And tomorrow?
I ride again.
Tonight?
I’ll step inside this little cabin, drop my duffel on the floor, crack open that bourbon, and sit my ass down on whatever couch she’s got inside.
A second of peace is better than nothing.
And for the first time in a long damn while…
I’m looking forward to something.
Even if I don’t know what it is.
Six
Holley
The gravel crunches under my tires as I ease into the far corner of the state park’s gravel lot—the same spot I always tuck into, hidden behind the cluster of picnic tables and the fat pine tree that blocks me from the road. The sun is gone now, sinking behind the ridge, and the shadows stretch long and blue across the empty lot. The temperature has already dropped. The air has a bite to it I wasn’t expecting this early.
I cut the engine and sit for a moment, letting the silence settle around me.
This is usually when I breathe. When the rush of prepping the cabin, the scramble to get everything ready, the stress of seeing numbers I can’t afford on bills I can’t avoid—it all hits once I’m alone and slowing down. When the next task isn’t on the forefront of my brain is when the fears, worry, and stress creep in threatening to overcome my mind.
But tonight, I can’t quite settle. The cold presses through the windows, already hinting at how miserable sleeping here is going to be if the temperature drops lower than forecasted.
I rub my hands together and pull my coat tighter, then reach back and unzip my duffel. I tug the thin fleece blanket out and shake it out across the backseat.
It’s fine. I try to convince myself that it isn’t so bad.
“Please let the weather app not be lying,” I mutter to myself.
I sit back and check my phone again. The cabin rental app shows the reservation as “upcoming,” still with that neat little countdown.
Guest arrival: 1 hour, 11 minutes
Plenty of time. No notifications from him. The cabin lights are on their timers. Everything inside is clean enough to pass a white-glove test. And my duffel is half-organized.
And yet…
Something nags.
A shiver works up my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.
“Okay,” I mumble, rubbing my arms. “Okay, don’t be dramatic. It’s gonna be fine.”
But when I lean back in the driver’s seat and pull the blanket up over my knees, I know instantly—it’s not enough. Not tonight. The cold is creeping in too fast. If the temperature dips even a few degrees lower, I’m going to freeze.
I grab my phone again and check the weather app.
Frost Advisory in Effect. Temperatures may fall into low 30s in higher elevations.
I close my eyes.
“Great.”
The heavier sleeping bag—my winter-grade cocoon of warmth—is back at the cabin. Rolled up in the hall closet. The one I didn’t pack because the stupid app said mild temps.
