Page 1 of When The Mountains Held Us

One

Oakley

My fingers grip the worn leather steering wheel tight as I take the exit off Highway 11 and slowly approach the stop sign at the end of the ramp.

“Turn right.” The cheery female voice chirps loudly at me from my phone on the dashboard, and I roll my eyes as I flick on the turn signal. There has to be a way to change the voice from that of a high-strung soccer mom on Saturday morning to something a little less aggressive. More soothing. Maybe I can download a Henry Cavill-esque GPS voice.

Now that I would listen to. God knows the last thing I need is some robotic GPS voice yelling at me when I inevitably miss my next turn, to send me spiraling and contemplating finding the nearest cliff to drive off.

I snort at my own joke.

Okay, that’s a bit dramatic, but honestly, after the last couple of months I’ve had—months that would probably have had even the devil himself making the sign of the cross and bowing his head—I figure I’ve earned a free pass.

I follow the dashboard dictator’s instructions, my eyes bouncing between the illuminated map on the screen and the winding road ahead, where a spectacular view of the Adirondack Mountains unfolds.

A call from an unknown number pops up, obstructing my view of the map, and my stomach sinks to my toes like I’m plummeting straight off the aforementioned cliff. Letting out a huff, I lean forward and quickly swipe decline. My breathing eases when the ringing stops, and the car falls silent once more. I let my thoughts and the endless mountains rolling out ahead consume me.

“At the next light, turn left.”

“Agh!” I shriek, jumping clean off the leather seat and spilling the cold contents of the drive-thru iced coffee down the front of my white tank top. Looking down, my ratty, used-to-be-white bra with pink polka dots shows through the wet fabric, and a quick-spreading light brown splotch stains the front.

Great. This is just great.

“Turn left.”

“Oh, relax. I heard you the first time!” I snap, one hand on the wheel, the other now clutching a handful of brown, rumpled napkins that may or may not be clean. Taking the turn, I haphazardly dab at the front of my shirt as the remaining coffee in my now half-empty cup sloshes over the rim, down the side of the cupholder, and between the seat.

Pressing my lips together, I suppress a groan at the thought of trying to clean up the sticky mess. It will have to wait until later. One more thing to add to my laundry list of shit I need to get done. I have a meeting with the building manager of the apartment complex in exactly—I check the clock on the dash—twelve minutes, and I cannot be late.

Before a week ago, I hadn’t known a small town like North Creek even existed. I was desperate to escape, and it didn’t matter where to. But then I remembered my parents talking about a weekend trip they took to the Adirondacks years ago, and how it was so beautifully remote that not even the FBI could find you there. We’d laughed together at the joke, but now?

It sounded like the perfect place to disappear.

Two hours of tedious research later led me to the charming town of North Creek. There was next to nothing on the internet about the town, save for the name of it and a few local event postings dated more than ten years ago. It was perfect.

Finding a decent apartment in such a small town proved to be a bigger pain in the ass than expected. I spent hours in the last week aimlessly scrolling through sketchy, nondescript ads before finally landing on a page boasting the picturesque Mountainside Apartments.

At first, I thought it was too good to be true. A large rectangular building with sunny yellow siding and dark burgundy shutters stood stark against the backdrop of large mountains bathed in the glow of a setting sun. The photo must have been taken during the peak of autumn in the mountains; the kaleidoscope of oranges, golds, greens, and reds nearly took my breath away. A short white picket fence encircled the building, and each unit proudly displayed a brightly colored door, a few of them decorated with wreaths and other seasonal decor.

Something about the picture drew me in, hinting at the promise of the peace and quiet of small-town living. After the tumultuous past few months, it’s exactly what I need. Somewhere new and safe to land that won’t have me constantly looking over my shoulder and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Cruising down the winding two-lane road, run-down trailers and beautifully kept homes alike pass by in a whirl of colors. How could such different dwellings possibly exist within the same zip code, let alone next to each other? While one exudes comfort and wealth, the others convey hard times and the heavy feeling of just getting by.

And yet here, in this quaint mountain town, the two coincide in perfect harmony, almost as if one could not exist without the other.

“At the next light, continue straight.”

A flutter of nerves and excitement explode in my stomach as I approach the stoplight and wait. Taking advantage of the red light, I dab at my shirt with the now-damp napkins. I sigh, realizing there is no way it’s going to dry in time, and throw my arm behind me into the backseat of my Toyota Camry.

My fist closes around empty air, and I fling my hand back and forth, trying and failing to find the threadbare black sweatshirt I know I threw back there earlier. Turning in my seat as best I can without taking my foot off the brake, I shove my belongings aside until I find what I’m looking for.

A horn blares from behind me, and I startle, whipping back around in my seat to see that the light has turned green. Still clutching the sweatshirt in my fist, I ease off the brake and drive forward through the intersection, throwing the sweatshirt onto the passenger seat.

The horn blares again as the old faded red pickup truck swerves around me and flies through the intersection on my right. As the man passes, horn still wailing, he hangs his hand out the driver’s side window and flips me the bird.

So much for that small-town hospitality you always hear about. Then again, it’s still New York even though I’m nowhere near a major city. A level of impatience and hostility is to be expected. I won’t say it bothers me, but it’s still jarring at times. Like now, for example. There’s something disconcerting about such vulgarity amidst the peaceful landscape that surrounds me.

Sighing, I continue forward, watching as the truck skids around a corner and disappears in a puff of black exhaust. I check the time on the dash against the ETA predicted on the GPS. I’m set to arrive with just enough time to shrug into my sweatshirt, run my fingers through my knotted wind-blown hair, and swipe some cheap mascara over my lashes.