I stare out the window and pretend the forest is interesting enough to distract me from the fact that I’m in a truck with three people I care about and one woman I can’t stop thinking about, heading toward a cabin that has “we’re going to talk about our feelings” written all over it.
Silas booked it.
Of course he did.
He’s the type who can’t stand a mess unless he’s the one holding the mop.
The worst part is… the chemistry is still there.
Not the easy kind.
The kind that’s stepping too close to a fence line you know is electrified.
I can feel it in the way Boone’s attention keeps dragging forward toward Delaney, even when he refuses to look at her outright. In the way Silas keeps glancing at her. He wants to say something but knows he’ll make it worse. In the way Delaney’s breath catches every time we hit a bump, and her knee brushes Silas’s thigh by accident.
Nobody says anything.
Which is almost impressive, considering two of the men in this truck have a medical condition where silence makes their skin itch.
We lose cell service about twenty minutes before the turnoff. The bars drop to nothing, and the world gets quieter on purpose.
Delaney notices.
Her thumb pauses over her phone screen, then she locks it and sets it face down in her lap, trying to prove something to herself.
Or protect herself.
Silas glances at it, then looks back at the road.
Boone’s stare stays fixed straight ahead.
I don’t touch my phone at all.
It can’t help.
None of this can be fixed with scrolling.
The cabin is tucked deep enough in the woods that the trees are walls. Dark wood, low roof, a porch that creaks under our boots.
He kills the engine. The sudden quiet is loud, and for a beat, no one moves.
Then Delaney opens her door and steps out.
The air is cold. Clean. Pine heavy. The kind of air that makes you feel you can start over if you just inhale hard enough.
She pulls her coat tighter.
Boone gets out next. He shuts the door with too much force. The sound is the only thing he’ll allow himself.
Silas walks around the hood and grabs the bags before anyone can argue.
“Alright,” he says, too bright. “Welcome to Camp Trauma Processing.”
Boone’s head turns slowly. “Don’t.”
Silas holds up a hand. “Okay. Fine. Camp Mature Adult Conversation. Better?”
Boone’s jaw ticks.
