I have loved Sawyer Quinn since I was twenty-two years old.
I stopped, because his wife loved him first — and she was my best friend. I managed my feelings the way I manage carefully, quietly, without complaint. For twelve years, I was very good at it.
Then Claire got sick. Then she was gone. Then I moved back to Redwood Falls to hold what was left of the family she left behind — a grieving firefighter and a small boy who had his mother's eyes and more courage than any child should need.
I was supposed to be the steady thing. The safe thing.
I was not supposed to fall harder.
He is not the same man he was. Neither am I. And somewhere between Saturday mornings on a muddy river trail and evenings on his back porch after his son was asleep, something started that I am no longer able to manage.
The question isn't whether I love him.
It's whether loving him is something I'm allowed to keep.