“Sweetheart.”Mae takes my face in her hands.“Youcome back. You hear?”
“I’mcoming back. Twice a year. Three times.”
“Mm-hmm. You bring him with you.”
“I will.”
“You promise?”
“I promise, Mae.”
Shedoesn’tsay goodbye. She kisses my forehead,turns to Sullivan,points one finger at his chest,and says,“Look after each other.”
Sullivan stoops and kisses Mae on the top of the head.
Mae cries briefly into her apron.
June blows her nose in a shop rag.
We arrived as strangers to these people, andwe’releaving as friends.
We drive down the switchbacks in the high spring sun,through Hollow Peak proper.The town watches us leave.It’swatched people leave and provided a haven for those who chose to stay.
The mountainpassclimbs and climbs.We hit Wolf Creek Pass at one. Sullivan drives the way he does most things—steady, alert, both hands on the wheel, no music.He’swearing a clean flannel under his jacket,his beard is trimmed, and hesmells like soap and pineand mine.
Wecrossinto Montana the next morning, after a night at a roadside motel.Sullivan is driving. Hehasn’tspokenintwenty miles. His hands are tight on the wheel, and the line of his jaw is too set.I’vebeen watching him out of the corner of my eye since the state line.
“Sullivan?”
“Yeah?”
“Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.”
“You have a death grip on the wheel.You’renot okay.”
He drives half a mile before he answers. “I’m scared. I’m bringing you home, and I’m scared.”
He says it likehe’sbeen holding it in for two states and has decided that this stretch of Montana, going downhill into a valley he knows by heart, is the place to put it down.
Idon’tcry.I’llcry later. Right now, I make my voice steady because he needs me to.
“I love you, Sullivan. I’ve loved you since the porch step. I’ve loved you since you called me ‘ma’am’ like you were drawing a line between us. And I’ll love you through whatever comes next. Because I’m bringing you home too.”
He swallows. His hands loosen on the wheel, and the line of his jaw relaxes a quarter inch. He reaches over, finds my hand on my thigh, laces his fingers through mine, and doesn’t let go.
“All right?”
“Yeah.”
He keeps his hand in mineand hedrives.I watch the valleyopen upin front of us in the long blue Montana way—endless sky, a ribbon of river, a road bending toward a town with a waiting family.
Hollow Peak wasn’t a hiding place at the end. It was where Sullivan Mercer started. Where a tree fell on a cabin. Where a man on a ridge and a woman wielding a Tupperware learned that they were worthy of being loved.
Now, we drive intoHavenstonewith my hand in his, a stand mixer on theback seat,and a small painting of two cabins wrapped in a quilt.
And for the first time in my life, the road ahead of me looks like home.
