We’d left Claremont Shores at dawn, trying to beat the traffic. I’ve already downed two cups of coffee to stay sharp, while Hunter opted for a nap instead. He stayed up late last night working on his research.
As I drive onto the bridge, the grates rumble under my tires, rattling the whole truck. The noise jolts Hunter awake. He scrubs his eyes with his knuckles, glancing around.
“We’re going to the U.P.?” he croaks, voice scratchy with exhaustion.
“Yep.”
He huffs. “You seriously won’t tell me where we’re going?”
“Nope.”
He groans. “I hate you.”
I just smile softly. Now that he’s awake, I crank up the volume. The speakers crackle with old distortion, but it makes the music feel raw, alive.
Hunter wrinkles his nose. “God, Mase. Your music taste is awful.”
I scoff defensively. “It’s grunge rock.”
“It sounds like divorced white dad music.”
I bark a laugh. “Fuck off. At least it’s better than boybands and girly pop music.”
“Howdareyou,” he gasps, hand pressed to his chest dramatically. “You’re so pretentious. Don’t sleep on pop music—like, Taylor Swift is a lyrical genius.”
Before I can protest, he snatches my phone from the cupholder and queues up one of her songs, “August.” He tells me it’s one of his favorites. The ballad fills the cab, soft and wistful. Hunter hums along, tapping his fingers against his thigh, gaze fixed dreamily on the endless stretch of bridge and sky.
The lyrics lodge somewhere deep in me, sharper than I expect. I don’t know what it is—her voice, or the words themselves—but it feels like she’s singing about us. About this. A fleeting thing, fragile as summer itself, slipping away faster than I can hold onto it.
Yearning. That’s the word. That ache of wanting more, knowing it was never really yours to keep.
My throat tightens as I stare straight ahead, pretending to focus on the road. When Hunter isn’t looking, I reach over, grab my phone for a split second, and quietly add the song to my personalplaylist.
After he’s gone, maybe I’ll play the song again to remember this aching feeling, like pressing a bruise just to prove it’s still there.
***
The cabin sits at the end of a long dirt road, tucked deep in a state park that borders the northern edge of Lake Michigan. It’s a small cottage with a wraparound porch, decorated with weathered wicker chairs. Towering cedars and birch trees crowd the property, their shadows blending together to create a quiet pocket of privacy.
I pull the truck into the gravel drive and cut the engine. For a moment, it’s just silence, the faint tick of the cooling motor, and the sharp scent of pine leaking through the cracked windows.
Hunter leans forward, his mouth parting as he takes in the sight.
“We’re staying here?” His voice is equal parts disbelief and awe. “This place is gorgeous. It must’ve cost a fortune.”
I shrug nonchalantly. In truth, itwasexpensive, even for just one night. After milking my bank account a few weeks ago to buy more insulin and CGM sensors, I had to pick up a few extra shifts at Beachside Burgers to cover the cost.
But he’s worth it.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.
He frowns. “But—“
“No buts,” I cut in. “The onlybuttI want to deal with today is yours.”
He groans, rolling his eyes, but there’s a reluctant grin tugging at his lips. “That was terrible.”
“Yeah, but it made you smile.” I lean across the cab and steal a quick kiss. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
