A ghost of something, almost like a smile, touches his mouth. “And for fuck’s sake, Holt,” he says, stepping back toward his truck. “Stop chopping fucking wood and go fight for her already.”
Chapter Seventeen
Holt
Idon’t pack much. There isn’t much to take, and I’ve already wasted more time than I should have.
I throw a few things into an old backpack. My eyes land on her flannel, still draped on the back of my chair. For a second, I consider taking it with me.
But no.
The shirt belongs here. With my girl wearing it. Sitting on the counter. Curled on the couch. It’ll be waiting for her when she gets back.
And she will come back, because I can’t imagine a life where she doesn’t.
I pause at the cabin door, my hand on the frame. Do I lock it?
I’ve never locked it.
Then again, I’ve never left. Not for longer than a day in the city for supplies.
Years ago, once I chose Iron Peak to be my refuge, I’d never left. I’d already seen as much of the world as I ever needed to.
Until now.
I leave the door unlocked, partly because I’m not even sure I have a key for it. But mostly, because this mountain is the safest place I’ve ever known.
But as I now know, safety isn’t the same as living.
I don’t look back or glance in the mirror as I drive away. My future is in front of me.
And I’m going to get her.
Tessa
Tofino is busy today.
The crowds are already starting to gather in the little town tucked along the edge of Canada’s wild west coast. Still, I’ve managed to find myself a little table at my cafe where I can watch the ocean roll in.
It’s the type of beauty that makes people believe they’re always about to seesomething new, and most times, that’s true. I’ve spent many afternoons sitting right here, watching orcas and dolphins play in the bay.
Carefree and wild. I envy them.
My journal sits in front of me. Over the last few weeks, it’s become more of an anchor than an escape. The creative tap that had been opened wide while I was on the mountain has been twisted tightly shut since I left.
No matter what I do or what I try, the words won’t come. I’ve written three lines in the last hour. Every single one of them now scratched out.
This town isn’t wrong for me.
It’s just not right.
A woman walks past with a baby on her hip, her partner reaching over to adjust the tiny knit hat on the little boy’s head. It’s such a small, automatic gesture. But it’s full of love and affection. He looks at her with so much adoration in his eyes, I can feel their love from where I am.
I never wanted that kind of life before. The kind where I settled down with one man. It always felt limiting and suffocating.
But that was before.
Before Holt.
