I woke up to bacon.
Not the sad, floppy kind — crispy, smoky bacon that made the whole room smell like something worth getting out of bed for. And there was cinnamon, warm and sweet, the kind that made me remember kitchens and Sunday mornings. The scent wrapped around me like a blanket and for a second I thought I was still dreaming.
When I opened my eyes, sunlight was pushing through the blinds in soft stripes. Clay stood at the foot of the bed, barefoot and a little messy-haired from sleep, holding a tray with both hands like it was something fragile.
On the tray: two slices of cinnamon toast, stacked like golden bricks, a tidy pile of bacon, and my favorite chipped mug — the one I always reach for without thinking. He had that small smile — the one that barely showed but somehow warmed everything around it.
“Happy anniversary,” he said, setting the tray on my lap.
I stared at the food, then at him. “You remembered?”
He shrugged like it was nothing, but the shrug felt huge. It meant he’d thought of this day. It meant he cared enough to plan something, to turn a normal Wednesday into something else.
It was our first year together. One year — that one little number felt like proof. Proof we’d survived the awkward starts, the petty fights, the slow, messy learning of each other’s edges. For me, it wasn’t just a date. It was a small, stubborn victory: that I wasn’t just passing through his life.
Clay wasn’t the big-gesture type. He’d told me his last relationship had broken more than his heart. Since then, talks about the future made him quiet. He’d never said “I love you.” I hadn’t either. Maybe we were both waiting. Maybe that waiting was pride or fear — probably both.
“I made plans,” he said, clearing his throat. “We’re taking a road trip. Just us. Whole weekend. No phones.”
“You planned all this?” I asked, voice thin with surprise.
He nodded. “You’ll love it. I promise.”
With toast still steaming and the bacon scent curling in the air, I believed him. I wanted to believe him. Maybe believing was the start of something.
We hit the highway by midmorning. Coffee cups were warm in the holders and Clay’s favorite playlist hummed through the speakers. The sky was wide and blue, clean like a new sheet. Iowa’s cornfields rolled by, tall and steady, like rows of green soldiers waving in the wind.
Clay drove with one hand on the wheel and the other tapping to some old rock song. Every now and then he looked over at me and smiled like he was saving the smile up for just me.
“I’m not telling you where we’re headed,” he said for the third time.
“You’re really sticking to the mystery, huh?” I laughed.
“Just wait. Trust me,” he said, eyes bright.
We passed winding rivers that cut shiny lines through the land, cliffs that looked like they had stories in their cracks, and old barns with peeling paint — the kind that made me want to stop and take pictures. Clay pointed things out, like he wanted me to see the world through his eyes.
“Look at that barn,” he said. “The way it leans — like it’s thinking about falling but still holding on.”
“Want a picture?” I reached for my phone.
“Yeah. But get the hill behind it too. The light’s just right.”
I snapped the photo, but something in me felt off — a tiny prick of unease that I tried to brush away. When we drove by a field of wildflowers, purple and yellow patches dancing in the breeze, I said, “That reminds me of my grandma’s garden. She had flowers like that near her porch.”
Clay’s face shifted. Not angry — just… off. “That’s not what I meant. Forget the flowers. Look at the slope. Look at the light.”
I blinked. “Right…okay.”
He went quiet, and a small voice inside me asked why that mattered. But I told myself he was trying. He’d planned this trip, made the playlist, brought breakfast in bed. This was his version of love. Maybe it didn’t look like mine, but it was something.
Late that afternoon we pulled into a tiny gravel lot by a state park. The car tires crunched and the air smelled like pine and damp earth. Somewhere nearby, a river whispered over rocks. Clay bolted from the car before I could unbuckle — fast, almost impatient.
“Come on,” he called. “This is the best part.”
We followed a shaded trail. Sunlight spilled through leaves in gold patches and birds stitched the air with their songs. The path sloped, then opened to a small waterfall. It wasn’t huge — maybe ten feet — but it fell over dark, polished stones and hit a shallow pool with a soft, constant sound. Mist hung in the air and the light caught it, turning it silver and delicate like spun glass.
