"By feeling truly safe and comfortable. Long term." I lean my head back against the seat. "Personally, I find that a little too vague for a cure. Especially since there's no timeline. Could take weeks, months, even years."
"So the prescription is wine and scent matches in the meantime?" He grins, but it softens when he looks at me. "How are you taking it?"
I stare out the windshield. "I just feel... broken."
He reaches over with his right hand and squeezes my knee. Solid, warm. "You're not broken, Beth. You went through something, and your body found a way to protect you. That's not a malfunction."
I press my hand against his, close my eyes and exhale. "Sorry. I don't mean to—"
"Hey." His thumb presses once into my kneecap. "Don't apologize."
I open my eyes. Arthur's watching the road, jaw set, but there's a crease between his brows.
"I might have a thing," he says. "A thing that could help."
I shift in my seat to face him, squinting. "Is it food?"
"It's not food," he says.
"Then I'm skeptical," I say, folding my arms.
"Remember when I said I'd take you to one of my favorite spots?"
Of course I do. Though I'd half convinced myself he'd forgotten. I was quite bummed he hadn't brought it up again, actually.
"Vaguely," I say.
"You up for it?"
***
I look down at myself. Jeans. Sneakers. The green flannel I've been rotating through my wardrobe. "On second thought, I feel like I'm dressed more for a bookstore than the outdoors."
"It's a hill, Beth. Not Everest." He reaches across and flicks the collar of my flannel like it proves his point.
"You're driving me to a hill," I say flatly.
"Thebesthill." He takes a left where I expected a right, away from town. "There's a difference."
The road narrows. Trees crowd in, big pines with branches that nearly touch overhead, and the light goes green and dappled. I roll down my window and stick my elbow out.
"Does this hill have a name?" I tip my head toward him.
"Lookout Ridge." He says it with zero irony.
"That's extremely on the nose," I tell him.
"It's a hill you look out from." He shrugs, like this is the most logical name in the history of naming things.
"You could've lied. Called it something with mystique. Eagle's Crest. Shadow Peak."
"Shadow Peak." He turns to me, face scrunched. "That sounds like where the villain sets up his lair in a fantasy novel."
"At least it's memorable," I say.
He pulls off onto a gravel patch I would've driven right past. There's no sign, just a gap in the trees and a narrow trail angling upward.
I hop out. The ground is soft—needles, packed dirt. Arthur comes around the truck and stretches, arms overhead, and his t-shirt rides up just enough to expose faint ridges of muscle disappearing into his waistband.
