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Especially after the great C.J. Anson informed me my writing was “stellar.” While hearing that was exhilarating, particularly coming from a prestigious author like him, it didn’t make my small measure of success any easier.
After parking once again behind the cabin, I was in no rush to get out. I shut off my Chevy and stared at the rear entry where it appeared as though nothing had changed since the last time I’d been here.
It made me wonder if he’d done a bunch of work on the inside. If he was around—I assumed he was since I was parked next to his Bronco—I might try to break down some of his walls by asking to see the inside.
On the other hand, he could get pissed at me coming up here uninvited and for bugging him again, and tell me to go fuck off.
While doing my research, I read that people could regress back into earlier stages of grief. They could boomerang back and forth between the different stages, too. My guess was that Chase was bouncing between the anger and the depression stage.
It was quite possible he was stuck in a never-ending loop he couldn’t free himself from. A little shove might be beneficial.
A shove from me, of course. Because apparently I liked to torture myself by attempting to make a better connection with a man wanting none at all.
While I had heard him loud and clear, that didn’t mean I would listen. But that also meant I had to be prepared for anything he threw my way.
As I sat in my truck, I donned invisible armor, ready for battle.
I’d admit it. I was dumb for doing this. But we were both authors and if we didn’t stick together…
Sure, Rett, keep lying to yourself. You know why the hell you’re up here. And it isn’t to deliver the next two books in your series and to tell him that you finished the first draft on your latest.
Or to ask him if he could beta-read my work to get his opinion before I send it to my editor.
I shouldn’t value his opinion on my writing, but it was difficult not to. And truthfully, I’d be honored if he would want to read the unedited manuscript and give his thoughts, good or bad.
Furthermore, I would absolutely shit myself if he volunteered to write a forward for it. How amazing would it be if the world-renowned author C.J. Anson told readers why they should read my book?
Settle down, you dolt, that wasn’t going to happen. You’re expecting too much out of someone who wants to share little to nothing.
For the hundredth time, I wondered if he’d always been like this or it truly stemmed from the loss of his husband. I might never know that answer if he never finished grieving.
But to be stuck in that perpetual loop for the rest of his life…
It would be as sad as Mr. Coleman dying up in this cabin alone.
Chase shouldn’t be alone. My opinion, of course, because I’m sure the man wouldn’t agree.
I told Timber to stay put, got out of my truck and jogged up the steps to the back windowless door. I noticed the newly-installed windows at the back of the cabin now had curtains and while they were drawn open, I didn’t want to shove my face against the glass to peer inside. Instead, I did what most civilized people would do and used the side of my palm to pound on the door. My knock ended up sounding more like a dull thump due to the thickness of the wood.
Doors were simply not made like that anymore. Whoever originally built the cabin, maybe even Mr. Coleman, had handmade the doors, too, out of solid cedar. Most likely to be black bear proof.
However, the bear in this case lived on the other side of the door.
I impatiently shuffled from foot to foot as I waited, carefully listening to see if I could hear footsteps approaching. The cabin wasn’t large, so if Chase was inside he would only be feet from the door.
I pounded once more with no response.
Tired of waiting, I decided to head around to the front. Maybe he didn’t hear my truck bitching and complaining as it fought its way up Coleman Lane.
My guess was Chase probably wouldn’t fix the lane’s condition since it deterred visitors from showing up unexpectedly.
Unwelcome visitors like me.
I did notice a new “no trespassing” sign installed at the bottom near the road. But, of course, like the dirt lane’s shitty condition, I ignored that, too.
I paused at the corner of the cabin, glanced back at Timber sitting in the passenger seat with his head out of the window, his ears perked in attention and his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth.
His eyes were laser-focused on me. Even from where I stood, I could see the pleading in his eyes to come with me.
