Jack is quiet for so long I think he isn’t going to say anything. “I’ve been avoiding home since my mom died,” he finally says. “I wasn’t there when she died. I was away at college. Evan was the one who stayed close, who took care of her. I told them I’d come home, but Mom wouldn’t let me. So I wasn’t there when she took her last breath, when she left this world and slipped into the next one. I came back for the funeral, but it was…” He blinks, like he’s lost in a memory. “It was too hard to be there. She was everywhere. So I left and stayed away. I left my brother to grieve alone, to clean out her house, and put flowers on her grave.”
His eyes finally fix on mine, and there’s pain in them, deep and aching. “That’s selfish, Stevie. Staying isn’t. Staying is possibly the most selfless thing you could have done.”
Thecabinisempty.I wasn’t expecting it to be.
My hiking boots thud against the hardwood as I walk into the kitchen and stand before the fridge, staring at the whiteboard calendar Jack and I hung there last weekend. After the day with my family and the hike to the fire tower, things felt different between us. Easier. We’d fallen into a rhythm. Texting to ask if the other one needed something from the store. Splitting a bowl of movie theater butter microwave popcorn as we watched a sitcom in the dark. Sharing dinners on the nights we were both home.
The calendar makes it easier to track where both of us will be.
And as I reference it now, I confirm Jack isn’t working. The cabin feels emptier than usual. Echoing and vast in a way it hasn’t before. I should take advantage of having the place to myself, but…I don’t want to. It’s Friday night and the weather is nice, crisp with autumn air. I want to beout.
I reach for my phone out of my pocket as I walk back to the door and slip my shoes off, leaving a trail of cracked mud that I’llneed to sweep up later. Wren picks up on the third ring, and it sounds like there’s a carnival in her living room.
“Hey.” She sounds breathless.
“Are you busy?”
There’s rustling on the other end, the sound of a door closing, and the cacophony in the background muffles. “No more than usual,” she says, huffing out a breath, and I imagine her corkscrew bangs flying up above her forehead. “What’s up?”
“Want to go out?”
“God, please, yes. Anywhere. Anything. Please just give me an excuse to wash my hair.”
A laugh rumbles from my chest. I may have expected to spend my evening with Jack, but a night with Wren is so much better. It’s been too long since I got to spend time with my best friend.
“Matty’s?”
“See you in an hour.”
It isn’t an hour, obviously. Wren is perpetually late, more so since becoming a mother, but I don’t mind. So I leave my house an hour and a half after we get off the phone, freshly showered, my hair blow dried for once, and wearing something other than jeans or hiking pants. I’ve layered a denim shirt over a dress that I’m not sure why I even packed. It’s not something I wear often, but I’m glad to have it all the same. The hiking boots I’m wearing are more fashionable than practical, worn and molded to my feet after years of wear. I even put on a little makeup, and when I catch my reflection in the rearview mirror, my rosy cheeks and dark, curled lashes sparkle back at me.
Matty’s is packed like I expected it to be, and I have to park in the overflow lot, but to my surprise, Wren’s truck is alreadythere. The days are getting shorter, and the sun is slipping beneath the mountains for the night. The air smells like falling leaves, and I watch as they catch in the wind, drifting past as I make my way through the crowded parking lot.
I find Wren already at the bar in Matty’s. She’s somehow snagged two open stools, her feet dangling because she’s too short to reach the footrest. A smile splits her face when I sidle up to her.
“What are we thinking? Martinis or margaritas?”
I lift a brow. “Mama’s going crazy tonight, huh? No strawberry wine?”
Her grin widens, the apples of her cheeks growing. “Holden told me to let loose and he’d take the kids out for breakfast tomorrow so I could sleep off the hangover.”
“You found a good one.” I settle into the empty stool behind her, and hook the heels of my boots on the footrest. Lean my elbows on the table. “Let’s do espresso martinis.”
“Matty!” Wren yells. “We want espresso martinis.”
Matty, the owner, bartends on busy nights like tonight. He’s currently filling a beer glass, and rolls his eyes at Wren. “I don’t have Kahlua, Wren. I told you this last time.”
“And I know for a fact that Holden brought you some the next day and stocked it behind the bar so you could make me one next time I wanted one.” She flashes him a cheeky smile and he groans.
“Fine, but take them to a table. I don’t want other people getting any ideas.”
“That can be arranged,” she says. “And fries. With that truffle aioli you make.”
“And one of those chocolate lava cakes you have in the freezer,” I add.
Wren looks at me, wide-eyed. “Yes!”
“Get away from my bar, you two.” Matty shoos us off, shaking his head, but I know he will bring us what we ordered. He’s a few years older than us, but he’s always liked Wren because she tutored his younger brother in algebra in high school.
