Not His First Choice Chapter 07
I’d been in Ridgway for twelve days.
Every morning I woke up to birds. I’d pull back the curtains and see green all the way up the mountains, and for a second, the last twenty-six years of my life felt like a dream someone had left out in the rain.
On day eight, I finally worked up the nerve to clean out my camera roll.
The folder labeled “Ethan” had over a thousand photos.
His profile mid-sip of water. His hand on the steering wheel. His chin tipped up toward the bleachers after sinking a three-pointer.
There was one from early this year. Snow. He was on the balcony taking Lily’s call. His silhouette stretched long under the streetlight. I’d taken it through the glass, thinking I was capturing something tender.
Looking at it now, it was just pathetic.
I selected them one by one and hit delete.
One thousand three hundred twenty-seven photos. Gone in a minute.
That afternoon I sat on the inn’s front steps, watching the wind ruffle the light on the water. I felt lighter.
I made a new account and started posting. Sunrise on the salt flats. Wildflowers. The innkeeper’s homemade yogurt. Prayer flags at dusk.
A handful of followers.
Then on day four, I noticed every post had one extra like.
An account had followed me. The ID was a string of gibberish.
I clicked the profile. Blank. Avatar was a solid black square.
I knew who it was.
I blocked him. Deleted the account.
A few days later, my phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number:
“I’m boarding my flight. I’m sorry for these eight years.”
I stared at the words for three seconds.
Then held it down. Deleted. Blocked.
When it was done, I looked up.
The Colorado sky had no light pollution. The stars were sharp and bright.
I remembered being eighteen.
Back then I didn’t know a thing about points. I hadn’t learned to save. I didn’t know a grown-up relationship could be reduced to arithmetic.
That summer night, I’d sat alone in the backyard of my foster home, looking at the stars.
Back then, I looked at stars because stars were beautiful.
The wind picked up. Wildflowers rustled in the yard.
I took a slow breath in. Let it out.