Page 53

I couldn’t make her stay if she didn’t want to, but I could make her leaving easier. I had one job left to do for her, and I could do it well.

I’d always been good at maintenance.

The rain had cleared overnight, and dawn came up over the ridge, the cedars steaming as the sun caught them. The Jeep sat under the tarp where I’d parked it after servicing it the day before. I pulled the tarp off and lifted the hood anyway.

The oil was clean; I’d checked it. The belts were fine; I’d checked those too. I checked them again.

I topped up the washer fluid and placed a fresh set of jumper cables in the trunk. While I was checking the tire pressures against the manual and the spare’s pressure against its decal, I discovered a small nail head in the shoulder of the rear left tire. I should have caught it when we got back yesterday. I hadn’t. I sat on the wheel arch, pressed my forehead against the cold metal, and let the shame of my oversight wash over me.

Then I got the plug kit and fixed it.

I relocated the spare tire to where she could reach it without struggling with the load floor. I put the plug kit in the glovebox. On a fresh page from my notebook, I listed the mile markers where the road deteriorated and the two trustworthy garages between Screaming Woods and the highway. I folded the page and tucked it into the visor.

She was going to hate the drive alone. I couldn’t help with that, but I could make sure the Jeep wouldn’t leave her stranded.

The porch door creaked. Hazel came out barefoot, her hair twisted into a knot. She’d wrapped herself in the couch blanket, and was holding the mug I’d left for her by the stove.

The morning was cold enough that her breath formed small clouds. She sat on the top step, the blanket puddling around her feet. She held the mug but didn't drink the coffee.

Hazel looked at the Jeep, then at me. “Didn’t you already service the Jeep?”

“Nail in the rear tire. Fixed it.” I closed the hood carefully, muffling the sound, and wiped my hands on the rag from my back pocket. “Two garages between here and the highway. I’ve written them on a page in the visor.”

She looked at me.

“The road washes out at mile marker twenty-two after rain. Take the loop past the old bridge if you see standing water on the sealed stretch.”

“Barrett—”

“There’s a plug kit in the glovebox. If a bigger tire goes, that won’t help. Call the number on the same page. Ask for Doreen.”

Her eyes were fixed on my face the entire time. I made myself continue. I knew what she was trying to say. Or I thought I did.

So I kept talking.

“I’ll pack food for the drive. Bread and honey. Cheese. Apples. Enough for two days. Freezer packs so the cheese holds. Eat the sandwiches in the first half.”

Her mouth had closed. She was watching me the same careful way she’d observed the flowers in the cavern.

I put the tarp back over the Jeep out of habit and turned toward the yard before she could say anything.

Loving her, it turned out, looked exactly like letting her go.

That night, I made her favorite meal—roast root vegetables with rosemary and garlic bread, a rich stew, loaded with enough meat and marrow to last her the drive if she wanted to reheat it in a motel kitchen. I portioned half into containers for the road while it was still hot, so the fats would set right and the flavor would keep.

I laid a folding knife on top of the containers, picked up my grafting pen out of habit, and started labeling the sheath. I got as far as for you before stopping myself.

Hazel sat at the table and watched me pack her lunch for a trip she hadn’t announced.

“Cheese will be good for at least two days.” I put the lid on the container. “The apples are on top so they won’t bruise”

I turned away to finish stacking the containers, putting them in the cool bag by the door. I washed the roasting tin, dried it, and hung it on its hook. I tore the crust off the heel of the loaf, ate it standing at the sink, and wrapped the rest for her.

I knew I was doing it, avoiding the conversation, but I couldn’t stop.

When I turned around, she hadn’t stopped looking at me. I couldn’t stand that look tonight. Not with what she was going to say.

She stared at me. “Barrett, I⁠—”