Firefly Nights

CHAPTER 21.66

But even as I said it, my mind drifted. Back to that ride. To the silence that wrapped around me so tight I thought it might split my ribs. Colt's number. Colt's name. Colt's ride. The way he'd held on longer than anyone had all season—long enough to rewrite every scar into something that looked like it might've been worth it. And I thought about Caleb.

Caleb had been out there too, hadn't he?

The thought slid in sideways. Not loud. Just sharp enough to catch.

Jasmine's gaze drifted, not like she meant to avoid mine—more like it slipped without her permission, like it was chasing something she hadn't caught up to yet. She reached for a flask off the shelf, turquoise inlay winking under the store's tired lights. Ran her thumb across it absently, like it might hold a memory she hadn't decided whether or not to keep.

"I was supposed to be in Vegas," she said, not looking at me. Her voice was even, but something underneath it pulled a little tight. "Caleb made it through prelims. He wanted me there."

I didn't say anything. Just let the quiet do its job. She traced the edge of the flask with her nail.

"He bombed his second draw. Something in his wrist gave. Didn't even stay for the finals. Left before sunrise like the place was gonna swallow him whole."

I paused halfway through folding a bandana, the cotton creased under my fingers like it was trying to stay out of it. I knew that kind of exit. Knew the sound of a man packing failure into his boots and calling it pride.

"You two done?"

She gave a short breath—more exhale than sigh. "Week before Christmas."

I didn't offer a sorry. She didn't ask for one.

"He said I was cold," she went on. "Said I didn't know how to be still. How to let someone care about me without testing if they'd leave."

Her laugh was quiet. Unsteady. "Guess I failed the test."

I turned a bandana over in my hands like it mattered, like the fabric might soften the edge of what I was about to say. "That's not cold," I said. "That's what it looks like when you learn the hard way not to mistake being needed for being loved."

The words landed. She didn't say anything at first—just looked down, like she was cataloging every time she'd swallowed her own hurt and called it resilience. Then her eyes found mine again.

"Did I do that to you?" she asked. No sharpness. No challenge. Just a question, plain as frost on glass. "Make it harder than it had to be?"

I met her stare. Held it long enough to remember every version of her I'd once wanted to beat and be in the same breath.

"We both did," I said. "And we both knew it."

We kept walking. Not shoulder to shoulder, but close enough that I could hear the soft catch of her boot sole every time it met the floor. There was a rhythm to it, unspoken and slightly off—like a song you don't know the lyrics to but hum along with anyway.

I reached for the mineral block halfway down the shelf—same red label, same chipped corner like always—and cradled it against my side, the cold bleeding through the flannel and catching somewhere under my ribs.

Jasmine didn't stop. Just drifted a few steps ahead, fingers ghosting over a row of silver conchos too polished for anyone who worked for a living.

"She hated Caleb," she said, the words slipping out soft. Like they weren't meant to be heard so much as admitted. I didn't look at her, just let the quiet stretch. "My mama," she clarified, not for me—for herself. "Said he moved like a man chasing a life he wasn't built to live. Called him a tumbleweed in boots. Thought that was clever."