I stared at the screen longer than I should have, then typed:
Me:Bring good coffee.And a backup blanket.
Brody:I’ll bring two.Saturday?
I almost saidno.Then I looked at my call log.Saturday sounded like oxygen.
Me:Saturday
Brody:See you soon, Cassidy
Me:Don't forget the extra blanket, I run cold.
Brody:Good thing I run hot.
An actual squeal ripped from my throat before I dropped my phone on my bed, flopping back onto my pillows.I stared at the ceiling with a smile dancing across my face, and my heart thumping loudly.I felt ridiculously young and silly, but at that moment, I didn't care.
I walked the path from my parents on Saturday, while the day was still soft.Brody said he would take care of the supplies just to bring me.The land felt different now that it was officially mine, like stepping into a room and knowing which chair would always be yours.
Brody was waiting for me in the first meadow that made me know this place was mine.We settled surrounded by pine and thawing earth.The creek, somewhere to our left, was now free from the ice.
“First candidate,” he said, tapping a boot on a knoll that looked west over the meadow.“Evening light.Long view.Slight wind break from those firs.”
I stood and watched the field breathe.“I could write here.”
“You could be yourself here,” he amended, and the ridiculous thing was, he wasn’t wrong.
We set up the small canvas tent and a fire ring, the kind of easy teamwork that makes you forget you haven’t been doing this for years.He handed me stakes and I hammered, over-eager, bending one sideways.
“Ruthless,” he said.“Tent never stood a chance.”
“Do not put me in charge of infrastructure.”
“Noted.I’ll handle the structure.You handle the fire.”
We ate sandwiches he packed and watched the sky pale to lavender.The fire took on the second try, crackling like it had something to say.He poured tea from an old enamel pot into matching mugs, and I pretended not to notice the way my hands warmed more from his nearness than the cup.
“Tell me something true,” he said, stretching long, boots crossed at the ankle.Sparks pinwheeled up into the early dark.
I considered dodging.Then I didn’t.“Sometimes when I sit down to write, it feels like I’m stealing from myself.Those months were… mine.Even the awful ones.Sometimes putting them on a page feels like cutting them out to prove something to strangers.”
He didn’t rush to fix it.He nodded, eyes on the fire.“You’re not cutting.You’re patching.”
I don't know why, but I barked out a laugh.“Patching....how?”
“You’re taking something that shouldn’t have happened, something that hurt you, left wounds, and you're letting yourself experience that all again so you can find your voice again.You are healing and patching yourself up.That’s reclamation.”
The word settled somewhere low in my ribs.Reclamation.
“Your turn,” I said.“Something true.”
He considered.“I used to think I had to outrun where I came from to be worth anything.Then I outran it and felt empty.Coming back didn’t fix everything, but… I like who I am here.”He rolled the mug between his palms.“I like who I am around you.”
The wind shifted.And I felt something shift in me, too.
Later, the night got properly cold, and we slid under a layer of blankets, shoulders touching.Every brush of fabric felt louder than voices.He turned and tugged my hat down over my eyebrows, thumb lingering a beat too long on my cheekbone, like he was memorizing it.
“Sorry,” he murmured, not moving away.
