As a cold wind blows, I lean on my car. Tears prick my eyes. “Yes. I’m very happy.”
A long breath. “Tell me about the dog.”
I tell her about Spool, his missing ear, and how he sleeps across the foot of the bed. I tell her about Mae and the cinnamon rolls. I tell her about Jace and how he turns the handle of my coffee mug toward where I stand.
She listens and doesn’t ask me again if it’s wise.
When we disconnect, I sit in the driver’s seat of my hatchback, the phone still warm in my hand.
I think about Margaret and the conversation she’ll have with my mother about hercrazy sisterand thelumberjack thing.I’m sure Bradley will smirk into his wine.
I don’t care. I drive toward the mountains.
The San Juans rise on both sides of the road, green with late spring. The snow has pulled back to the highest ridges. Wildflowers line the switchbacks: purple, yellow, and white. The aspens have leafed out, their new leaves trembling in the breeze.
I drive with the window down. The air smells like I’m almost home. The road is smooth, repaved where the rockslide tore it apart, and the fresh asphalt is darker than the old.
I have only ever driven away. From the job or someone who made me feel like a compromise. Always moving, an emergency snack bag full, a binder full of plans for someone else’s project.
Not today.
Hollow Peak appears below me the same way it did the first time. Brick and timber. Steam from the hot springs. Mountains behind everything.
I park on Main Street. Crooked, same as the first day.
Mae sweeps the sidewalk outside the Switchback. She looks up, leans the broom against the wall, and folds her arms. “You’re early for a Sunday morning.”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Makes two of you.” She tilts her head toward the mountain. “Mr. Side-Eye’s been on that porch since dawn. I know because Theo drove past at six-thirty and called to tell me.” She picks up the broom and points it at me. “Go put that man out of his misery.”
Evelyn stands in the doorway of Bluebird two doors down, a coffee cup in one hand, grinning. She raises the cup at me. I wave.
A whole town is watching me return. But it’s time for me to go home.
For good.
Pines and aspens close in on both sides of the logging road. As the road climbs, branches scrape the hatchback’s roof. The ruts are familiar now. I know where the rocks jut up, where the mud gets soft, and where to ease the wheel to avoid the worst of the washboard.
The trees open, and the cabin is there. The porch light is on.
Ten in the morning, and the yellow bulb glows over the weathered timber. He must’ve left it on all night. Maybe he’s left it on every night since I drove away.
Jace sits on the porch steps, Spool beside him.
He stands when he sees my car.
I park and turn off the engine. The quiet of the mountain fills my ears. Wind in the aspens. A bird somewhere in the pines. Spool’s nails on the porch boards as he stands, tail wagging.
I get out.
Jace comes down the steps. His hair is pushed back, his flannel rolled to the elbows. The scar catches the morning light, the raised line I’ve traced with my fingers, kissed in the dark, and memorized like the lines on my palms.
He stops in front of me and stares at me straight on. The man the town nicknamed has decided not to do the gesture anymore.
His arms go around me, and he lifts me off the ground. My arms circle his neck. As he holds me, his breath shudders.
Spool barks. Once. Offended.
