The heat arrived early that day. By noon the sky had turned the color of metal, and every surface in Willow Creek seemed to hum with it. Lila could feel it under her skin—the same vibration that came before a storm, but without the mercy of rain.
She spent the morning in the studio, trying to finish a commission piece she no longer cared for. The paint dried too quickly, edges crisp before she could blend them. Her thoughts refused to hold still.
At three, the doorbell rang.
She knew before she opened it. The air carried a trace of the same cologne, faint and worn from travel.
Noah stood on the porch, sleeves rolled, hair damp from sweat. The blue truck was parked crooked in the driveway, as if even it hadn’t believed it would make the trip.
“Hey,” he said.
Lila’s hand stayed on the doorknob. “You weren’t supposed to be here till next week.”
“I know.”
He didn’t move closer. The space between them held more weight than the whole drive he had taken.
“I was in the area,” he added, though the nearest city was two hours away.
She crossed her arms. “That’s a long ‘area.’”
He half-smiled, a tired attempt. “You heard the song?”
“I did.”
“Then you know why I came.”
Her breath caught. “I’m not sure I do.”
They stood like that, two people on opposite sides of a threshold that used to mean something else.
When she finally stepped aside, it was not an invitation, only a motion.
Inside, the house felt smaller. The air conditioner hummed like an anxious thought. Noah stopped near the wall of sketches, his eyes scanning what she had made of the months without him.
“You kept drawing,” he said.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
He nodded slowly. “Some of these… I think I remember the days.”
She turned away. “I didn’t draw for you.”
“I know. That’s why they matter.”
Something in her chest tightened, the kind of ache that argued with pride. “You can’t just come back because you wrote a song.”
“I didn’t.” His voice stayed soft. “I came back because I couldn’t finish one.”
That silenced her for a moment. The fan ticked once, once more. Light pressed through the window, heavy and still.
“You could have called,” she said.
“I tried. Every time, I stopped before it rang.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know if I wanted you to answer.”
The words landed between them, fragile as glass.
Lila exhaled, a sound too close to a laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Probably.”
They faced each other, motionless, while outside the world shimmered with heat.
Later, they sat on the porch. Neither spoke for a long time. The air buzzed with insects, the wood warm under their feet.
Noah leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You remember that summer before I left? The day by the creek?”
“Which one?”
“The one where I said I’d come back.”
Lila looked at him. “You did come back.”
“Not really. I left again, just slower.”
She traced a line on the railing with her finger. “So what are you doing now? Coming back again, just slower?”
He smiled faintly. “Maybe staying, just slower.”
The words sounded half true, half prayer.
She watched a cloud pass over the sun, dimming everything for an instant. “You said once you were afraid of staying.”
“I am,” he admitted. “It means there’s something to lose.”
“And leaving doesn’t?”
He didn’t answer. The silence stretched until it became something else—less a wall, more a space they could share.
From inside, the clock struck four. The afternoon seemed endless, caught between apology and forgiveness.
Noah looked toward the yard. “You ever think maybe we’re both just bad at timing?”
Lila laughed quietly. “Maybe time’s just bad at us.”
That made him smile. For the first time, it reached his eyes.
He reached for the sketchbook on the porch table. “Can I?”
She hesitated, then nodded. He flipped through until he found the one with the bridge—the half-finished one she had pinned months ago.
He studied it. “You stopped before the end.”
“I didn’t know what the end looked like.”
He handed it back. “Neither do I.”
The porch light flickered though it wasn’t evening yet. Somewhere down the road, thunder rolled, a low promise.
Noah stood. “I’ll fix the truck tomorrow. Stay a few days, if that’s okay.”
“It’s your truck,” she said, but her voice softened. “And it’s a long drive back.”
He nodded, knowing that meant yes.
They stayed there as the light began to tilt, the air cooling just enough to breathe again. Between them, the distance was still there, but it no longer hurt to look at.
When the first drop of rain fell, it landed on her hand, small and certain.
This time, neither of them moved.
Comments (0)
See all