The road narrows as we climb, trees pressing close. I can barely see ahead, but Jake drives like this is nothing.
"How much farther?" I ask.
"Five minutes."
"You said that five minutes ago."
"Did I?"
"You're enjoying this."
"Maybe."
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, squinting at the screen. Mom. I silence it. I don’t need to read it to know the theme.
"Everything okay?" Jake asks.
"Just my mom waiting for me to grow up and get a real job."
"Isn’t yours real?"
"Not to her. She thinks I’m having a very long quarter-life crisis."
"Are you?"
I glance at him. "No."
He nods once, like that settles it.
Something warm sparks in my chest, but I smother it.
The truck turns onto a private drive, and my thoughts evaporate.
Because that’s not a cabin. That’s a mountain lodge.
Dark timber. Stone. Massive windows glowing through the snow.
"This is yours?" I ask.
"Yeah."
"You live here? Alone?"
"Yeah."
Of course he does.
Men like him always have places like this. And men like him always want women who fit into their lives, not women who have lives of their own.
He parks near the porch. Silence drops heavy when the engine dies.
"I don’t bring people here," he says quietly.
"Ever?"
"No. Only very close friends."
I want to ask why. Want to ask what makes me different, or if I'm different at all, or if this is just what he tells every girl.
