“You’re special,” I say without hesitation, and feel gratified to know I’m not alone in the blushing.
“I bet the guitar works better than cooking when you want to impress a woman,” she says, steering us back to safe ground. “Likebringing a puppy to a park, except the puppy can play Willie Nelson.”
“The guitar does okay.”
She points her fork at me. “Okay, my ass. Veronica and her friends were ready to fight me for tent space.”
“You weren’t fighting anybody for tent space.”
“No,” she agrees, and her eyes hold mine over the rim of her faded plastic cup. “I wasn’t.”
We clean up together, moving around each other in the small kitchen with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people who’ve shared trail meals, a tent, and a few nights that rearranged everything. She washes, I dry, our shoulders brushing in the narrow space, and every point of contact sends a current through me that I’ve stopped trying to suppress.
By the time we finish, the daylight is completely gone. The cozy cabin has no electricity, but there are enough solar lanterns to cast the interior in a golden light that makes the space feel disconnected from the rest of the world. My heart is down for the idea of having no obligations beyond the woman drying dishes next to me.
“I guess I can pick my own book tonight,” she says when we finish, gesturing at the bookshelf. “You and Thoreau are off the hook.”
“Your book is on the shelf.”
She blinks. “I have a journal, not a book.”
“A signed copy ofThe Year of Losing It.A parting gift, apparently.”
Her eyes flame with surprise, then with anger. “Fuck that book,” she says. Then she shakes her head, pressing her fingers to her temples. “No, I don’t mean that. Her book means the world to me. Kristen Quinn?—”
“Doesn’t deserve you.”
“What is it they say about not meeting your heroes?” Sheheaves a resigned sigh then moves toward the bookshelf but doesn’t make a selection.
“You don’t need a hero.” I’m tired of watching this woman lavish admiration on a stranger without seeing the good in herself. “You don’t need a self-help author to teach you how to be brave. You already are.”
She stares at me, a battle raging behind those blue eyes. The part that wants to believe me fighting the part that’s been telling herself she’s not enough for so long that it’s woven into the fabric of her being.
She picks up a worn paperback, turning it over in her hands. “I hiked through the backcountry to a cabin when I could have just rented an ATV or waited a few days and jumped a flight to Tahoe,” she says with a self-deprecating laugh. “Real inspiring stuff.”
“What you chose to do was more than simply meeting your favorite author, and I wouldn’t have traded this trip for the world,” I tell her before letting myself wonder if the words are too revealing. I did, after all, follow her into the wilderness.
And the truth of it rings through me like a perfect chord. Somewhere between the first blister and this cabin, Sloane stopped being the one who got away and became the woman I want to build something real with going forward. A forever kind of real.
When she returns the paperback to the shelf and faces me, the lantern light catches the highlights in her dark hair and shadows the hollow of her throat peeking out from the buttoned-up flannel. She looks young and fierce and tired and beautiful, and it takes every bit of willpower not to reach for her.
“Oh, I forgot.” She clasps her hands together. “There’s an old guitar in my bedroom. Will you play for me?”
I haven’t felt the level of scared shitless-ness that rushes through me since the first time I walked onstage at the Ryman. I’ve performed for crowds of thousands, played in dozens of cancer units, and shared studio space with legends who made me feel like a rookie. None of that compares to these nerves. Because I knowplaying for Sloane is going to expose more of me than any on-stage version of myself.
“Sure.” Okay, that sounded casual. Good start. “If you want me to.”
Her slow grin does grievous things to my composure. “I’d like that.” She sounds almost shy, as if she realizes the weight of this, too, which is enough to undo me completely.
“I’ll get it,” I say, needing a minute to get my pulse under control.
The guitar propped in the corner of the bedroom is an old Martin, its weight familiar and grounding. I sit on the bed to tune it, taking my time as the muscle memory settles my nerves.
When I come back out, Sloane is on the couch with the old blanket tucked around her legs. She’s refilled our cups and watches me with an expression that’s equal parts anticipation and vulnerability. Or maybe I’m projecting. But this is a moment I’m going to remember forever, no matter what comes next.
“Any requests?” I ask as I take a seat in the armchair across from her, the Martin resting on one knee.
“Something you wrote.”
