Broken Loop

Chapter Twenty: Loop #9- Car Crash

Late morning light slanted through the café's front window as Jade Hartman and Aiden Hartman slipped out the back door, coffee in hand and notebooks under arm. The spring air carried its first warmth of the year—tulip bulbs arching green and hopeful beside the pavement. Jade paused on the back steps, inhaling. For a moment, she looked like the sister he'd always known: bright–eyed, breathing deep, hair escaping its braid in soft tendrils.

Aiden offered his flask of coffee. She accepted with a nod, steaming cup in both hands. He watched her, heart thudding. She'd rewritten a third of her story overnight, pitched for the private reading in a fortnight, and yet he felt tension coil in her shoulders. He'd hoped today might break her spiral.

She glanced at him, smile gentle but wary. "Drive?"

He keyed the engine. "Anywhere you want."

She slipped into the passenger seat and opened her notebook, reading his sticky-note roadmap. He wondered how she felt, surrounded by critiques yet charged with hope. Then she tapped the map they'd sketched on the back of a receipt: a winding stretch of coastal road, no intersections—just sea breeze and horizon.

He flicked the car into gear. "Coastline?"

She nodded, closing her journal. "Need the salt air."

—

The highway ribboned open before them, then narrowed into two–lanes that clung to cliffs. Aiden lowered the windows. The ocean's tang rushed in: brine and distant gull calls. The road curved; a single guardrail protecting them from a hundred–foot drop.

Jade exhaled, watching the churning water far below. "This used to calm me."

He kept his eyes fixed on the road, voice even. "You've come a long way."

She glanced at him, coffee suspended at her lips. "I... almost felt normal."

He nodded. "You are."

She let the steam rise between them. Then she set the cup down. A weighted silence followed.

He swallowed and glanced her way: her jaw clenched as though recalling pain. He reached over, resting his hand on hers. "Talk to me."

She pulled her hand back. He felt the shock of cold air where her warmth had been. He eased back against the seat. "Okay."

She closed her eyes. "There's a turn coming up," she murmured. "I want to see it again."

He frowned. "The overlook?"

Her lips curved. "Exactly."

—

The road swooped around a bend. Jade pointed. "There."

He slowed and pulled into the turnout—a gravel patch ringed by driftwood. The barrier was low here; the sea felt within reach. He cut the engine.

They stepped out. Jade inhaled the full breath of salt and wind. He offered her coffee. She sipped without looking at him.

He touched her elbow. "Better?"

She exhaled. "Maybe."

He surveyed the coast: foam dancing across black rocks, gulls circling in the updraft. The world was wide and free. He thought this might heal her, but he sensed a shift in her eyes: not wonder, but calculation.

She set her mug down and stepped to the barrier. He followed. She climbed onto the low rail and sat, legs dangling over the precipice.

His stomach plunged. "Careful."

She turned, hair whipping her face. "Careful?"

He cleared his throat. "Just... don't fall."

She laughed, a brittle sound. "You'd save me."