Chapter One
Kelsi
Some nights I lay in bed trying to imagine him there next to me. The heavy weight of his arm around my waist. The rough texture of his palm against my skin. The deep rasp in his voice as he whispers low in my ear. The earthy, diesel scent on his skin that won’t go away, no matter how hard he scrubs.
God, I miss him.
Some nights, the memories are enough to keep me company. I drift off into a world where the two of us still exist together. A world where we have the little house in the mountains we always talked about. A world where we have kids, plants, horses, and trees we call our own. Those nights, I fall fast asleep, desperate to keep the dreams alive as long as possible. I’ve even woken up refreshed after feeling like I spent the night with him, reliving the roughness of his lips on mine for the first few hours of the day.
But some nights, the memories only make the longing worse, and the ghost of his touch feels like a harsh winter blade against my skin. Some nights, I feel the pain of missing him in the tips of my fingers, in the pit of my stomach, in the depths of my soul.
I wonder what he’s doing, who he’s with, if he’s thinking about me, what he’d say if I called, what he’d do if I told him I needed him back.
I stare up at the whirring fan above the twin bed I grew up in. I haven’t been back here in years, which I’m sure makes me a giant asshole, but this town is small. And though there are a million nooks and crannies in this mountain, there’s no hiding from an ex, especially an ex as well known as Brooks. He’s a cop, the town planner, the town grump, and most importantly, the guy people go to when they need a job done right.
“You’re up early,” my mom says, peeking through the bedroom door. She’s still wearing the long, floral nightgown she’s worn since I was a kid, and her silver hair is tied up in a loose bun on top of her head. Despite the recent medical scare, she’s looking really good. “I thought five a.m. wake-ups were reserved for the elderly.”
“You’re not elderly, Mom.” I roll my eyes playfully and swing my legs around to the edge of the bed. “I think I’m all messed up with the time change.”
She nods thoughtfully, and yawns before sitting on the bed next to me. I know I’m a full-grown adult who’s nearly forty next year, but there’s something about sitting on the edge of my bed with my mom that makes me feel like a kid all over again. “Iamelderly, and you’re not messed up with the time change. You’re thinking about Brooks.”
“What?” My voice rises to the highest levels, the ones reserved for obvious guilt, before it drops again to compensate. “No, I’m not. I’m… there’s an hour time shift. I’m seriously messed up.”
She glances toward me in the dim light of the room, her head lowered as though she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “Call him.”
“No. Mom… it’s been years. He reached out, I didn’t respond. I… yeah. Besides, I’m totally idealizing him. I mean, we broke up because I had dreams. Dreams he didn’t understand. I can’t ignore the fact that he wanted to control my life.”
“Was it control? He missed you. He wanted to be with you, and you left.”
“Wow, even my own mother chose his side. That’s just wrong.” I grin, knowing she means well, though I stand and change the subject immediately. No matter what anyone thinks, the current state of my life won’t change. I have a job in California. He has a life here. It didn’t work then, and it won’t work now.
“I’m going to run to town and grab us coffee and some of those lumberjack cinnamon rolls from the bakery. Do you need anything else?” I tug on a pair of sweats, skip the bra, and reach for an oversized hoodie. This isn’t L.A. People aren’t wearing designer leggings to the coffee shop before the sun comes up. It’s sort of nice not to think about it. I doubt many people will be out and about, anyway. It’s Sunday morning, and people sleep in on Sunday mornings. Even Brooks slept in on Sunday morning. It was the one and only day the man slowed his working pace down to rabbit mode instead of a full-on cheetah.
“Okay.” She stands from the bed and shuffles back into the kitchen before returning with a piece of paper that’s torn at the edges. “I need some chocolate, bread, tissues… and some parmesan to go with dinner tonight. The market’s right next to the bakery. You don’t mind, do you?”
“No,” I take the list from her hand and tuck it into my pocket, “I need to get out of the house, anyway. You think of anything else, just text me.” I land a kiss on her cheek and hurry out, breathing in the deep scent of pine the second I’m on the porch. I’ve only been in town for two days, and I need to get a grip.
I love my mom. Even as a teenager, it was hard to be mad at her because she’s so damn sweet, but being back in this town, in that house, talking about Brooks, reminds me of so many things I’m not ready to face. I should probably see a therapist.I think that’s what responsible people do when they’re stuck emotionally. Instead, I’ll probably order a second cinnamon roll and eat my feelings like a proper adult.
I climb up into the old Chevy my mom has had since my dad passed ten years ago. He loved this thing and drove it back and forth to work at the sawmill every day despite the rust, the flickering headlights, the patched together exhaust, and the transmission slips that made shifting into second gear a chore. I know it’s her way of staying connected to him, but I wish she’d upgrade to something from this century. Not because I want her to forget my dad, but because riding in a truck that still smells like the hard work he did at the sawmill must be emotionally exhausting. It is for me, and I’ve only just started the engine twenty seconds ago.
Music.Music will drown out the emotion.
I click the radio on and push the ancient dial toward the station I know plays current hits, though it’s a country station, and I haven’t listened to country since I left Rugged Mountain.
Wow, country music is sad! We’re thirty seconds in, and this guy’s kid has grown up, he’s lost his dog, and his wife has left him. What the hell?
I spin the radio dial, searching for another station between the layers of static. Okay, this is kind of nice. Maybe this is why Mom keeps the truck. It’s nostalgic to ride this old pine highway into town, bumping along the road while twisting the dial. I haven’t done this since I was a kid. Now, everything is push and play.
Rain picks up and splatters against the windshield, distracting me from the radio for a moment while I look for the windshield wiper switch. When Dad was alive, he always drove, and when I come to visit, it’s usually Mom at the wheel.
I glance down and search for the knob as I keep one eye on the slippery road ahead. Ah, there it is. I twist the nob and thewipers go erratically fast, swishing the heavy falling water back and forth as though the blades are going to rip right off the truck.
Static on the radio gets louder as I pulse the wipers to a slower speed, and suddenly, there’s a deer standing in the road staring at me as Dad’s headlights flash in his vision. I’m not going absurdly fast, but I’m going fast enough that I know slamming on the breaks will be worse than coasting.
I lift off the gas and steer to the left to avoid the buck, but slide off the road and slam into a towering cedar.
Dad’s truck!The front end is crunched against the tree and the driver’s side door is bent inward, blocked by another tree.
