Forrest looks at me like he’s reassessing a conclusion he thought was set in stone. For a week now, it’s been nothing but bickering and avoidance with a heavy dose of side-eye between us, but a shift is happening that doesn’t feel entirely under my control. It’s scary, and my gut tells me I need to change the subject if I want any hope of maintaining my emotional distance from this man. I look around at the pristine wilderness surrounding us and ask the first question that I can think of.
“Was it hard moving away from all this? When you went to school, I mean?”
The question seems to surprise him, and he rubs the side of hisbeard with a coarse scratching sound. “In some ways. Bullwinkle definitely missed me.”
I laugh, and he returns it with a smile that’s almost sad. “But mostly I was excited. Mom and Dad were too.” He pauses while I get hung up on the word “Mom,” knowing he calls Jo by her first name. I wonder if Forrest’s mother and Trapper separated and, if so, where she is now. Then he says, “Everything I wanted was in L.A.”
“And what about now?” I ask before fully thinking it through.
He looks at me, eyes flickering to my mouth for a moment so brief, I probably imagined it. “There are a few things I miss,” he admits.
I swallow. “Do you ever wish you could go back?”
I can see the answer in his guarded eyes. “No point wishing for the impossible.”
“Right,” I say, mouth dry. “No point.” I adjust my one-legged stance against the rocks and wince.
“You okay?” he asks, concern drawing his dark brows together. “That ibuprofen should have kicked in by now.”
“I’m fine,” I lie, but he gives me a look that makes me feel like a squeaky-clean windowpane.
“Let’s get going,” he says, glancing at the low-hanging sun like a normal person would look at a watch. “Ready to board?”
“Would it be easier if I tried fitting in the backpack?”
He smiles without a trace of his earlier melancholy, and my heart doesnotdo a backflip. Nope.
“Might work if we cut some leg holes,” he suggests.
I can’t stop from snorting at the visual he’s painted. “You didn’t happen to pack aBaby on Boardsticker, did you?”
A deep, handsome laugh escapes him, and I’m transfixed, a small animal caught in his high-beam smile. But then he crouches low, scooping me right off my feet, and I suck in a breath as he pulls me close.
“You’re sure you had enough of a break?” I ask.
“Are you asking if I’m going to drop you?”
“You’re free to infer what you wish,” I say delicately.
He starts walking, his hold on me firm and secure. “I won’t let you fall, Margot.”
No,I think.I’m not afraid you will. Unfortunately, that’s not the kind of falling I’m really worried about.
My eyes are closed, and I’m almost drifting off from the rhythmic movement of Forrest’s endless walking when the word “Finally” escapes him.
Startled, I look ahead through the trees and see a cabin in the deep blue of falling dusk. It’s the same one we passed as we walked to the trailhead, and relief washes through me. After three more quick breaks to radio Jo and increasingly tense silence as it got darker and darker,we made it off the mountain. Forrest picks up his pace, clearly headed for the snow-covered cabin ahead of us, and a small jolt goes through me. I expected to be taken to the lodge, or my own little home away from home, but this place is neither. This cabin must behis. My suspicions are confirmed when we reach the door and he doesn’t hesitate to walk right in.
It’s dark inside, but even so, I wouldn’t mistake this place for anyone’s but Forrest’s. For one, it smells like someone lit a scented candle in here called Cedar and Muscles, and it’s painstakingly neat. The space is bigger than mine, with a full kitchen, but the log walls and Scandinavian hygge vibes are the same. The real giveaway that this place is Forrest’s (apart from the home gym set up in the far corner) is the bookshelf. It looks new and slightly mismatched amid the other furniture, and it’s absolutely crammed with books and framed photos of his family. It reminds me of the shelves in my own home, and a pang goes through me at the realizationthat if I had to move, the prized possessions I’d bring with me would be the same as his.
“Here, keep your weight off that foot,” he instructs breathlessly when we reach the living room, where he lowers me in front of an armchair.
Bracing awkwardly against him, I gasp a little when he grabs my parka’s zipper and pulls it down. And maybe it’s because of what we just went through, but the muffledzzzand his labored breathing in the dark, quiet room seem to open more than my coat between us. He parts the lapels, sliding the thick garment off my shoulders, and my eyes fly up to his. But his sole intent is freeing my arms as quickly as possible, and that’s when I realize all the security and assurance I felt that we would make it down safely was completely one-sided. How didn’t I notice the anxiety rolling off him until now?
“I can take my own coat off—” I argue weakly, but in the next moment, I’m sitting in the armchair, and he’s kneeling beside me and his abandoned backpack, already untying my bootlaces.
“I can untie them,” I offer, wanting to show him I’m okay. He only brushes my interfering hands away and continues to pull the laces out of the holes with quick, anxious snapping sounds. Something I’m afraid to name squeezes my heart. He was quiet for so long on the last part of our journey, I mistook his worry for concentration.
“Forrest, I’m okay,” I say, despite my own growing anxiety about what we’ll discover once my boot comes off.
