Blame the altitude, except we were in Wisconsin, which was as flat as a pancake for the most part. I mean, there were hills, and we might call them mountains…but…
Blame the snow.
Blame the fact that one night in a tent with that man was like tossing a lit match on gasoline.
But Carson wasn’t treating it like a blip.
And that scared me more than anything.
His voice last night was branded into the inside of my skull.
Because I don’t want to pretend it’s not happening.
Because complicated isn’t the same as bad.
Because every time I look at you, I want—
I refolded a blanket and squealed into it.
I couldn’t pretend I didn’t feel something.
I couldn’t pretend the tent was insignificant.
I couldn’t pretend that the way he looked at me didn’t make my lungs lose structural integrity.
But I also couldn’t pretend I was ready for any of this.
Feelings?
Vulnerability?
Possibility?
Those were dangerous terrains, steeper than cliffs, slipperier than ice, and far more terrifying than any wildlife I’d ever encountered.
Feelings had always been my bear in the woods.
I got up again and paced.
“Okay, Sienna,” I muttered. “You’re logical. You’re grounded. You can climb literal mountains, you can handle a man.”
The universe laughed at me.
I marched to the kitchen and into the mudroom, pulled out my running shoes, and put them on.
Running didn’t solve emotional spirals, but it delayed them.
I stomped down the hallway, ignoring Violet calling, “Are you speed-walking away from your problems again?”
“Yes!” I yelled back. “It’s called cardio!”
I escaped outside into the brisk morning air and started jogging down the path toward the cabins, the familiar crunch of gravel grounding me. Each breath lifted some tension; each step steadied my pulse.
By the time I hit the curve past the maple trees, I’d almost convinced myself I was fine.
Fine-ish.
Okay-adjacent.
