So, this morning, I trudged to my truck, forced myself not to look up the road toward the place I really wanted to go, and turned left into town.
The drive down was objectively pretty, and I couldn’t shake the memory of Lacey leaning out the passenger side door, trying to get the perfect picture on her phone to send to Vanessa or her mom.
“Good morning!” Smythe calls when I open the door, and I can’t help it, I want to deck him. His stupid smiling face and blond hair, today braided in two braids, like the guy is some sort of folk singer. In fact, I’ve wanted to punch everything since pushing Lacey away, so it’s not really his fault.
“I have an order…” I start, wanting to cut right to the chase, but then my eyes swing to what he’s doing.
He’s stapling a flyer to the wall, right next to the spot where the old flyer, advertising the fall festival, lives. He sees me looking, laughs, and takes that one down. “Oh, good eye. Should have taken this down ages ago.”
But I’m not looking at that one. I’m looking at the new one.
Cozy, modern cabin for rent north of Low Pines! Perfect for the holidays — plenty of bedrooms and beds for the whole crew. Contact owner for prices.
It’s a picture of Lacey’s cabin. Jasper’s cabin. The rental cabin. All our work to update the place, now she’s advertising for renters, just like we said. This was always the plan.
And at the bottom of the page, in smaller script,*Friendly guests and families only, no frat parties allowed.
I don’t know how long I stare at that note scrawled at the bottom. It’s in Lacey’s handwriting.
She’sreallyleaving.
Lacey is leaving.
And after everything, even after what I said to her, she’s still protecting me. Protecting my peace, like I’d first asked of her.
“Max?” Smythe asks, and I whirl around, staring at him, actually thinking about hitting him for a second. It sure would release some of the tension built up inside me. It would take some of this anger and put a price on it — the pain, the consequences.
It occurs to me, suddenly, that I can’t let her go.
That I’ve been an idiot.
People were taken from me when I was a kid, and I was chased out of art school, but nowI’mthe bully. I’m the unfair universe, continuing to do this to myself, despite how it affects the people around me.
Closing my eyes, I see the look on Lacey’s face when she was standing outside my door, and I know I’ll be doing whatever I can for the rest of my life to make it better.
Without another word to Smythe, I turn and walk out of his shop, jaywalking across the street to Warren’s. I push open thedoor and find him mercifully alone, standing behind the counter of his general store.
He looks up, wearing a pair of thick black glasses, and eyes me warily.
“Warren,” I say, but he holds a hand up.
“I’ll just drop your money at your P.O. box,” he says, his voice flat, and I come to a stop.
Right now, I feel the overwhelming urge to run from this. To avoid the hard part. To avoid the potential reality that, after this, he could still choose not to be my friend. Not to forgive me for everything I said.
Sucking in a breath, I ball my hands into fists and say, “I’m sorry.”
A beat passes, then Warren bursts out laughing, and I look up, confused. He’s shaking his head and takes off his glasses, setting them on the desk so he can bury his face in his hands, which muffles the laughter.
“What?” I ask, after another moment of laughter from him. He looks up at me, and I crack a smile, “That was hard for me, man.”
“I can see that.” He chuckles, wiping the glasses and sliding them back on his face. “Holy shit, that made my day.”
“I really am sorry,” I say, feeling like he might be forgiving me too easily. “I was an ass.”
“Yeah,” Warren says, nodding. “You were. But I knew that. I’ve known who you are the entire time. Feels good to get an apology, though, so thanks.”
Something inside me gets a little lighter at the sound of that. That Warren knows me well enough to forgive me for something like this. That he knows me well enough to know that I didn’t really mean it.
