Page 25 of Goode Tidings

"I'm grown," he says, grinning. "You don't have to protect me from the big, bad wolf."

Big, bad wolf is the term Dan has applied to all the confessions that come in.

"You're delicate," I tease. "Someone has to protect that." There's no way I'm telling him about the guy who claimed to have swindled his grandmother out of her retirement money. He says he's headed to the casino, and now I'm worried about a nameless and faceless elderly woman. Does she have grocery money? Can she afford her medication?

I hate this job sometimes. But then I look at these three people, Dan, Trinh, and Rachel, and I remember I'm responsible for them. It might be my company, but it's their livelihood. I can't afford to be fragile.

We move on. Dan and Rachel determine which stories will go on social media. Trinh breaks in to remind them there's a holiday coming up, and we should start looking for stories that tie in.

Before we end the call, Dan tells me about an air mattress that doesn't feel like one. He says he'll send me the link, and the moment our call is over it pops up as a text on my phone. A second message follows.

It's time you move on, boss. It doesn't have to be with the smokeshow cabin thief, but you gotta try again.

I stare at the phone, thinking of all the ways I could respond. Dan is the only person currently in my life who was there when it all happened.

My first instinct is to brush it off like I usually do, to shut it down and move the conversation on to something safer, anything that doesn’t require me to actually sit with my thoughts and memories.

In the end, I don’t reply at all, because something about it lands a little differently.

Move on.

Not in the casual way Dan probably means it, but in a more practical sense that I don’t want to examine too closely.

Still, there's a part of me that has to admit it's not the worst idea. Someone to talk to at the end of the day instead of silence. Someone to share space with that isn’t just work and routine and a cabin I’m currently not living in.

Maybe he's right. Maybe it is time I move on. But it won't be with my former stepbrother's ex-wife.

Even if she is funny. And generous. And smart. And beautiful, with a dimple in one cheek.

In a world with eight billion people, there must be someone else out there for me.

CHAPTER 12

Eden

Eight days.

That's how long it's been since I've spoken to Callum. I poked around the garage after that first day we explored Snowflake. I felt a little bit uncomfortable looking through belongings that weren't mine, but I have a child to think about. It's my duty to make sure we haven't placed ourselves in close proximity of a crazed serial killer. There was only an SUV, and normal garage-type stuff: neatly organized tools, two sleds on wall racks, and leftover cans of paint labeled in black marker. No evidence of large hooks where a human could be hung from while flayed. Phew.

I've seen Callum here or there, coming and going from his office. I hear when his car starts up and leaves, the close of the car door when he returns. He doesn't park in the garage anymore, keeping his car at the curb instead where he can walk in a straight line into the backyard and down the gentle slope to the water's edge. He hasn't said why he's left the garage free, but I'm not going to start parking in there until he expressly says I should. I've taken over enough of that man's space.

Earlier this week, I watched as Callum left his car and walked to the office carrying shopping bags from a sporting goods store. On a different day, I saw him carrying a large box that looked to be an air mattress, if the product depiction on the side of the box was to be believed. I instantly felt bad for displacing him; he worked hard to make this cabin livable, and now he's (presumably) sleeping on an air mattress in an outbuilding.

Oliver and I have been busy making the cabin a little bit our own. I bought new sheets for the bed in the main bedroom, and bedroom furniture for Oliver to go in the empty second bedroom. Oliver finally put two and two together when, as we were directing the guys from the furniture company where to place Oliver's new furniture, he looked at me with sudden realization and asked, "If Dad didn't know Callum was staying here, that means Dad hadn't been here in a long time. Did he know the state this place would be in? Did he even think about where he was sending us?"

There was confusion on his face, and a subtle undercurrent of anger. Hurt. I wanted to wrap him up, keep him safe from the ways the world will hurt him. And that includes Justin. "You know your dad," I'd answered, patting Oliver's arm. "The details aren't his strong suit."

Consideration isn't his strong suit, either, but I bit my tongue like I always do. Not for Justin. For Oliver.

The last time I saw Callum, he asked me to have Justin call him. I did as asked, sending Callum's number to Justin and saying Callum requested a call. Justin did not respond. I don't know if the call took place, but I'd like to. I don't need to know a play by play of who said what, but I don't think it's asking too much to know the conclusion.

Oliver starts high school tomorrow, and I can tell he's getting nervous. I am too, and even though I'm trying to hide it, it seeps through the cracks, revealed in the way I hover a little too much. Do you want a sandwich? Silver dollar pancakes? Remember when you were little and we built intricate construction sites and used all your trucks like it was a working site?

On Sunday, Oliver tells me he's going for a walk around the lake.

"I'll join you," I say, setting down my crochet. I've been working on adding a navy blue outline to the scalloped hem of a maroon sweater. What a gift it is to wear sweaters in September instead of having to save them for November. I may no longer have four different grocery stores within a mile of my house, but for the next year, I will officially experience seasons.

"That's alright," Oliver says quickly. "You don't need to stop what you're doing."