Chapter 48

CHAPTER 48

ZAYN

T he plane touched down with a thud, jostling me out of the uneasy doze I'd slipped into during the last hour of the flight. My neck was stiff from the cramped seat. The dull ache behind my eyes only intensified as the wheels screeched against the tarmac. Green River. Again. It was almost hard to believe I was back here so soon after the last visit.

Commercial at that. I had every intention of bringing the family jet, but it couldn't be arranged. That meant I had to fold up my legs and subject myself to another bumpy ride surrounded by people that seemed to have some serious gas. It was like flying in one massive fart cloud. Had the airport been handing out free chili dogs?

But I would gladly brave all the perils of commercial transport. I had to see her, to make things right. Even if it meant riding in this tin can, packed in like an anchovy.

As the plane taxied to the gate, I couldn't help but replay the last few days in my head. New York had been a whirlwind, as usual. The meetings, the press, the constant demands for my time—it all felt like one long, never-ending performance.

I had been fielding questions about Marigold and me. Everyone wanted to know where she was. I couldn't help but think about the last time I made this flight. Being here in Green River with Marigold had been a different world. Getting to see where she'd grown up, learning about the places that had shaped her had taught me so much about her. I knew her. I should have realized what I was asking her to do was too much.

I ran a hand over my face, trying to shake off the memories. There was no use dwelling on it now. I was here to fix things, not wallow in my mistakes.

The airport was small, more like a glorified bus station than the international hubs I was used to. It was a quick, unceremonious exit from the plane. I was surprised they didn't have us unload our own bags.

I quickly walked through the terminal and within minutes I was outside, squinting against the bright sun. The familiar scent of pine and earth filled the air. I inhaled, taking a moment to just stand there and soak it all in.

The honk of a horn brought me back to the present. Thankfully, there was no problem getting a taxi. I managed to snag one before the other passengers caught up. But just as I was about to open the door, a voice called out from behind me.

"Hey, man, you mind if I share the cab? There's only one other out here, and it looks like it's already taken."

I turned to see a guy about my age, a little worse for wear after what was probably a long flight. He was grinning at me, as if sharing a cab was the most natural thing in the world. Normally, I'd have said no, but something about the desperation in his eyes made me hesitate.

"Sure," I said, stepping back to let him in. "Where are you headed?"

"Sweetwater Distillery," he replied, sliding into the back seat with a bit too much enthusiasm. "I'm meeting some buddies at the bar."

Great. A stop on the way. But I didn't say anything, just nodded and climbed in after him.

As soon as the door closed, the guy scooted over to the middle seat, practically right beside me despite the ample space on the other side. I stiffened, the invasion of my personal space sending a prickle of irritation down my spine. He didn't seem to notice—or if he did, he didn't care. He immediately pulled out a crumpled paper bag and started unwrapping what smelled like the world's greasiest sandwich.

Pastrami maybe?

The scent hit me like a punch to the gut, the mix of fried onions and mystery meat making my stomach twist. I turned my head slightly, trying to breathe through my mouth to avoid gagging. He took a big, messy bite, the sound of his chewing loud and obnoxious in the confined space.

"Man, I've been craving this since I booked the flight," he said around a mouthful of food. "You ever been to Sweetwater? Best damn bar in the state."

I forced a smile, more of a grimace, really. "First time."

"No kidding? You're going to love it. Nothing like those fancy joints in the city. Real people, real drinks, real food." He waved his sandwich in the air for emphasis as he spoke. A drop of grease flew off and landed on my pants.

"Can't wait," I muttered, brushing at the stain that was already soaking into the fabric.

The smell of the sandwich was seriously threatening to make me vomit. I didn't think he even realized how gross it was.

"I've been traveling," he said around a mouthful. "Bummed around Mexico for a bit and then ended up in Venezuela. Met some guy that lived in Jersey."

He smelled like he hadn't showered since Mexico. How he managed to get from there to sitting beside me in the cab without being murdered by someone with a lot less patience than I had was anyone's guess.

My new traveling companion pulled out his phone and started playing some kind of obnoxious rock music at full blast, bobbing his head along with the beat. I leaned back, trying to put as much distance between us as possible, but it was no use. He was practically glued to my side, the music vibrating through the seat.

The driver gave me a sympathetic look in the rearview mirror, but I just sighed and looked out the window, willing the drive to be over as quickly as possible.

"Want a bite?" he asked me, shoving the sandwich in my face.

"No, thanks." I said, choking on my words. I could see the pieces of meat sticking out from between the bread, a smear of mustard adding to the visual assault. The noise from his phone was grating enough to give me a headache, but the smell had my stomach churning.

I reached out and rolled down the window, hoping the fresh air would help. The scent of gasoline and exhaust, which in any other situation would be unpleasant, was a welcome diversion from the sensory feast in that cab.

