Page 167 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

I helped unload solid chairs and abstract art and books—so many damn books.

We painted two rooms already—one a warm buttery yellow, the next a soft, pale blue.

She stands in the middle of each space with her hands on her hips, eyes lit up, explaining her vision like she’s building a future in real time.

Big ideas.

Bright ideas.

And every time she talks about the house—this house—her voice softens. Her eyes get misty.

Her voice hitches when she says the word home.

And I can’t help but hope—will it be ours someday?

I know it’s crazy. A hermit like me wanting to live so close to the city.

But for her? I’d do it.

In a heartbeat.

Because I can see how she’s already adopted this house.

The town.

The mountain.

And fuck me if I’m not right there with her.

I still drive up to my cabin every day. Half hour there. Half hour back.

It’s not a bad commute.

Actually, it’s kind of perfect.

I get my mountain solitude.

Then I get to come back to her.

To the convenience of town—proximity to the things the woman I love needs in her life.

And Christ, I do love her.

Not in a casual way.

Not in a manageable way.

This love feels obsessive. Possessive.

It is all the things.

Every day I learn something new about her, and it wrecks me a little.

Why she smells like wildflowers—it’s a bath oil she’s used since college.

How she likes a snack before bed.

Cheese and crackers. A glass of wine. Sometimes olives if she’s feeling fancy.