“Five minutes.”
Twenty minutes later I step outside wearing jeans that actually fit, a sturdy pair of hiking boots, and a burgundy sweater that has absolutely seen better decades but is soft andcomfortable and makes me feel like myself. I’ve managed to wrestle my braids into something resembling intentional style, and I’ve even found my good lip balm.
Maceo looks me over from head to toe with an expression that makes heat creep up my neck, then nods approvingly.
“See,” he says. “Already better.”
“I hate you.”
“You absolutely do not.”
He holds out the picnic basket. I take it and immediately regret it.
“Absolutely not,” I mutter, handing it straight back. “Be serious.”
He huffs in amusement and takes it without argument, sliding the blanket off his shoulder and passing it to me instead.
We leave the last row of houses behind and head toward the Ruby Spring, our footsteps echoing slightly on the quiet street. The town feels sleepy and peaceful in the late morning light, most residents already settled into their Saturday routines. The spring runs beside us as we walk, its red-tinted water catching the sunlight and throwing dancing reflections up onto the trees that line its banks.
The trail begins just past where the spring curves away from the main road, a narrow path that slips between two tall maples like it has been quietly waiting for us all morning. A small wooden sign, weathered by years of Massachusetts weather, marks the entrance: “Thorne Trail - 2.5 miles to overlook.”
The moment we step beneath the canopy, the air changes.
The sounds of town fade until they are little more than distant echoes, a dog barking somewhere, the faint hum of traffic on the main road. The forest wraps around us, soft and watchful, the kind of quiet only the woods seem to have.
Leaves crunch under my boots with every step, a satisfying sound that makes me feel like a character in a fall-themedcommercial. The ground is thick with them, gold, rust, deep orange, and the occasional stubborn green leaf that clearly refuses to accept the season has changed. Fall in Massachusetts is not subtle. It announces itself in blazing color and crisp air that smells like woodsmoke and dying leaves and something indefinably wild.
I adjust the folded blanket over my arm and follow Maceo up the trail as it begins a slow incline through stands of oak and maple. Sunlight filters down through the canopy in shifting patterns, warming my face when I pass through the bright patches.
“This was a mistake,” I announce after we’ve been walking for all of three minutes.
Maceo glances back over his shoulder, and I take a moment to admire his neatly braided cornrows. “You have barely started walking.”
“I have already reached my daily quota for physical activity.”
“You have walked for three minutes.” He rolls his eyes as he checks his watch.
“That is plenty for someone whose idea of exercise is walking to the mailbox.”
He chuckles and keeps moving, his pace easy and unhurried despite the way his long legs eat up the trail.
The path winds deeper into the woods, climbing steadily but not steeply enough to leave me gasping for air. Tall trees stretch upward in dark columns of bark, oak, maple, the occasional white birch. Everything smells green and earthy and alive, even with winter approaching.
Something rustles in the leaves beside the path, a quick scurrying sound that makes my heart jump.
I jump too, the blanket slipping form my arm and nearly taking me out with it.
A squirrel darts across the trail like it has somewhere extremely important to be, its tail a gray blur as it disappears up the trunk of a massive oak.
Maceo laughs quietly, the sound warm and rich in the forest quiet.
“You good?”
I straighten my posture immediately, trying to reclaim my poise.
“I am excellent.”
“Uh-huh.” The doubt in his voice is unmistakable.
