Jax and I met at a quaint downtown bookstore when I was 25. He was flipping through cookbooks. I dropped my pile of recipe books all over the floor.
“Let me grab those for you,” he said, kneeling beside me. We went for coffee that same afternoon. He had me laughing until my sides ached.
We talked for three hours straight. A year later, we married in a small church ceremony. My mom shed happy tears.
His dad gave a heartfelt toast. It was such a beautiful start. We built something solid together.
We’re blessed with two amazing kids, now grown. Mae lives in Oregon. Cole moved to Texas last year with his girlfriend.
Our golden retriever, Rusty, still bounds to the door every evening. We have Sunday barbecues on our back porch. Christmas mornings feel enchanted.
I thought we had a steady love, the kind that lasts forever. Not a fiery, movie-star romance, but something reliable. Trustworthy.
Safe, you know. Then last month, Jax came home looking weary and sad. “I need to drive upstate this weekend,” he said, his voice heavy.
“Why?” I asked, setting down my coffee cup. “Ray’s funeral. You remember me mentioning him from high school?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t recall a Ray.”
Jax shifted in his seat. “We only kept in touch online. Old buddies.
Cancer took him.”
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Should I come with you for support?”
“No.” His answer was too quick. “I mean, you didn’t know him.
It’d be weird. I’d rather deal with this alone.”
His tone felt strange, but I didn’t want to push him while he was grieving. “Okay.
When will you be back?”
“Sunday evening. I’ll pack light and take my car.”
Saturday morning dawned gray and rainy. Jax kissed my cheek before leaving.
His bag looked barely packed. “Drive safe,” I called from the porch. “Yeah,” he said, already pulling out of the driveway.
The house felt hollow without him. Too quiet. So I decided to head to our country house that afternoon.
We bought the small place five years ago for weekend escapes. Now we mostly store garden tools and extra canning jars there. I hadn’t visited in three weeks.
The vegetable patch probably needed care. Maybe I could surprise Jax with fresh tomatoes when he got back from the funeral. The 45-minute drive wound through quiet country roads.
I love that peaceful stretch, with rolling hills and weathered barns dotting the view. But when I pulled into the gravel driveway, my heart stopped. Jax’s car was parked near the tool shed.
Dusty but clearly his. Same dent on the bumper from last winter. My hands trembled on the steering wheel.
“What in the world?” I whispered. I sat there for two minutes, staring at his car. My mind raced with possibilities, none of them logical.
Finally, I stepped out and walked toward the house. “Jax?” I called through the screen door. “Jax, are you here?”
Silence.
The house was empty. No trace of him inside. His keys weren’t on the kitchen counter.
I walked around back to the sheds and garden. That’s when I saw him… and froze. Jax stood in the clearing behind the tool shed, pouring gasoline over something on the ground.
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