What does that make me? What kind of man falls apart like this?
The kind who was stupid enough to believe someone like her could love someone like him. The kind who thought maybe he could have something good.
The kind who was wrong.
I stay there long enough for my hand to stop bleeding. Long enough for the sky to go dark. Long enough for the light in her kitchen to turn off.
She’s upstairs now. In her apartment. With him.
I don’t think about what they’re doing.
I can’t think about what they’re doing.
Eventually, I pull myself up. Walk back to my car on legs that don’t feel like mine.
I should leave. Should drive back to the city and never come back. Let her have her life. Her bakery. Her Marshal who looks at her like she’s everything.
Dario deserves to know. He’s been waiting. Six weeks of waiting while I followed cold trails. Six weeks of pretending to function while every part of him was focused on finding her.
He deserves to know she’s okay. Even if okay means she’s fucking someone else.
I start the car. Pull away from the curb. Don’t look back at the blue door. Can’t.
The drive takes hours. Hours of replaying what I saw. The smile. The kiss. The easy way she leaned into his touch. Hours of trying to figure out how to tell Dario. Of my hand throbbing in time with my heartbeat, blood seeping through the makeshift bandage I wrapped around it at a gas station bathroom.
The attendant looked at me like I was dangerous.
She wasn’t wrong.
Dario’s at his house when I get there.
He opens the door before I knock. Like he’s been waiting. His eyes drop to my hand. The bloody bandage. The way I’m holding it against my chest.
“You found her,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He steps back. Lets me in.
The house looks the same. Neat. Organized. Everything in its place. Except him.
Dario looks like hell. Dark circles under his eyes. Clothes that aren’t quite as pressed as usual. The look of a man who hasn’t been sleeping, hasn’t been eating, has been doing nothing but waiting for news about a woman who disappeared.
“Where?” he asks.
“Colorado. Small town. She has a bakery.”
Something flickers across his face. “A bakery.”
“Called The Blue Door. She looked...” I struggle for the words. “She looked good.”
“Good.”
“Happy. Healthy. Like she’s actually living instead of just surviving.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Processing. “Is she alone?”
And there it is. The question I’ve been dreading for hours.
