Don’t be stubborn. Eat something.
Also Mila’s coming Sunday. Don’t scare her off by acting like a bear in pants.
I close my eyes.
She always does that—says something that makes you laugh and hate her at the same time.
I type back with my thumb.
Me:Stop texting me like you’re the CIA.
Three dots appear immediately.
June:I am the CIA of Timber Creek.
And if you don’t check on her tonight, I will.
My chest tightens.
Because I know she will. June will march up that cabin road in her winter boots with a casserole and a plan.
And Mila—sweet, brave Mila—will probably invite her inside and never realize she’s being recruited into a whole operation.
I stare at my phone for a long moment.
Then I grab my jacket.
Because I tell myself I’m checking on her for safety.
Because the road is slick.
Because she’s alone.
Because it’s my job.
That’s what I tell myself.
It’s a lie.
Bluebird cabin glows like a lantern when I pull into the clearing, my headlights sweeping over Darlene sitting a little crooked in the snow. Smoke curls from the chimney now—so she figured out the fireplace.
Or she set the cabin on fire and the smoke is a warning.
I kill the engine and step out, boots crunching. The cold hits hard, clean.
I knock.
Three taps.
The door opens almost immediately, like she was waiting.
Mila stands there in thick socks and an oversized sweater that looks soft enough to ruin a man’s morals. Her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, little strands escaping around her face.
She’s holding a spoon.
She looks… domestic.
Like she belongs in a cabin.
