I tried to stay annoyed, but the laughter bubbling up was too genuine to fight.When it faded, what lingered wasn’t silence – it was awareness.
I had to stop.I have two kids waiting.Two lives that depend on me not losing my head over nostalgia and wine.
We wandered to the van, carrying the remainder of our snacks and bottles of water.The silence was lighter now, filled with unspoken admissions and teasing.The mountains stretched out behind us, endless and rugged; a kind of view that made you want to pause life altogether.
Tristan climbed into the driver’s seat, glancing at me.“Ready to see Three Valley Gap?There might be mystery bags involved.And I promise, none of them will bite.”
I laughed, shaking my head.“You drive a winery van and you’re talking about mystery bags like it’s an adventure movie.I think I’m hooked.”
“So that’s a yes to making it to my winery?”
It wasn’t a road trip anymore.It was a detour; one I hadn’t allowed myself in years.
He smirked, starting the engine.“Buckle up, because the next stop is guaranteed to be...complicated.”
I swallowed hard, gripping my snack bag like a lifeline, and realized that maybecomplicatedwasn’t the thing I wanted to avoid after all.
Chapter Six
By the time we pulledoff the Trans-Canada, the sun had sunk behind the mountain peaks, bleeding streaks of copper and rose across the red roofs.The crisp evening air swept through my slightly cracked-open window, carrying the scent of pine and freshness.Oh how I adored that scent.
“Next stop: civilization,” Tristan announced, pulling into a parking spot beside a brown and white wooden sign that read ‘Three Valley Gap Ghost Town’.
I laughed.“Civilization is a strong word for a place offering ghost town tours.”
He shrugged, cutting the engine.“Hey, this is a rite of passage.Everyone who’s driven the Trans-Canada has stopped here at least once.”
I arched a brow.“You say that like it’s something to brag about.”
“Not bragging,” he said, unbuckling.“Just establishing cultural literacy, and there’s a lot of Pioneer history in that town.”
“Of course.”I reached for my purse and Mr.Moose.“Lead on, Professor Culture.”
He walked to the back of the van and unloaded two cases of wine onto the dolly while I glanced around the deserted space.There were a few cars parked, but no visitors as far as I could tell.It really was a ghost town.
The small bell over the shop door jingled as we rolled inside, releasing a gust of warm, dusty air.Inside, the gift shop was every road-tripper’s fever dream: rows of maple syrup, gold rush bags of candy, and a wall of T-shirts that all screamedI Got Lost in the Rockies.After snapping pictures with our mascot, I trailed my fingers along a rack of postcards toward the bathroom while Tristan detoured toward the small, refrigerated section.The place smelled like cinnamon potpourri, old wood, and something sweet.Rows of cluttered shelves overflowed with snow globes, plastic moose, mugs that said ‘Eh?’, and more keychains than any reasonable person could ever own.
