Wren knows I had planned to leave Fontana Ridge after high school, that I wanted to go to school somewhere other than North Carolina and travel when I wasn’t studying. That this town and this life had never beenThe Plan. But things pivoted when my dad got hurt, and I was happy to stay. I tried not to dwell on what could have been.
So maybe that’s why I’ve never given her question much thought. I allow myself to think about it now, though, to think about how things would have turned out if I had left.
Despite trying, I can’t picture where I’d be, or who I’d be with. If the life I once imagined would be any better than the one I’ve built now.
“I am happy,” I tell her. “My life may be different than what I wanted when I was seventeen, but whose isn’t?”
She looks at me, really looks, as if she’s trying to find a crack in what I’m saying. She won’t though, because I’m telling the truth. I am happy, even if it’s not the sparkling incandescence she described, because if I’m being honest, I don’t think that most of us get that. I think shooting for the stars will often leave you on the ground looking up at them.
“Okay,” she says finally. Her hand wraps around mine and gives it a squeeze. “I won’t ask again then.”
I leave an hour later when Holden returns with the kids. I watch as Wren’s face changes when she sees them. Despite getting to have a child-free, responsibility-free evening, she transforms when they show up, lighting up like a Christmas tree. Incandescent.
Steviemovesoutona Monday, exactly two weeks before my contract ends. I helped her load her things into her truck, but she assured me she didn’t need help once she got to the Airstream. That was this morning, my day off, and I’ve spent the day mostly trying to fill the time. I grocery shopped and visited a pottery store in the town square, where I blacked out and bought another coffee cup. This one has the mountains etched into the ceramic, and it looks so much like the view from the cabin that I couldn’t walk out of the store without it. At the store, I got ingredients for a pasta recipe I found online. It’s so unlike me to make anything other than gym rat basics, not because I live that way, but because it’s fast and easy and nutritious. But as I sat on the couch after Stevie drove away, none of my usual meals sounded good to me.
Now, it’s time to actually make dinner, and it seems much more daunting. On the kitchen counter is a spread of fresh produce, bulbs of garlic, expensive parmesan, and the fancy olive oil that the recipe swore was essential.
I stare at the ingredients for approximately sixty full seconds before making up my mind.
Stevie opens the Airstream door before I even knock, her brows knitted together in confusion at the paper bags full of groceries in my arms.
“I brought dinner.”
Hazel eyes flick up to mine. “Doesn’t look like dinner.”
“I tried to cook it, but I swear I heard the tomatoes laughing at me.”
A grin unfurls across her lips, and I feel it right in the center of my chest, how stupid it was to come here. She told me she missed the alone time when I was here last, but I think we both knew it was bullshit. She was trying to put some much needed space between us, and here I am, erasing it because I was too lonely to think about the consequences.
“Come on, I’ll make dinner.”
I shake my head. “I want to make it with you. I want you to teach me how.” Her brows lift, and I shrug. “I’ve spoiled you on good coffee, and you’ve spoiled me on good food.”
“We’ve ruined each other.” She says it lightly, but I think we both feel the impact of the words. She backs away before we can let it sink in any further and motions me to come inside.
I haven’t seen the Airstream since last week, when she still had some finishing touches to put on it, but it looks good now, more homey and less like a construction site. I follow her to the kitchen and set the bags on the small counter, just now noticing how small the kitchen is. It’s decently sized for a mobile home, and I can tell she’s worked hard to make it functional and tomaximize storage, but compared to the kitchen at the cabin, it’stiny.
Stevie seems to be realizing the same. She’s standing about as far as she can get from me in the small area, but we’re still only inches apart.
“It’s going to be a little cramped,” she says.
I can smell the earthy, masculine scent of her perfume. Woodsy, and a little like the fig bars my mom used to pack in my school lunches. Decadent.
“That’s okay.”
Her eyes fix on me, but mine dip to her lips, the way she’s tucking the bottom between her teeth, before flitting back to her eyes. The moment stretches like taffy. One second, two, three.
It snaps when she clears her throat and pushes up the sleeves of her shirt. “We better wash up.”
I pour two glasses of red wine as Stevie reads over the recipe I sent to her phone and get to work unloading the rest of the ingredients.
“Looks easy enough,” Stevie says, and I look at her wide-eyed. “What?”
“I literally got so overwhelmed reading that I almost made a tomato sandwich and called it a day.”
Her laugh is warm as sunshine, and I am a flower turning toward it, seeking her light.
“It’s not even a hard recipe. It’s a simple bolognese.”