Clay stood still, looking at it like it meant something he couldn’t put into words. I felt a memory stir — a small, old feeling of being a child again.
“I think I’ve been here before,” I said softly. “My parents brought us camping. I think this was the place.”
Clay turned. The warmth was gone from his face, like someone had closed a window. “You’ve seen it before?” he asked, low.
“Yeah, but—” I started.
He shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
I didn’t get it. He walked back to the car without explaining. At the motel that night he dropped our bags and sat on the bed with his back to me, not saying a word.
I left the room to get space, to breathe. Near the trail I’d seen before, carved into the bark of a big tree, there was a heart. Inside the heart: Clay + Megan.
Everything tilted.
Megan. The name he’d promised was buried in the past. I felt like the floor dropped. Standing by the motel window, watching my own reflection, I waited for him to say what it meant. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling like it held secrets.
“This wasn’t about me, was it?” I asked, voice small.
He sat up slowly. His hands trembled. “It was supposed to be for us,” he said. “A fresh start.”
“But yeah… I came here once. With her.” He said it flatly, like reading from a file. My heart got heavy in my chest.
“I didn’t mean for it to come out like this,” he whispered. “It was one of the best weekends of my life. I thought if I came back — with you — maybe I could rewrite it. Make new memories. Push the old ones out.”
He swallowed. “I didn’t know it would all come back so fast.”
My thoughts braided together into a tight knot. I felt small and raw. “Do you still love her?” I asked, like it was an ordinary question about weather.
Clay’s jaw worked. He breathed and said, “I don’t know. I don’t think so. But maybe… maybe I miss who I was when I was with her. That version of me felt lighter. Happier.”
That line landed hard: this trip wasn’t only for us. It was a pilgrimage to a past that still had a hold on him. I couldn’t be the main character if he was still writing scenes with someone else.
“I need you here,” I said, whispering the words like I was lifting a fragile bird. “Not back there. Not with her.”
He nodded but kept his gaze down. My mouth moved before I could stop it. “I love you.”
His head snapped up, surprised. He didn’t answer. I felt tears warm behind my eyes and—too fast—left. The motel’s air felt colder outside, but at least I could breathe.
I hadn’t gone far when the door slammed. “Wait!” Clay’s voice cracked like glass.
He came running barefoot across the gravel, still in his jeans and wrinkled T-shirt. He grabbed my hand like he needed to breathe. “I was stupid,” he said, out of breath. “I thought I could cover up old pain with something new. Like if I just copied the steps, I could trick myself into moving on.”
His grip tightened. “But you were right. This isn’t about her. It was never supposed to be. You’re not a replacement. You’re the real thing.”
He swallowed hard. “I love you, too.”
Then — loud enough for the motel windows and the dog on the second floor to hear — he shouted, “I love her!”
A window cracked open and someone peeked out, sleepy and confused. A dog barked. For a second the world hung between that shouted confusion and whatever he meant. Clay’s face flushed. He leaned close, then found my eyes and said again, softer and steady, “I love you.”
He pressed his forehead to mine. Warm. Solid. I closed my eyes and let myself feel it — fully, without the edges. This time it wasn’t borrowed from a memory or borrowed from a name carved in bark. This was made in real time, messy and honest.
There were ghosts in his past; there would always be some traces. But as Clay held my hand and said those words, I felt them move behind us, not in front. The story that had been interrupted by a carved heart and old feelings kept going — with both of us awake and choosing to be part of it.
We stood there in the cool evening, the motel lights flickering, the smell of pine and dust around us. Clay’s breath steadied. I let my guard down. For the first time in a long time, I believed that this trip — with its cornfields, its waterfall, and even its carved heart — had pushed something forward instead of back.
This was ours now: alive, warm, and real.