Page 7 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

“Miss Belle? Are you okay?” Arnold, the doorman, asks.

He’s older, sweet. I’ve known him since I was a child.

“I will be, Arnold. Will you give this to my mother? And have Geoffrey and his friend escorted out of the building if he doesn’t leave in the next five minutes. I already told Stanley,” I say, naming the security guard on duty.

“Yes, Miss Belle.”

I nod and thank him—impressed with my own ability to remain calm.

But by the time I get into my car, the tears fall.

When I pull out of the lot, I’m crying so hard I can’t see.

Not because I miss him.

Because I’m furious with myself.

Because I let it happen.

Because I let him shrink me.

Because I don’t know what comes next and I hate not knowing.

I drive out of the city—far, far out of it—and I stop at an all-night coffee shop outside a building my parents own in Hoboken, New Jersey.

We keep a condo there, and it’s empty right now. My parents are in Sydney on vacation.

So, I’m contemplating staying the night.

My phone buzzes as I reach for my latte.

It’s a text. From him. Geoffrey.

He’s ranting. So, I block his number.

I scroll through my social media.

Which is how I find the mountains and the willow trees again.

And that’s when a thought, unhinged and wild and totally unlike me, slides into place.

What if I just… left?

What if I pack-a-bag, get-in-the-car, drive-until-the-air-smells-like-pine way.

What if I found the artist?

Not because I’m a stalker.

Not because I think I’m the heroine in some indie film.

But because something about his work feels honest in a world that keeps feeding me polished lies.

Because I need to hear something real from someone who isn’t trying to sell me a life.

Because, God help me, I need someone to look me in the eye and tell me I’m not crazy for wanting more than marble countertops and empty promises.

I drink the last of my coffee, head to the washroom, then I get in my car, and I leave all the bad stuff behind me.