As if reading my mind, or more realistically noticing my pale complexion, the guy turned down his music and stuffed the rest of his sandwich back into the bag.

"Man, you don't look so good," he said. "You sure you don't want some? There's nothing like pickle and pimento loaf to settle the stomach."

"Really, I am fine," I said, trying to sound convincing despite the cold sweat trickling down my spine and breaking out over my forehead.

Ten minutes later, after having endured what felt like hours of increasingly worse conditions, we finally pulled up to the old Sweetwater Distillery. I nearly leapt out of the cab. The guy grinned at me, offering a greasy-fingered wave as he climbed out.

"Have a good one, man! And seriously, check out the bar if you get the chance!"

"Yeah, sure," I said, climbing back into the car. I quickly slammed the door, just in case he thought he was going to get back in.

The driver and I exchanged a look. He chuckled as he pulled away from the curb. "You want the radio on, or should we keep it quiet?"

"Quiet," I said, leaning back against the seat with a sigh of relief. The rest of the ride passed in blessed silence, and before long, we were pulling up in front of Jay's house.

I could smell the barbecue as soon as I stepped out of the cab. Unlike the pungent odor of the sandwich in the car, it was actually a good smell. The savory scent of grilled meat wafted through the air, mixing with the earthy smell of the surrounding woods. It was the kind of thing that would have made my mouth water if I wasn't so nervous and still a little queasy from earlier.

I paid the driver and stood there for a moment, just taking it all in. The house was a modest, single-story affair with a wide front porch and a couple of rocking chairs. It wasn't the kind of place I was used to. There were no sprawling lawns or gated entrances—but there was a warmth to it, a sense of home that made my chest tighten with a longing I didn't quite understand.

I walked up the front steps and raised my fist to knock, but Elaine's warning echoed in my head.

"Give her space, Zayn. Don't push too hard. She needs time to figure things out."

My hand hovered in midair, suddenly uncertain. What if showing up like this was the wrong move? What if I was just thinking about myself again, not what Marigold needed? The last thing I wanted was to make things worse.

I took a step back, preparing to leave, when the door swung open.

Marigold stepped out, her head turned back to say something over her shoulder. She was dressed in sweats and a loose shirt, her hair messy and pulled up in a haphazard bun. She had a trash bag in one hand and a smile on her face that immediately faltered when she saw me.

For a moment, we just stared at each other, neither of us knowing what to say. I could see the surprise in her eyes, the confusion that quickly turned to something else—something more guarded.

"Zayn?"

"I'm sorry," I blurted out, my voice too loud in the quiet of the evening. "I was just leaving."

She blinked at me, her expression unreadable. "Just leaving? You flew all the way here, and now you're leaving?"

I opened my mouth to explain, but the words got stuck in my throat. What could I say that didn't sound ridiculous? I'd come all this way, determined to fix things, and now I was just going to walk away because I got cold feet?

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair. "I can't stop thinking about you, Marigold. I wanted to talk things through, but I just realized that I'm intruding. I shouldn't have shown up like this. I can wait until you come back to New York. I'm going to go. Call me when you get home."

She looked like she'd seen a ghost. "I don't think I'm coming back."

I stared at her, trying to process what she'd just said. "What do you mean?"

She shifted her weight, looking uncomfortable. "I've been doing some soul searching, and I think it's time for me to come home. I had my chance in the big city, and it didn't work out. Now, I need to be here with my dad, to make things right and make up for the time we lost. This is where I belong. I was never meant to live in the city. It's not for me."

My heart was pounding in my chest, a sick feeling in my stomach. "Were you even going to tell me?"

She looked at me like she was seeing me for the first time, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Of course I was. It's only been a few days. And this isn't about you."

I knew she was right, but her words felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under me. I'd been so focused on fixing things, on getting back to the way we were, that I hadn't considered what she needed—what she wanted.

But hearing it out loud, knowing that she didn't see a future for us in New York, it was like a cold, hard slap to the face. All the plans I'd been making, all the things I wanted to say, suddenly felt pointless.

"What do you want me to say, Marigold?" My voice came out harsher than I intended, the frustration bubbling up despite my best efforts to keep it in check. "That I'm okay with this? That I understand?"

"I'm not asking you to be okay with it, Zayn," she said, her voice steady. "But this is my decision. My life. And I need to do what's right for me."

I stared at her, searching for some sign that she didn't really mean it—that this was just some kind of test, a way to see if I'd fight for her. But all I saw was determination, a resolve that made my chest tighten with fear.

She wasn't coming back. And there was nothing I could do to change her mind.

"Fine," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "If that's what you want, then I won't stand in your way. I won't try to change your mind."

Her eyes softened, and for a moment, I thought she might reach out, say something to ease the tension between us. But she didn't. She just nodded, as if we'd come to some sort of agreement.

It was over. Whatever we'd had, whatever I'd been holding on to, it was gone.

I missed my chance because I had been too blind to see it.