As he passes me the ring, his fingers brush mine. He whispers, “Uncle Rustin's rebuilding the cabin deck today.”
My hands freeze and I blink at him.
"Kara?" Marshall says again, louder this time.
I look at the ring. At Marshall. At the door.
"I…” I start, but my voice cracks. The congregation leans forward. "Sorry. I um, I need… Maybe water or…"
And then, I run.
It’s not graceful or quiet. I run like the building's on fire. The bouquet gets abandoned on the altar. My veil streams behind me.
Someone screams. Probably my mother if I had to guess. Someone laughs and my money is on Kendall. There's a distinctivewhoopthat definitely comes from Wilder’s direction. But nothing makes me look back.
I burst through the cathedral doors into the December afternoon, and I don't stop. Wilder's truck sits right where he always parks it, and I rip the door open.
“Come on, keys. Please, please…” I flip the visor down and thank the small town gods for the false sense of security in Peony Pointe.
The engine starts. The tires squeal. Wedding guests pour out of the church like confused ants and I breathe. I take a glance at my father in the rear view mirror and I laugh. I let out a Joker style cackle.Why so serious, Dad?
My phone starts ringing before I hit the city limits. I toss it into the backseat and drive toward the only place that's ever felt like home.
Toward the mountain behind the water. Toward Rustin.
Toward the life I should have chosen three years ago.
2
kara
The drive up the mountain is treacherous. My wedding shoes are useless against the pedals. My dress tangles around my legs every time I shift gears. Snow starts falling as I leave everything behind. It’s soft at first, then harder, until I can barely see the road.
My hands shake on the steering wheel, but not from the cold. It’s been three years since I've driven this route, but muscle memory guides me through every curve. By the time I reach the turnoff to Lumberjack Lagoon, I've lost the guilt, the panic, and the worry.
My phone still has a signal. It must be bouncing off the ridge for now, but I know it won’t last. Out here, one downed tower and I’ll be off the map. At this point, losing cell service and going dark sounds like a dream.
I get as close as I can before I bury Wilder’s truck in a snow bank at the bottom of the long driveway. I’ll have to hoof it from here. But since I’m all out of fucks to give, that’s not a problem. I pull a balled jacket from the backseat of Wilder’s truck and drape it over my shoulders. Then I slip my phone into the pocket and start walking up the icy path.
The first thing I lose is the veil. It rips free on a low branch like the mountain itself has decided to object to my being here. The second thing I lose is the feeling in my toes. My dress is layers of satin engineered by a vindictive seamstress and it drags like deadweight around my thick thighs.
By the time I stumble up the porch steps of the last cabin in Lumberjack Lagoon, the sun is setting. The snow comes down in thick, glittering sheets. It’s the kind of scene that looks pretty until you realize it’s trying to kill you.
My lungs burn. My heart jackhammers and somehow even my sweat is freezing into droplets. I’m panting when I reach the door. A chainsaw sits on the porch beside stacked cordwood. It’s definitely still his place.
It dawns on me that I’ve had all this time but didn’t give a single second of thought into what I'll say. But that doesn’t stop me from making a fist and pounding on the door.
It doesn’t open, so I do it again. When the door still stays closed, I keep pounding because I don’t have a backup plan. Hehasto be home. Thishasto work.
When the door finally swings open, the heat hits me first. There's an axe leaning against the entry bench. Through the doorway I can see his work boots drying by the fire. Then he steps into the doorframe and it’s all him.
Rustin Michael Reynolds. I can hardly breathe.
Rustin is shirtless with flannel pajama pants slung low on his hips. I count eight individual ab muscles…Is that even possible? An eight pack is a thing?The man is tall, broad, and straight from the cover of a lumberjack romance book. It’s unreal.
There’s a light dusting of sawdust on his shoulder. It’s like glitter for manly men. His dark hair is damp and curling at the ends. While I was busy ruining everyone's best laid plans, it seems Rustin was cutting timber on the mountain. That feels right.
Rustin’s gaze takes me in, once, all the way up and all the way back down. His stare brings heat to my cheeks, but he doesn’t smile. It makes my stomach ripple with nerves.
