"My grandmother's recipe. Sit down." He sat. "I haven't made it since — I don't know. Before business school, maybe."
He took a bite and closed his eyes and didn't say anything for a few seconds, which was better than any compliment he could have offered. I sat across from him and ate my own and thought about my grandmother's kitchen, the yellow curtains, how she'd made breakfast feel like an event rather than a task. I'd dismissed that as sentimental, moved on to protein ratiosand calendar blocks. Sitting here now, watching a man savor a recipe I'd almost forgotten, the calendar blocks felt like the thing I should have let go of instead.
"Drew's coming today," he said, refilling his coffee. "Texted last night."
"Another check-in?"
"He calls them pulse checks. Like we're a startup he's monitoring."
I cleared the plates while he washed up. Side by side at the sink, same as every night since the first week, our elbows bumping in the small space.
DREW PULLED UP AT ELEVENin an SUV, overdressed for Cedar Bluff the same way he'd been overdressed for the hike, as if his wardrobe hadn't gotten the memo about altitude. He bounded out of the car with the energy of someone who believed his own press releases.
"You two." He stood in the cabin doorway, grinning. "Look at you. Domestic bliss."
I was at the dining table with my laptop, a client deck half-finished. Cliff was wiping down the counter. We were wearing matching expressions of people who had been caught being comfortable and weren't sure what to do about a witness.
"Drew." Cliff didn’t look up. "You’re early."
"Keeps you honest." He pointed at the wildflowers on the table. "Fresh-picked flora in a mason jar. That’s a data point. Nesting behavior within the first month is one of our highest-correlation indicators."
"They're wildflowers," I said. "They were free."
"Leading indicator."
He stayed for an hour. He asked about the trails I'd hiked and what I thought of Cedar Bluff, questions that came with actualeye contact and follow-up. He told a story about his wife, who'd started hiding his laptop at dinner because he couldn't stop checking satisfaction metrics. The kind of person who was hard to dismiss, slightly insufferable, and easy to enjoy.
Cliff was patient with him, tolerating a friend who didn't know when to leave. But underneath the patience I could see the tension, a tightness in his jaw I'd learned to read since I'd been here. When Drew said "You know, I really think this one's going to stick," Cliff's hand stilled on the counter for half a second. My stomach tightened.
After Drew left, Cliff washed his mug, shoulders tight.
"You okay?" I asked.
"Fine." He dried the mug and put it away. Turned and leaned against the counter and the tightness eased. "Want to take a walk? There's a spot I haven't shown you."
HE TOOK ME UP THE SOUTHridge trail through old-growth cedars that filtered the sunlight into columns. My trail shoes from Moose’s found the packed dirt without slipping. I’d stopped thinking about my feet entirely, which the woman who’d driven into Cedar Bluff in designer flats could not have imagined.
The trail opened onto a ledge above a swimming hole.
I stopped walking.
The pool was fed by a small waterfall, the water clear enough to see the rocky bottom. Wildflowers grew thick along the banks. The ledge overlooked the valley, the Cascades stacked behind it in layers of blue and white. The afternoon sun was warm on my shoulders. I stood there and felt a space open behind my ribs, wide and still.
I had not planned for the version of myself who stood on a mountain ledge and let beauty hit her full force. The womanwho'd driven into Cedar Bluff with a binder would have noted this scenery, appreciated it briskly, and moved on. That woman was not here. The woman who was here wanted to sit on this warm rock and watch the water fall and not be anywhere else.
"This is where you bring clients?" I asked.
"No." He sat on the ledge, feet dangling. "This one's mine."
I sat beside him. The rock was warm from the sun, our legs dangling over the valley. I thought about the exit timeline, the attorney I hadn't called, the plan that had seemed so airtight from San Francisco. I felt it crack, not with fear this time but with the understanding that leaving Cliff Masterson would not be leaving a situation. It would be leaving him. The man who kept sugar by my mug and told me about prison because I'd laughed without filtering it, who was sitting beside me now, quiet and solid. I did not want to be anywhere he wasn't.
I let that thought land.
"Swim?" he said.
I looked at the water. It was late May. The snowmelt was finished but the water wouldn't be warm.
"It's freezing, isn't it."
