Roaring Fork Rooker, page 11
Surely, I could handle one discussion with my past.
But as I sat and watched the water rush past, I couldn’t deny that seeing JW again had shaken something loose inside me that I’d spent decades keeping carefully contained. The delicate equilibrium I’d built my life around felt precarious, as if one wrong move might send everything tumbling down.
Especially when that life included secrets I’d never told anyone about what had happened after he left, about the choices I’d made and the consequences I’d lived with and the realities I’d buried so deep I almost convinced myself they weren’t real.
Secrets that, if JW was truly back to stay, might finally demand to be revealed.
13
JW
When the woman I knew as Maya but Flynn had called Echo turned and fled, every instinct screamed at me to follow. But I remained frozen to the sidewalk, watching her disappear into the crowd. The lively chaos of the parade continued around me—marching bands, cheering children, the thunder of vintage fire engines—but it all felt muted, as if I were hearing it through water.
Maya. Here. In Crested Butte. She’d never left. And if she had, she was back.
My hands trembled as I watched her retreating figure weave between families spread across blankets and folding chairs. The same graceful way she’d moved before, though more guarded now. The way she held her shoulders differently, like someone who’d learned to protect herself.
“JW?” Flynn’s tone cut through my paralysis. “Are you all right?”
I turned to find her studying my face with sharp concern. Irish had approached from the other direction, Paxon and Rooker flanking him, both boys looking up at me with worry that seemed too mature for their years.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Flynn continued, her manner gentle but persistent.
In a way, I had. A ghost from a life I’d thought was buried.
“I’m fine,” I managed, though my words sounded hollow even to my own ears.
Irish took in the tremor in my hands, the pallor I could feel creeping across my face, and the way I kept glancing in the direction she had gone. He didn’t say anything, but his expression held quiet understanding.
“Uncle JW, why are you sad?” Paxon tugged on my jacket, his small face scrunched with worry.
The innocent question nearly undid me. How could I explain to a four-year-old that I just encountered the one person I’d never expected to see again? The one person whose forgiveness I’d never dared hope for?
“I’m not sad, buddy,” I said, kneeling to his level and forcing what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “Just surprised to see an old friend.”
“That lady was your friend?” Rooker asked, bouncing on his toes.
“She was. A long time ago.”
The simple admission felt like ripping open a wound that had never properly healed. Friend. What an inadequate word for what she’d been to me. What she still was, despite everything.
Flynn shared a glance with Irish that said everything. Whatever she’d witnessed between us hadn’t looked like a casual reunion between old acquaintances. The tension, the shock, the way we’d both frozen at the sight of each other—none of that spoke to mere friendship.
“Who was she to you?” Flynn’s persistence wouldn’t be deterred. I knew that.
“Someone I knew before I left for New Mexico,” I interrupted, not trusting myself to say more. “We worked together.”
The words tasted like ash. Worked together. Another pathetic understatement for a relationship that had shaped every day of my life since, even in her absence.
Flynn’s brow rose. “Worked together,” she repeated slowly. “At the Goat?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t seen her since you left?”
I shook my head as my gaze returned to the parade’s colorful procession down Elk Avenue, but I felt disconnected from the celebration, trapped in a bubble of memory and regret.
Irish stepped closer, his words low enough that the twins couldn’t hear. “You need a minute?”
The kindness in his offer nearly broke my composure entirely.
“I need to find her,” I said, the admission tumbling out before I could stop it. “I need to tell her, to explain…”
“I’m sure she’ll understand,” said Flynn, resting her hand on my arm.
Would she? Would anyone? Would Flynn if I told her I’d disappeared on someone I loved without a word of explanation? That I’d made choices that had probably shattered her faith in everything good and decent? That for decades, I’d carried the weight of that abandonment alongside all my other secrets?
Flynn studied my face, and I could see her making the connections. “Oh, JW.”
The pity in her tone was almost worse than anger would have been. At least anger would have been deserved.
“I can help you find her,” she offered. “I know the town, and she works with the charity we support. I could—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than I’d intended. “This is something I have to do myself.”
Some wounds couldn’t be addressed by proxy. Some apologies required facing the person you’d wronged, no matter how much it hurt.
Irish nodded slowly. “Understood. But if there’s anything we can do…”
“Thank you,” I said. “Both of you. But this is my responsibility.”
Flynn bit her lip, clearly wanting to say more. Finally, the words came tumbling out. “JW, everyone deserves a chance at happiness,” she said firmly. “Especially you.” I watched as she gathered the twins, explaining that Uncle JW needed to take care of something important, and Irish squeezed my shoulder as they prepared to leave.
“Good luck.”
Then they were gone, blending into the crowd, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.
I started walking in the direction Maya had gone, my feet carrying me away from the parade route and toward the quieter streets that led to the river. She’d always loved the water when we were together. Whenever she was upset or needed to think, she’d seek out the Slate River’s banks.
