He leaned in close to Sarah, the receptionist from the fourth floor, his posture relaxed, smile easy, like this was exactly where he wanted to be. She was laughing, which was new. For the last two months she’d shut him down every time he tried, and Jack had taken it like a challenge instead. His reputation was well known outside our department. Inside it, he liked to joke that he kept things “professional.”
I watched him tilt his head, say something low. Sarah shook her head, smiling despite herself.
So much for professionalism, I thought.
As if that had ever stopped him.
I looked away, irritation mixing with something like relief. Jack was a distraction. A convenient one. But he wasn’t the real reason I was here, even though he had practically begged me to come here today.
The real reason was simpler and more transactional.
I couldn’t disappear for weeks, by taking my long leave, pack up my life in Missoula, vanish into the mountains, without even showing my face at the party first. You didn’t get to be the guy who skipped everythingandtook time off. Not without consequences.
So, I stayed, just long enough to be seen. But my mind was already elsewhere.
I pictured the drive out of Missoula, leaving early while the town still slept. Heading south and west, the road narrowing, the air changing as the trees thickened. Forest closing in on both sides. With roads that demanded attention and rewarded it.
After hours of driving, I’d reach the trailhead. From there, cell service would fade without ceremony. Silence creeping in until the phone became useless weight in my pack.
That was when the peace would begin.
I’d hike deeper into the backcountry, each step pulling me farther from noise, from people, from expectation. Toward the high-mountain headwaters of the Selway River, where everything felt stripped down to essentials, water, breath and movement. Solitude that wasn’t just physical but emotional. The kind you earned by putting one foot in front of the other.
The thought settled me.
There was a flicker of guilt, too. It always came. A quiet one, not sharp enough to stop me. My mom had suggested, again that I come home instead. That I spend my leave there, where it was warm and familiar and full of people who loved me.
I hadn’t been home much. A handful of times in nearly ten years. Long enough to reassure her I was successful and fine. Not long enough to stay.
I knew she’d forgive me. She always did. I’d call after the trip, apologize like I always did, and she’d pretend she hadn’t been disappointed in the first place.
The wilderness didn’t ask me for anything.
It didn’t need reassurance or explanations. It didn’t mind my silences.
That had always been the difference.
Across the room, Jack laughed loudly. Sarah touched his arm, then pulled her hand back, still smiling. I finished my drink, finally, and set the glass down.
I’d done what I needed to do.
I stayed another ten minutes. Talked to the right people. Nodded at the right moments. Then I slipped out quietly, already planning the drive, the trail, the long stretch of quiet ahead.
Tomorrow, I’d start packing.
Finally, I felt like I could breathe.
Chapter 3
Claire
The day had been easy in the way my days rarely are.
Phill had turned six, which meant a cake that leaned dangerously to the left no matter how many times we tried to straighten it. The classroom smelled like frosting and crayons, sugar and glue sticks. They sang too loudly. They clapped out of rhythm. Phill’s smile never once faded, even when the candles took three tries to blow out.
I watched it all with that familiar, quiet satisfaction that came with teaching. These were the days that reminded me why I loved this job. Watching children feel safe and celebrated never got old.
By pickup time, the classroom had emptied in waves. Parents filed in with coats half-zipped and distracted smiles, ushering children out into the afternoon. The noise softened until it was just me and Lily sitting on the rug by the window, her legs crossed neatly, her fingers busy tying and untying the ribbon on one of the leftover balloons.
