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I slow to ten miles an hour and creep toward the curve in the road that brings me to the bridge.

Hollyhock Bridge is just as rugged and rickety as it’s ever been, with long ancient timber-truss beams stretching from one side to the other over the babbling brook that sings to its own ethereal tune. Acres of forest welcome us with their quiet majesty on each side of the road ahead. The hollyhocks themselves that bloom and weave around the old bridge are resting now, dormant in winter sleep. Instead, the vibrant color of the massive pine wreath draws my gaze, its single, giant red bow a fitting decoration. A flock of white, the dark side of beams, green, and a bit of red is all a photographer needs to create the perfect postcard.

James watches as I turn down the radio until it’s silent and roll down my window. The sound of flurries landing on the already covered pine trees, boulders, and bridge, mixed with the music of the brook itself, is better than any Christmas carol. I take a breath, feasting my eyes on natural beauty and contemplating forgotten memories newly surfaced.

I’ve fished off this bridge.

Mama gripped the passenger’s door like it was a life buoy with her knees curled up to her chest as I drove just a bit too fast over this bridge.

I stood awkwardly in powder-blue chiffon, doused in a cloud of hair spray, as I posed for prom photos at this bridge.

Once, Mary Upshine even closed off the whole road to throw a church baby shower at this bridge.

The bridge holds memories.

For me, perhaps most notably, the sun-dripped day I drove away from Dom and, even with all the misguided hope in the world, thought I was making new tracks toward a better life.

Ironic, isn’t it, that I’m coming back this way, with nothing to show.

I correct myself. Baby steps, Chloe. Even if it’s years later, you’re taking baby steps. You’re doing something about it now.

And frankly, it’s even better for me that I’m coming home to do it. The location of self-improvement doesn’t matter—all that matters is I’m committed to growth.

Not location. Growth.

The truck rattles as we drift onto the bridge and crawl our way forward. James seems to notice my love for the place and is quiet, letting me fill up my cup as we roll on through. The car goes dark when we rumble under the covered bit, shaded but for pops of light from holes in the roof. Then, before I know it, we’re on the other side, continuing our journey.

The last bit of bridge escapes from view and is engulfed by trees. Lining the road before us now lie four miles of woods, long-standing hunting grounds owned for generations by the Barrett and Hollis families. The view continues to spew memories; my cousin got his first Thanksgiving turkey in these parts. I remember because I was nine and I screamed when they announced it proudly at the table.

James, who has apparently given up on the idea of getting warm from the broken vents anytime soon, has his hands folded neatly over his lap as he comments, “Nice bridge. Could use a little maintenance.”

His words sound like the screech of wheels burning sideways against the bridge. I bristle. “The bridge is utter perfection,” I say in a tone that screams And who exactly do you think you are? He may as well have taken a critical shot at my mother.

And my home.

And my entire life.

His perfectly careless brows that are somehow still subtly professional arch slightly (I mean, who has perfectly professional brows as a statement piece of their face? Who is so organized and clean-cut that even their eyebrows fall in line without looking like they’ve been manipulated to fall in line?). “I was just saying,” he says defensively, “it could use some maintenance. There were holes in the roof.”

“Which give it character.”

“It’s rotting the boards.”

“It hasn’t rotted them the past one hundred years. Can’t imagine why it’d start now,” I say, and stop myself just short of accusing So when did you become a carpenter?

I am, apparently, willing to go to battle for this bridge I hadn’t consciously thought about in years up ’til five minutes ago. And I’m not sure exactly why it matters so much, but there’s a feeling here being dredged up from deep inside that I haven’t recalled in ages. It insists, I can disparage my own heritage and make jokes of it, but you—an outsider—most certainly have no right.

There’s nothing like outside criticism to make an insider draw up sudden and intense patriotism.

Or perhaps I’m feeling defensive because this is where I’m going to live again. Seattle didn’t want me, and now I’m heading back home with what small dignity I have left. Throw in my nerves about this entire situation and my plan to get my life on track, and I’m a slightly unhinged wreck.

Which, really, is terrific timing all things considered. I haven’t said a confrontational thing in years. I didn’t have the backbone to tell our mail carrier in Seattle he was putting our mail in a defunct mailbox, which meant I had to use a screwdriver to pull out our mail for two years. But here I am, with a stranger at a time like this, willing, by golly, to fight to the death to defend a rotting bridge.

I may cure myself after all.

He puts up his hands. “Forgive me. It’s a beautiful bridge. Perfect, some might say.”

I feel a rush of heat flood my cheeks.