“It was.”
She tilts her head, assessing me. “Do you miss it?”
“No.” The answer comes fast.
I don’t miss the noise, the orders, and waiting for the next thing to go wrong. But I miss the clarity. Mission. Objective. Execute. Out here, it’s me and the mountain. Sometimes the quiet lets the past creep in.
“What about you?” I redirect, not wanting to talk about myself. “What’d you do in Spokane?”
“Retail management. Home goods store. I was an assistant manager for four years.”
“Why’d you leave?”
She bites her lip. “I kept waiting for them to promote me. They kept hiring from outside. Said I was ‘too valuable in mycurrent role.’ Which means you’re useful where you are, so stay there.”
“That’s garbage.”
“Yeah.” She glances at the fire. “My mom said I was being dramatic when I quit. That I was throwing away stability. My dad...” She pauses. “He remarried when I was thirteen and lives in Florida with his new family now. We exchange Christmas cards. That’s about it.”
“So no one tried to stop you from leaving.”
“No one had a reason to. My coworkers were nice enough, but we weren’t actually friends. They were people you grab lunch with but who never invite you to their lives outside work.” She wraps her hands around her mug. “When I told them I was quitting and moving, they said, ‘good for you,’ and that was it. Haven’t heard from any of them since.”
My jaw tightens. The picture she’s painting… “So you left everything and had nothing holding you there.”
“Exactly. My grandmother died when I was twelve. She was the only person who made me feel seen. Who remembered my favorite cookies. When she died, I lost that. I’ve been looking for it ever since.”
“How’s it working out?”
“Ask me tomorrow.”
Fair.
The wind shifts. Snow pelts the east window now, so hard it sounds like gravel.
She stands. “I should let you sleep. You’ve done plenty.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Just the bedroom.”
“Right.” I stand too. “Door locks. Latch is simple. Bathroom’s stocked with towels and the basics. Anything else, ask.”
“I will.” She picks up the cookie tin from the table and holds it out. “I almost forgot. These are for you.”
I take it. “Thanks.”
“Snickerdoodles. I made them this morning.”
“I’ll eat them tomorrow.”
“They’re good with coffee.”
“Noted.”
She smiles. The warmth of it hits differently than it should.
My ribs tighten.
