Weight and Windows Down

The drive felt longer than she remembered.

Maybe because she wasn’t racing home anymore. There was no urgency in her chest, no voice reminding her to smile before walking through the front door. Just the hum of tires on asphalt, her hand loose on the wheel, and the steady ache in her shoulders that hadn’t left in weeks.

She turned onto the bypass just as the sun started to dip behind a stretch of farmland. A streak of rust-colored light hit the windshield, and then—

A sound.

A slow guitar intro that pulled her back two decades before she could stop it.

Then that voice—clear, aching, undeniable.

“You could be my silver spring… blue-green colors flashing…”

“Silver Springs.”

Her hand froze on the dial.

She hadn’t heard it since college—since cutoff shorts, bonfires, and singing into the wind with no one to impress but herself. Before worship sets replaced playlists. Before she started skipping songs that made her feel.

Eden didn’t switch it off. She turned it up.

The chorus rolled in like a wave.

“I’ll follow you down ‘til the sound of my voice will haunt you…”

It wasn’t just a song. It was prophecy.

She could see herself—twenty-one, barefoot in the grass, windows down, heart unguarded. That girl would’ve never allowed what she allowed. Would’ve walked the hell away the first time she felt herself shrinking to fit someone else’s definition of love.

But she didn’t walk. She stayed. And it cost her more than she ever said out loud.

The music swelled again.

“Give me just a chance…”

She whispered along. Quiet at first. Then louder, until her voice didn’t shake.

She wasn’t mourning him.

She was mourning her.

By the time she pulled into the driveway, the song had ended, but the ghost of it lingered—rattling around in her chest like wind in an old chimney. It was a fitting welcome.

The porch still had the rocking chair. Her flowerpots were half-dead. The wind chimes clinked together like they were unsure what season it was anymore.

Eden stood at the threshold of the home she once prayed over. The house she cleaned and cooked in. The walls that had heard her cries muffled into towels and pillows and locked bathroom stalls.

It smelled like lemon cleaner and lies.

She gave herself four hours. That was it.

The kids were with her parents, soaking in their last week of summer break. The house was quiet without them—but it made this easier. They didn’t need to see her pack the pieces of herself into boxes.

She moved quickly. Deliberately.

Clothes. Shoes.

A few pieces of jewelry that actually belonged to her.

Books. Journals.

And a single photograph—her and the kids at the beach last summer. No him. Just sunburns and belly laughs.

She stood in the master bedroom for a moment too long.

Her side of the bed looked too neat. Like she’d never actually slept in it. Just held her breath next to a man who slept with his phone face-down and his mouth full of scripture and seduction.

She stared at the closet for a beat, then grabbed her old duffel bag and began folding clothes without looking too closely.

Halfway through, her phone buzzed from the kitchen counter.

She ignored it.

Buzzed again.

She wiped her hands on her jeans and walked over, expecting her mom. Or maybe one of the church ladies who’d “heard rumors and were just so brokenhearted about it all.”

Unknown Number.

She stared at the screen.

Her heart didn’t leap, but it leaned.

She answered.

“Hello?”

A pause. Then traffic noise in the background.

And then, his voice—steady, smooth, unforgettable.

“I figured you either wouldn’t answer… or you’d hang up.”

She turned away from the window, clutching the edge of the counter like it could anchor her.

“Mr. Calhoun.”

“You remembered.”

“I remember most things,” she said.

There was something about the way he paused. Like he weighed every word before he let it fall.

“I meant to say something the other night. But it wasn’t the right moment.”

“Go on.”

“You told me you weren’t looking to be saved,” Callum said. “So I won’t pretend to be the one holding a life raft. But I do have a proposition.”

She raised an eyebrow, even though he couldn’t see it.

“What kind of proposition?”

“A job.”

She waited.

He continued. “I’m building something new. A brand. Not just a product—but a statement. It needs someone sharp. Someone who knows how to read people without begging for their approval. Someone with instinct. With command. And if I’m being honest—someone who’s walked through fire.”

Eden blinked.

“You called me because I looked like hell?”

“No,” he said simply. “I called you because you looked like you survived it.”

She closed her eyes. Let his words hit where they needed to.

“What’s the job, exactly?”

“You’d be my creative lead. High visibility. You’d have full freedom. And a team that listens when you speak. Pay is competitive. So is the pace. And yes—there’d be relocation involved.”

“Where?”

“Nashville.”

She exhaled.

“You’re not asking for much, are you?”

“I’m not asking. I’m offering.”

There was silence between them.

Not awkward.

Not tense.

Just alive.

“And if I say yes?”

“Then you’ll have a contract in your inbox by midnight. And a car waiting at your door by Friday.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’ll know you weren’t the woman I thought you were,” he said. “But I’ll still respect that you knew what you wanted.”

Her thumb hovered over the edge of the phone.

“Take some time,” Callum added. “But not too much. This offer isn’t going to wait long.”

Then he hung up.

Eden stared at her reflection in the dark screen.

The woman who looked back at her was tired. Untethered. But she wasn’t broken.

She didn’t look like someone who was running.

She looked like someone who was choosing.