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Warm arms circle my waist as I swallow the coffee dregs in my mug. “Have I mentioned how much I love you in my space?”
Three days after Travis asked me to move in with him, the day after Christmas, the whiny persistence began. If I didn’t love him, I would have slapped duct tape over his mouth. I swear, every ten minutes he asked when I’d start packing. And after hours of him driving me up the wall, I said,“As soon as you get me boxes.”
Within the hour, the bed of his truck was loaded with flat boxes, packing tape, newspaper, and markers. And he’d enlisted help.
It’d been hard not to laugh.
Thirty-six hours later, every possession I owned was in Travis’s house.
Travis’s house—ourhouse—is a breathtaking work of art on the Emerson estate. A three minute trek on a bumpy gravel drive off a road named for their family: Emerson Avenue.
When we approached the architectural masterpiece on moving day, my jaw hit the steering wheel. Stone and wood and steel with more windows than I’d ever seen on a home. Three stories of sharp angles and space for four or more adults to live comfortably. Tall evergreens bordered and shaded either side of the driveway and boardwalk from the drive to the front door. As for the rest of the house, it was exposed to the sky.
The property—like the other founders’ lands—is enormous. Acres upon acres of trees with three homes in its borders. At the heart of the Emerson estate is the main house, a massive structure with seven bedrooms occupied by the eldest Emersons—Gaylord and Doreen Emerson, Travis’s paternal great grandparents, and Howard and Angela Emerson, Travis’s paternal grandparents. On a separate offshoot of Emerson Avenue is a gravel drive to Roger and Linda’s house, a blend of the main house’s size and the sharp angles of our house.
Travis’s younger brother, Jacob, lives with their parents, while his younger sister, Presley, attends the nursing program at Walla Walla University. I have yet to meet Presley, but Jacob doesn’t appear to have a serious bone in his body. As a rookie at the Stone Bay police department, his dad isn’t keen on his clownish behavior or lackluster job at the station. But so long as he doesn’t pull some prank on me, I’ll take his mediocre jokes and goofy faces any day of the week.
“You may have said it once or twice,” I tease, peeking over my shoulder. “Have I mentioned how much I love being in your space?”
“Hmm… maybe,” he says, voice laced with artificial uncertainty as he fights a smile.
“Well”—I give him a quick kiss—“I do.”
“Good.” He steps back, smacks my ass, then grabs our empty mugs from the counter and takes them to the sink. “Ready to go, sunshine?”
“Whenever you are.”
Travis lets Pepper out to do her business, then we head for the garage. Once the engine is warm, we drive off the property and into town. My eyes lose focus out the passenger window as I stare at the trees and buildings.
Over the last two weeks, Travis, Roger, and Howard have spent several hours at the cabin property. The first few days, Travis kept to himself that the Emerson men were ripping down the shack in the woods and burning every scrap of wood. But when I asked about his long days, he winced as the confession spilled from his lips.
Once the furniture and food and luxuries had been removed from the bunker—all donated to charity outside Stone Bay—Travis said the bunker would be sealed shut. It shocked him when I asked to watch.
But I needed the closure.
The relief I felt as the welding torch was lit, when the flame hit the gap of the bunker hatch… every ounce of suppressed weight lifted off my shoulders in that moment. Tears spilled down my cheeks and I didn’t fight them. I welcomed them. And as they hit the forest floor, I pictured them taking every ounce of past pain and suffering.
Sealing that bunker was the catharsis I needed to move forward. To live a normal, happy life.
To open my heart fully and love without hesitation or worry.
Past the inn, on the opposite side of the road, we park at RJ’s Diner. Snow dusting the sidewalk, we stomp our shoes before entering the modern dive restaurant.
Two four-tops shoved together, our friends talk animatedly as they wait for us. When I scan their faces, a string tugs at my heart when I land on Levi. More the type to game in the dark or sift through crazy shit on the web, Levi doesn’t gather with us often. But when he does, Oliver smiles until it hurts.
I slide into the booth next to Delilah, bump her arm with mine, and lean in close. “He brought Levi?” I whisper.
With a subtle nod and small twist, she mutters, “Total surprise.”
Just as the words leave her lips, Oliver leans over the table and narrows his eyes on us. “What was that, ladies?”
My eyes dart from Oliver to Levi, then back to Oliver. Lips pursed, I cock my head and hold his stare for three, two, one. “Sure you want it repeated, Ollie?”
He doesn’t blink, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move an inch as realization sets in. Then he simply shakes his head and sits back in his seat on the other side of Delilah. “Nah, I’m good.”
I chuckle and turn my attention across the table. After greetings are exchanged, our favorite server, Sandi, sidles up to the table and we order a mountain of Ray Jr.’s mouth-watering dishes and warm drinks to stave off the winter chill.
Creamy chicken and herb dumpling chowder for yours truly. The Pit Master burger—thank goodness Oliver and Levi decide to share—is topped with cheese, BBQ sauce, crispy bacon, baked beans, and cornbread-battered onion rings. Lawrence orders chili cheese fries with extra cheese and onions, while Skylar gets biscuits with sausage gravy and home fries—because bless places that serve breakfast all day. Vegan honey butter chick’n biscuit sandwich for Delilah. Though she isn’t vegan, she only consumes dairy and eggs from animals. And when Sandi reaches Travis, he orders the healthiest thing on the menu—smoked salmon with brown rice and steamed broccoli.
