He turned to go.
I watched him walk away, tall and broad and entirely unaffected by the chaos he left in his wake.
And then, just as he reached the path, he glanced back over his shoulder.
“Thanks for the… farm tour.”
Then he disappeared into the trees.
I stood there another minute, soaking it all in, sunshine, embarrassment, and whatever weird gravitational pull existed between me and the least vacation-y man I’d ever met.
And then I spoke to the animals.
“Oh no. I’m in trouble.”
Chapter Four
Ben
The trail was supposed to start behind the row of birch trees just past the goat fence.
That’s what the little wooden sign back by the lodge had said, complete with a hand-drawn arrow and a cartoon goat wearing a park ranger hat. “Follow the Pines to Buttercup Lake!”
Cute.
Too cute.
But it worked. I found the path, narrow but obvious, winding through the woods with just enough crunch underfoot to remind me I was in a real forest.
And quiet. Really quiet.
Birds chirped in the distance while the wind brushed against pine needles. Somewhere behind me, the occasional indignant quack of a duck from the lodge’s petting zoo reminded me that a bunch of animals awaited my return.
I took a breath.
It wasn’t the kind of inhale you do when someone tells you to calm down.
It was the real thing, filled with deep, clean, pure air that tasted like cedar and moss, and the beginning of maybe being okay.
I hadn’t realized how much noise I’d been carrying.
City noise. Work noise. Life noise. That low, constant hum ofsomething’s comingeven when nothing did. My life was filled with nothing but deadlines, my empty apartment, and the echo of things I never should have said.
The truth was that I picked Wisconsin because it was the exact opposite of Florida. There weren’t any palm trees or seashells. There were no eager tourists looking for the next great beach getaway. Wisconsin held the promise of peace, and I yearned for it.
I tightened the straps of my backpack and kept moving. The trail sloped gently downward, sun dappling through the trees in uneven patches, like the forest itself wasn’t sure what mood it wanted to be in today.
Same, honestly.
I still wasn’t sure why I’d picked Wisconsin. I wasn’t from here, I had no friends here, and it wasn’t some childhood haunt or nostalgic memory zone. It was just a dot on a map. A lodge with good reviews and a ridiculously sweet name.
The Honey Leaf Lodge.
It sounded like a scented candle. Or a teahouse run by benevolent woodland creatures.
And I hadn’t realized how accurate that assumption was until the front desk woman, Fifi, smiled at me like I’d personally wronged her by not being excited to receive lemon cookies.
God.
