“One sauce-related mishap doesn’t define me.”
I laugh, and the heaviness weighing me down lifts. I can give myself another night and day before I have to let reality back in.
“Fine,” I say, pushing up from the table. “But I’m supervising.”
“Deal,” he says, and the way he looks at me almost makes me forget that this has an expiration date. But not quite.
19
JENSEN
We’requiet on the trail back from Rick’s cabin, which suits me fine.
I love talking to Sloane—could and have done it for hours—but the silence between us feels just as good. No need to add words when the crunch of pine needles under our boots and the last light of day casting shadows through the trees is a perfect accompaniment to the short hike.
We stayed longer than planned because Sloane was the ideal audience for Rick’s never-ending stream of stories from his life in the woods. She charmed that seventy-year-old hermit like he was the most fascinating person she’d ever met. The man lit up every time she laughed, and hell, I know the feeling.
The more time I spend with her, the worse it gets. I’m down so bad there should be a support group. Hi, my name is Jensen, and I’m still trying to convince myself that a once-in-a-lifetime, lightning-in-a-bottle connection is something I can walk away from at the end of a backcountry adventure I’m not supposed to be a part of in the first place.
Not one cell in my body is buying it.
She’s my person. I don’t know how else to explain it. I didn’trealize my life had a Sloane-sized gap in it until she walked into that Nashville bar. I wrote a hopelessly romantic song about finding her without truly understanding what it would mean if I did. Now that I know, I can’t unknow it. Can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube or unhear the melody. Pick your cliché, because they all apply, and none of them is a big enough emotional truth.
Rick had assumed we were a couple. Asked how long we’d been together, like we’re some kind of happily-ever-after postcard. I couldn’t bring myself to correct him, but Sloane had smiled and said we were just friends.
Just friends.
Sure. We’re just friends, the way whiskey is just brown water that burns on the way down.
Rick shared his own story over dinner. He met a girl right out of college when he got a job as an engineer in St. Louis, but city life never fit him. The mountains called, and she didn’t want to follow, so they parted ways. There was never anyone who took her place.
It sounded as if he’d made his peace with it a long time ago. “Lonesome doesn’t seem like much up this high,” he told us, gesturing toward the peaks turning purple in the fading light.
I understand that. For most of my life, I’ve felt the same way about music. Nothing has been more important than playing, and doing it on my terms, without being part of the country music machine or chasing another hit in order to stay relevant. Writing, producing, and backing up other artists has been more than enough. Music was my first—and I believed only—love because I’d always have it.
Music wouldn’t leave.
My mom spent her whole life pining for men who took what she offered and gave nothing back. I watched her heart break over and over. She’d pick up the pieces and hand them to the next guy who didn’t deserve her. Then she got sick, and Jamie and I were the ones at her bedside when she took her last breath. But even atthe end, she was asking about some asshole who’d promised to show up then hadn’t.
I made myself a promise that I’d never let myself want something so badly that losing it would hollow me out and leave me reaching for a bottle or a needle or whatever else could dull the ache.
So I devoted myself to the music, because it’s safe. My guitar won’t break my heart.
But Sloane is changing the rules I built my whole life around. I don’t know how I’m going to walk away when this is over, but she hasn’t given me any reason to believe she wants me to stay. There has been no discussion of what happens when we get back to real life. No hint at a future that includes both of us in the same zip code. But there’s no doubt the past few days have solidified her position as the most important part of my world.
The woman walking in front of me is braver than anyone I’ve ever known, and it would be a goddamned honor to be allowed into her heart. But I’m pretty sure she has no intention of giving me the keys to that particular castle.
We’re passing through a high alpine meadow, boulders scattered throughout the silver-green grass and bordered on all sides by pine trees, when she stops.
“Jensen.” Her voice is low, taut. “There’s a moose.”
I freeze behind her. Maybe forty yards ahead, a massive cow moose stands at the edge of the tree line with her head raised as she watches us with dark eyes. We saw one yesterday morning on a distant ridge, but this one is close enough that I can see her ears twitch.
“It’s okay,” I say, having no authority to make that statement. We didn’t have moose in the mountains around Whisper Falls. Black bears, yes. Coyotes and about a million trash pandas. But moose are something I know from Animal Planet. “We should probably?—”
We both turn at a noise behind us.
A calf comes ambling out of the trees, all gangly legs and oversized head, moving right toward us like we’re not there.