The familiar paths came back to me as if I’d walked them yesterday instead of so long ago. Past the old Victorian houses with their gingerbread trim and wraparound porches. Through the meadow where we’d once picked wildflowers on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Along the trail that wound through aspen groves toward the sound of running water.
Each step brought back memories I’d spent years trying to suppress. Not the circumstances of why I’d left—that burden was already too familiar—but the sweetness of what I’d lost. How she’d curl up against my side when we read together on quiet evenings. The plans we’d made, the dreams we’d shared, the future we’d sketched out in whispered conversations. The way she’d listen as I played guitar and sang silly songs I’d written about a love that was powerful enough to overcome anything.
All of it was abandoned in a single night.
I’d told myself then that it was the only choice. I couldn’t ask her to leave her family and come with me to face an uncertain future. But standing in that crowd, seeing the raw hurt in her eyes as she fled from me, I wondered if I’d been lying to myself all along.
The sound of the river grew louder as I rounded the bend where we used to sit and talk for hours. Sure enough, I found her there, perched on the same boulder.
She looked up as I approached, and I saw her whole body tense. For a moment, I thought she might run again. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and met my gaze directly.
“I wondered if you’d follow me.”
Her tone was different now—steadier, more controlled.
“I couldn’t lose you again,” I said, stopping a few feet away. Close enough to talk, far enough to give her space if she needed it.
“Lose me?” The words came out sharp. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
The accusation hit its mark, and I felt the familiar burden of guilt settle in my chest. “I—”
“Don’t.” She held up a hand, stopping me. “I don’t want to hear explanations or excuses. It’s been too long for that.”
“Then what do you want?”
She was quiet, studying my face as if trying to reconcile the man standing before her with the memory she’d carried. The years had changed both of us. Where I saw new lines around her eyes, a wariness that hadn’t been there before, I wondered what she saw in me. Gray hair where there had been brown. The weight of secrets and obligations carved into my features.
“I want to know how long you’re staying,” she finally said.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I’ve built a life here. A good life. And I won’t have it disrupted by someone who thinks…”
There was steel in her words, a strength that hadn’t been there when she was nineteen. Whatever she’d been through in the intervening time had forged her into someone formidable. Someone who wouldn’t be abandoned twice. “Thinks what, Maya?”
“It’s not important. You found me, but as you can see, there was no reason for you to,” she said, starting to rise from the boulder.
“Wait.” The desperation in my tone surprised both of us. “I know I don’t have the right to ask anything of you. I know I hurt you—”
“Hurt me?” She laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You destroyed me.”
I felt my knees nearly buckle and reached for the boulder. I’d known my departure had caused her distress, but hearing it stated so baldly was devastating.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “So very sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t give me back what I lost. Sorry doesn’t undo the damage.”
The anguish in her words told me there were depths to this conversation I didn’t understand. Layers of hurt that went beyond my leaving. What had she lost? What damage had my leaving caused beyond a broken heart?
“I want you to know that it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” I said. “If there had been any other way—”
“Are you going to say there wasn’t?” She shook her head. “There’s always a choice, JW. You made yours.”
She was right, and we both knew it. I could have found a way. Could have given her the choice of whether to stay or go. Instead, I’d made the decision for both of us.
“You’re right,” I said.
The admission seemed to take some of the wind out of her anger.
“Why are you here?” she asked. “In Crested Butte, I mean. Flynn said you were family.”
“It’s complicated,” I said, echoing Flynn’s words from the parade. “She visited my ranch.”
“Your ranch?”
“In New Mexico.”
It was a pathetic summary of the connection Flynn and I had made, but I didn’t know how to explain the tangled web of family secrets and obligations that had gotten me to this moment. How could I tell her about Patricia’s trust, about the promises I’d made, about finally finding the family I’d never known I could have?
“So you’re successful now,” she observed. “Own a ranch, part of a prominent family’s life.”
“I’ve been fortunate.”
“Good. That’s good.” But her words suggested it wasn’t good at all.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with all the things we weren’t saying. The river flowed past, indifferent to human suffering, carrying away the detritus of broken dreams and lost chances.
I found myself studying her face, cataloging the changes time had wrought. She was still beautiful—more so, perhaps, with the added depth that came with every trip around the sun. But there was a guardedness in her expression that hadn’t been there before. A careful distance that spoke of walls built to protect against further hurt.
“I should go. I promised friends I’d meet them at the concert.”
She stood, and I felt panic rise in my chest. This couldn’t be how it ended. Not again.
“Can I see you again?” The question escaped before I could stop it.
She paused, her back to me. “This is a small town, JW. We’ll probably run into each other whether we want to or not.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” She turned to face me. “But I can’t do this. I can’t pretend that seeing you doesn’t bring back everything I’ve spent so long trying to forget.”
