Like for the first time, we were both recognizing something in the other that didn’t need to be said out loud.
He looked back to the road, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose against his knee.
Then, without looking at me, he asked, “Can I ask you something, now?”
I tilted my head to the side, trying to pretend as if being on this end of the questions didn’t feel different. “Depends.” I said cautiously.
“How do you know Jake?”
“I met him through John.”
“And John is?”
“My brother.” Not by blood. Not on paper. But in all the ways that mattered, he was.
Dean let that sit for a second. “Why haven’t you told them?”
There was something in his tone—curiosity, but it hit a little too sharp.
“You said one question,” I replied, trying to brush it off.
He didn’t laugh.
Trees blurred past the window, as I tried to find the right words.
How could I explain it? That when you had no safety net, your life could fall apart over something as small as a blown tire. That sometimes, telling the truth came with a cost you couldn’t afford.
Not wanting to reveal too much, I went with, “Because I don’t want them to feel like they have to worry about me. They have their own lives. Their own families. They’ve done enough.”
Dean was quiet for a beat, and the space between his eyebrows creased as if my words had landed somewhere deep.
Then, softly, he said, “Maybe. But worrying about someone isn’t a burden when you love them. It’s how people stay connected. How they show up when they don’t know what else to do.”
I looked over at him, finding his eyes still on the road, his face serious, his jaw a little too tense.
Suddenly, I wondered about his life.
Who he worried about.
Who he was trying to protect.
The trees began to thin then, and I looked back out the windshield.
Up ahead, the forest gave way to a wide clearing, and we passed a sign that read Pine Ridge Resort, Est. 1982. I took a deep breath, then glanced at the clock. Five hours exactly.
A gravel path split off from the main road, bringing us past stretches of green grass and patches of tall ferns that looked like they’d been growing there forever.
Everything was quiet. Tucked away…
Already panicking, I checked my cell phone, and just like I suspected—no bars.
“We’re here,” he said, his voice carrying that quiet awe of someone stepping into a storybook.
Everything outside the window was lush and untamed—green spilling over itself, sunlight cutting through the trees in soft, uneven patterns.
“It’s… beautiful,” I admitted, almost despite myself.
He smiled faintly. “Wait until you see it up close.”
