Chapter 2: Old Flames, New Wounds

Natalie Stevenson wrapped her arms around my neck, her eyelashes fluttering, her soft body pressed tight against mine. Her perfume was faint—fresh laundry and a hint of rose. She was warm, shaking just a little, her breath tickling my jaw as she tried to steady herself. The familiarity of her touch sent a wave of old memories surging up: backyard sprinklers, first dances, prom nights spent talking in the car after everyone else had gone home.

“Caleb, don’t go. Give me one more chance.”

Her voice was raw, the words cracking at the end. I felt her breath catch, her chest hitching against mine. For a split second, I almost said yes right there, almost let myself believe we could turn everything back to the way it was.

I turned my head to avoid her lips, my heart tightening in spite of myself.

She tried to catch my gaze, but I focused on the “Savannah-Hilton Head International” sign beyond her shoulder. My jaw clenched. I could taste the regret in the back of my throat, thick and bitter.

Even though we’d already broken up, someone I’d cherished for twenty years wasn’t someone I could just let go of. It was true. We’d gone through everything together—spelling bees, science fairs, high school football games, even that disastrous freshman year road trip to Asheville. How do you walk away from someone who’s practically woven into your DNA?

“Yeah.”

Dazed, Natalie bit her lip, but still couldn’t help letting out a soft whimper. She stared at the floor, teeth pressing so hard into her lower lip I worried she might draw blood. The sound she made was so small, so vulnerable, it cut right through my practiced indifference.

A faint flush spread across her cheeks, but her lips had gone pale. She looked like a porcelain doll left out in the cold—too delicate, too breakable. Her eyes shimmered, brimming with words she couldn’t seem to say aloud.

My heart twisted, but I forced myself to push her away. Her arms fell limply from my neck. I set my hands on her shoulders and eased her back, telling myself I was doing the right thing, even as every instinct screamed to pull her close.

“We’re already over, Natalie. Clinging like this... Nat, it just makes you look desperate.”

I hated the words the second they left my mouth. But I’d heard my uncle say them once—about his own ex, after too many beers at a family cookout—and they’d stuck with me as the kind of thing a man was supposed to say when he wanted to end things for good.

Meeting those big, sorrowful eyes, I forced myself not to look away and spat out the rest, cold as ice:

I saw myself reflected in her eyes—lost, bitter, but trying to be strong. The words were like glass in my mouth.

“Or are you saying you want me to marry a nun and keep her at home?”

Only able to look, never to touch.

I tried to laugh, but it came out hollow. The image of a cloistered life—me, playing the dutiful husband to a woman I could never really hold—felt like a punishment straight out of some old Tennessee Williams play.

Maybe in the future, I’d even have to play the part of the sleeping husband from those black-and-white movies folks used to watch on rainy afternoons.

I pictured the scenes: separate beds, a wall of unspoken things between us, the kind of marital misery old folks used to whisper about at funerals.

Rather than both of us getting hurt later, it’s better to cut things off cleanly now. I kept telling myself that. In the South, you learned to pull the weeds before they took over the garden. But in my chest, everything felt tangled up and messy.

After all, she was never meant to be mine. Somehow, saying it out loud made it almost believable. Almost.