“Doesn’t matter anyway, we’re not going.”
Barbie & Ken are filming a slow-motion video. Parker tosses a handful of flower petals into the air as if he’s just finished coordinating the wedding of the year, while Trina narrates our getaway. She clearly missed her calling as co-host ofSurvivorwith Jeff Probst.
“Beau and Maisie head into the wilderness,” sheenunciates crisply. “Will love survive the wilds of pine, patchwork, and proximity?”
Parker holds the camera steady and grins. “
“Let’s make it cinematic—walk slow, smile, and don’t forget the farewell kiss.” Trina winks at me as she adjusts her wireless mic, absolutely enjoying herself.
Peaches circles the bumper of my truck with a pin cushion in her mouth—minus the pins—prancing her way through the scene as if she’s a ring bearer.
I look in my rear-view mirror and notice Maisie’s mom waving us off. Her expression says both, “you treat my girl properly,” and “it’s about time.” I stick my left arm out my open window and wave back to her. To everyone who got us to this point.
I suggest we swing by Botaniqûe, so Maisie can grab her things and finish dealing with last-minute flower shop details. I’m expecting a small, neat overnight bag. Instead, she hands me a half-zipped turquoise blue backpack, clearly thrown together at the last second. It’s a mess of a bag: deodorant in the side pocket, zippers half-done, a sock caught in one of them; but, there’s something about it that gets to me.
She gives me a sheepish shrug and says, “I didn’t exactly plan to win.”
“Neither did I,” I tell her.
But I packed anyway. Just in case.
Her backpack joins my duffel in the back of my truck. It’s an old forest-green 1965 Ford F-250 that I rebuilt two winters ago—reliable, scratched in the right places, and simple. No pretense. I like that in a vehicle. I like that in people, too.
She didn’t expect to win, didn’t expect to come along, and yet here it is. Heresheis. Part of me wonders what shepacked. Part of me wonders if she second-guessed every item the way I second-guessed every step I took toward saying yes to this whole thing.
Maisie climbs into the passenger seat, cheeks pink from the frenzied packing, or possibly from the way a dozen townspeople just hollered goodbyes like we were off to consummate something. I pretend not to notice how she tucks a loose curl behind her ear and suddenly can’t meet my eyes. She says only, “thank you,” as she fastens her seatbelt and gives Peaches a look when the dog tries to hop in the backseat.
“Sorry, Peaches,” I say, gently nudging her out. “This getaway’s strictly plus one.”
Maisie snorts and shakes her head. I pretend not to notice the way she glances at me, quick and cryptic. But my chest constricts anyway, cinched tight as a belt beneath my collarbone. I press a fist there, as if that might loosen the grip. Her look is not quite a question and not quite an invitation, but it lingers. It’s like she’s trying to make sense of this prepared-almost-excited version of me—and isn’t sure whether she wants to. Or maybe she already has.
The cabin is deeper in the woods than I expect.
We pass the turn off to the Little Kilchis River, where the water winds slow and glassy under a canopy of evergreens. Then the road switches to gravel, tires stirring up dust as we climb higher into thicker trees in the Tillamook National Forest. Finally, the trees open just enough to reveal a small pine-framed cabin tucked into the grove, as if the forest trees purposefully sprouted around it, hiding it until now, when we would find it.
The air smells like woodsmoke, moss, and sun-warmed bark—a scent between the inside of a forest and the memory of a campfire night you never want to end. It smells like peace. The kind of place where your guard might slip without warning. There’s a small stack of firewood on the porch, a hammock rolled up in the corner, and a pinecone wreath nailed crookedly on the door.
Inside, it’s warmer than the shaded woods outside. Someone started a fire to welcome us, and the heat is just enough to remove the chill from the Coast Range air.
It’s your typical one-room cabin. I glance around—pause. Then glance again. Yep. One room. One bed. My brain tries to act unfazed, but the muscles around my ribs tighten as it figures out the math. Not sure what I expected, but the whole one room situation has my nerves up.
The cabin’s interior has weathered walls, a braided rug in the center, a small kitchen, barely big enough to be useful, and in the corner, that one bed—canopy frame, patchwork quilt, and enough pillows to smother a lumberjack.
I set our bags down, shrug off my jacket, and instinctively reach up to adjust the leather cord around my neck. The guitar pick pendant rests just below my collarbone. I wore it on every stage I ever played. Been a while since it meant anything, though.
Maisie notices. “That’s a guitar pick, right?”
I nod, my thumb brushing over the edge. “My first one. It’s habit now, wearing it. But it meant a lot to me back when I thought music could change the shape of a day, or a person, even.”
She doesn’t let that go. “You have that much talent, and you’re just…hiding it around your neck?”
It’s not a dig. It’s sincere curiosity. She’s looking at me as though I’m some treasure chest the world forgot to open.
Then, carefully but without hesitation, she says, “The world deserves to hear you. The kind of gift you have. It isn’t meant to stay hidden.”
“Sometimes,” I say, “it’s easier to keep the best parts of you silent when no one knows they’re missing.”
Maisie doesn’t say anything to that. Just watches me for a second longer. Then she steps deeper into the room, turns her attention to the bed, and stops short.
