Jake, I..." My voice cracks. Hand over my mouth. "I don't think I can do this."