In a new place, the old rules do not know where to find you right away. That has to be the explanation, because I am still Layla Whitman. Still thirty-seven and divorced. Still a woman who cannot have children. Still a woman whose marriage ended quietly, not explosively, which somehow made it harder to explain. Still a woman who married safe and discovered safety could starve you slowly if nothing inside it ever surprised you.
But I am also a woman who jumped from the cliff barefoot… twice.
Hudson was there when I surfaced, and for one wild, impossible moment, I laughed like I had never been hurt in my life. Then he nearly kissed me. Or I nearly kissed him. Or we nearly kissed each other, which is worse because it means there is mutual blame.
From my porch, I can see pieces of the dock through the trees. Hudson is there with the Morrison family. The little boy in the blue life jacket is sitting in the front of a kayak, talking with his whole body while Hudson crouches beside him, adjusting the straps across his small chest.
I cannot hear what they are saying, but I can see the boy’s hands waving. Hudson nods solemnly, as if whatever the child is explaining deserves full respect. That’s surprising.
I expected Hudson to be good with cliffs and rugged outdoor things that make sense for a man with muscles, sun-browned skin, and dark hair that refuses to behave. I did not expect him to be patient with children.
Not because he seems unkind. He doesn’t. He seems the opposite of unkind. But there is a particular kind of gentleness required with children, and I recognize it immediately. The ability to lower yourself without shrinking your authority. The ability to listen to a long, winding story about a frog, a sandwich, or a blue life jacket as though the fate of the world might be hidden somewhere in the telling.
Hudson has that.
The boy says something else. Hudson’s head tips back, and even from this distance, I can tell he is laughing. My stomach does something foolish.
“No,” I tell it. My stomach ignores me.
This is risky. Not the obvious kind. Not slick rock or hidden shelf danger. Hudson taught me how to avoid that. This is the kind where a man looks at all the parts of you that feel complicated and makes your heart start building reckless little plans.
I stand abruptly and enter the cabin. My phone sits on the small kitchen counter where I left it, and the screen lights when I get close. One message from Marla, my friend back home. The woman who bought me the floppy post-divorce awakening hat and threatened to drive me to Cady Springs herself if I tried to cancel.
Marla: Proof of life, please. Did you arrive? Are you relaxing? Have you done anything wild yet?
I glance toward the porch and the dock where Hudson is launching kayaks.
Me: I jumped off a cliff.
Three dots appear immediately, then disappear, then appear again.
Marla: I’m sorry, WHAT?
I smile despite myself.
Me: Safely. With a guide. Sort of.
Marla: Sort of? Layla Whitman, do not “sort of” anything involving cliffs.
Me: He knows what he’s doing.
I stare at that sentence for three full seconds before sending it. He knows what he’s doing. Unfortunately, he does. With water, ropes, and children. With my stupid toes and almost kissing me.
Marla responds almost instantly.
Marla: HE?
I put the phone face down on the counter. Nope. I am not ready to explain Hudson to anyone. I cannot even explain Hudson to myself.
For the next hour, I try to behave like a normal woman on vacation. I unpack the rest of my suitcase. I put my books on the nightstand. I hang my sundresses in the tiny closet. I sit in one of the porch chairs with a novel open in my lap and read the same paragraph six times without absorbing a single word.
A laugh carries from the lake. His laugh.
I close the book. “Fine.”
To be clear, I do not go down to the dock because of Hudson. I go because I am on vacation, the lake is lovely, and sitting on a porch pretending not to look toward a man is deeply pathetic. Also, I need more ice. The fact that the ice machine is near the office and the office is near the dock is not my fault.
I grab my ice bucket, and follow the path through the trees. The day has warmed quickly. Sunlight spills across the grass around the cabins. Families move between porches and the lake.