Her words hurt. Everything she was trying to forget—our relationship, our love. Reduced to painful memories she wanted to escape.
“Please, Maya—”
“I stopped using that name after you left. I go by Echo now, and I made a new life for myself. Responsibilities. People who depend on me.” She started to walk away, then paused and looked back at me. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you found the Wheatons. They’re good people.”
The kindness in her words spoke of a generosity of spirit that I’d forfeited any right to expect.
I sat on the boulder where she’d been, trying to process everything she’d said. Whatever she meant by saying I’d destroyed her, it was clear that my departure had consequences.
But beneath the guilt was something else—hope. For so long, I’d carried the weight of protecting those who needed me while losing the woman I loved. But those obligations were fulfilled now. For the first time in my adult life, I was free to choose what I wanted.
And I wanted her. I’d never stopped wanting her.
The sun was beginning its descent toward the western peaks when I finally rose from the boulder and started the walk back toward town. Instead of heading to the concert where Maya—Echo—said she was going, I walked toward the Goat.
I pushed through the door, barely able to get inside, and spotted Keltie behind the bar, moving frantically between customers while calling orders to the kitchen. Her usual staff looked overwhelmed, and I could see the stress on her face even from across the room.
“Keltie,” I called out, making my way through the crowd. “Need a hand?”
Her face lit up with relief when she saw me. “JW! Thank God. We’re absolutely slammed, and two of my servers called in sick.”
“Put me to work,” I said, already moving behind the bar.
“Bless you,” she said, handing me an apron. “Can you handle things here while I check on the kitchen?”
I nodded, falling into the rhythm I remembered from decades ago. Pour the beer, mix the cocktails, take the orders, keep the customers happy. My hands moved automatically, muscle memory from a time when this place had been my second home.
It was while I was pulling a draft beer that I noticed her.
Maya sat alone in a corner booth in the very back, a glass of wine in front of her, staring out the window at the street beyond. She’d changed from her parade clothes into jeans and a blue sweater, and she sat hunched slightly forward, as if she didn’t want to be noticed.
My hands stilled on the beer tap. She’d said she was meeting friends at the concert. What was she doing here, alone?
“You okay?” asked the customer waiting for his drink.
“Sorry,” I said, finishing the pour and sliding it across the bar. But my attention kept drifting to the back table.
She looked lost in thought, occasionally taking small sips of her wine, but mostly just sitting there, as if she couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. Every few minutes, she’d glance toward the door, then out the window again.
The dinner rush continued around us, but I kept stealing glances at her whenever I could. She seemed as reluctant to leave as I was to approach her.
After an hour of steady work, the crowd began to thin. Keltie returned to the bar, looking grateful but exhausted.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, taking over from me. “I don’t know how we would have managed without you.”
“Anytime,” I said, untying my apron. “You know that.”
As I prepared to leave, I glanced once more toward Maya’s table. She was still there, still alone, still staring out the window. Without really thinking about it, I walked to the bar and ordered a glass of whatever wine she was drinking.
“For the lady in the corner booth,” I told the server.
The young woman nodded and took the glass from the bar. When she approached, Maya glanced around the restaurant. Her gaze found mine for just a moment before I looked away, pretending to be busy cleaning glasses.
When I looked back, she was holding the wineglass, and there was the faintest hint of a smile on her lips.
It wasn’t much. But it was something.
I left the Goat and stepped into the warm evening air, my heart pounding with the knowledge that everything had changed. She might not be ready to forgive me. She might never be ready.
But for the first time in decades, I had hope that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late for us to find our way back to each other.
14
ECHO
Istared at the entrance to the outdoor venue where CB Rice’s concert was already underway, watching couples and families stream toward the music and laughter echoing across the field. My friends would be there, somewhere in the crowd, wondering why I hadn’t shown up as promised. Misty had been looking forward to this all week, had even bought matching T-shirts for our group.
But I couldn’t make myself walk through those gates. Not tonight. Not when I’d be terrible company, distracted and raw from seeing JW again. Better to disappoint them with my absence than inflict my emotional chaos on what should be a celebration.
Instead, my feet carried me toward the Goat.
The irony wasn’t lost on me—seeking refuge in the one place that held the most painful memories. I’d tried to avoid this restaurant over the years, finding excuses to eat elsewhere when friends suggested it, choosing other venues for meetings when I could. But tonight, the thought of being alone in my house with nothing but my spiraling thoughts felt worse than facing ghosts.
The restaurant was packed, busier than I’d seen it in months. I slipped inside and managed to claim the last empty booth in the back corner, the same spot where JW and I used to sit during my breaks all those years ago. The server, a young woman I didn’t recognize, looked frazzled but took my order for a glass of wine with a hurried smile.
