3. Cade
Hollow - Noah Kahan
I t’s a slow Tuesday evening at The Ridge. A few of the regulars are hanging out at the bar and there’s a couple sitting a few tables away at one of the high tops, but mostly it’s a wasteland. The bar is an Oak Ridge staple with its rustic charm and inviting atmosphere. Tables and chairs, each with their own story etched into the grain, are scattered around a low stage where we often host live performances. A collection of black and white photographs hangs on the wall behind the bar, chronicling the town’s history above the neatly lined bottles displayed along the authentic oak shelves.
Truthfully, I don’t have to work. I received a sizable inheritance from my grandmother’s estate when she passed away. I used a chunk of the money to renovate her home, and the rest went into investments, which have done pretty well. So, while I don’t have to work, I need to — idle hands, as the saying goes .
“Hey Arch. What can I get ya?” I say as I approach another one of our Oak Ridge staples, Archie Sullivan.
“Cade, my boy! A pint of whatever’s on tap. I won’t be here long.”
While I busy myself preparing Archie’s beer, my thoughts drift away, as they often have over the last week. I wasn’t lying when I told Paige she was already living rent free in my head. I might have stalked her profile a few times until I finally got up the nerve to send her a message. I’m not usually shy when it comes to hitting on women, but something about Paige stopped me in my tracks.
As I carefully set Archie’s beer down on the custom branded Ridge coaster, the sound of a chair scraping against the concrete floor reverberates through the empty space. A tall, dark-haired, imposing man towers over his date, brows drawn in a cold fury.
Across from him, the small, brunette woman shrinks in her seat as though trying to get as far away as possible, her face a mix of fear and apprehension. The woman speaks in a hushed voice as the man balls his fists at his side. And that’s all I need to see before I’m rounding the bar and approaching their table. Drawing closer, the man’s face is mere inches from hers as he hisses something, causing her to flinch.
“Is there a problem here?” I ask, stepping up to their table, keeping my tone impassive.
The woman glances at me, a flash of worry in her eyes, before looking down at the table. The man turns to me next, his expression quickly changing to a mask of civility.
“We’re fine,” he says. “Just having a minor disagreement. Nothin’ to worry about.”
Nodding, I turn to the woman. “My name is Cade. If ya’ll need anything, anything at all , let me know.”
She nods quickly. Too quickly. “Thank you.”
The man returns to his seat, his expression not giving anything away, and I’m forced to head back to the bar. Archie is still there, nursing his beer.
“She okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Discomfort twists in my gut, filling me with unease. Unless she explicitly asks for help, there’s nothing I can do to intervene. Situations like this one are too delicate and the last thing I want to do is make things worse for her. I know his type — the kind to put on a mask in public but let his fists fly in private.
Over the next hour, I check in on them discreetly, offering refills and making my presence known. The man’s anger was still evident in his stern expression, but the woman remained silent, her eyes downcast as he continued to talk at her.
When they finally left, a feeling of helplessness clawed at me. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place her.
“Hey Arch, do you know who that was?” If anybody would know, it would be the Sullivans. His wife, Rosie, is the resident gossip distributor of Oak Ridge.
“The little lady is Ivy. She volunteers for the local shelter on adoption days. Can’t say I’ve met the husband, but I’ve heard he’s a real piece of work.”
“Yeah, I definitely got that impression.”
The rest of the evening passes without incident. I force my mind away from the evening’s events, drifting instead to thoughts of Paige. Closing down the bar is a blur as I let my mind linger on earlier conversations with the girl who is taking up way too much space in my head.
The drive back home is like second nature and before I know it, I’m pulling into the circle drive of the familiar dusty blue 3-story house. I toss my keys on the small wooden table by the door, the sound echoing through the empty hallway. With a sigh of relief, I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the sofa, seeking r espite from the suffocating monotony that surrounds me.
For the past few years, life has been a steady, predictable pattern. Wake up, work, come home, hang out with the guys on days off, and repeat. It’s not a terrible life, but it feels hollow, like I’m just going through the motions with no sense of purpose or direction.
I tug my phone from my pocket, tapping on the familiar text message thread, a smile forming as I reread our last conversation.
Paige is like a breath of fresh air after years spent underground. The way we’ve connected is vastly different from my previous experiences with women. She’s filling in the cracks of my existence I didn’t know were there in the first place and if I’m not careful, she’ll sneak past the last of my defenses and take up residence in my heart, too.
I grab a beer from the kitchen and follow the familiar path through the back doors and onto my deck. This place has become my refuge over the years. I inherited both the cabin and the land surrounding it from my late grandmother’s estate. ‘The cabin’ had long outgrown its original size, but its name remained unchanged, a nod to its humble beginnings. I updated the space, adding my personal touch while preserving the timeless charm of the antique wood beams and trimmings. It always felt like grandma knew something I didn’t — like this place needed me, but I needed it even more.
There’s a chill in the air, the sound of the October wind rustling fallen leaves as they dance along the path leading down to the dock. I lean forward on my elbows, watching the waves crash along the shore in a relentless, repetitive rhythm. Each one echoing my own feelings of stagnation, as the waves surged forward only to be rapidly pulled back. I turn my beer bottle in my hand, feeling the cool condensation dance along my fingers as I’m idly picking at the label. My phone sits on the table, silently t empting me to send Paige a message, but I hesitate, not wanting to seem too clingy.
Paige
I’m sitting at my desk, surrounded by a chaotic spread of textbooks, their pages dog-eared and marked with colorful sticky notes. A pristine surface now cluttered with the tools of my haphazard study sessions.
My eyes are fixed on my English lit paper, but my mind is miles away. Approximately 800 miles to be exact. I glance at the clock, the minutes ticking by, a sense of dread settling in my bones. Each assignment feels like a chain holding me back from what my heart truly wants to pursue. The heavy weight of parental expectations looming overhead like an ever present ghost, reminding me that I’m not free to go after what I really want.
With a resigned sigh, I close my notebook, looking around the empty house, the silence only amplifying my loneliness. I really need to finish my paper, but that seems like a problem for future Paige, so I let my feet carry me upstairs to the bathroom.
Running the water just shy of the temperature of lava, I add some floral scented oils and vanilla bath salts., then head into my bedroom to grab a scrunchie for my hair to avoid an unnecessary wash day, a pair of clean pajamas, and a towel.
Returning to the bathroom, I strip out of my leggings and oversized tee, then slide into the water. Perfection.
Just as I’m about to pull up a book on my kindle, my phone vibrates on the bamboo bath tray.
Cade: Do you have a name or can I call you mine?
Before I can overthink it, I grab my phone and dial his number. My heartbeat pic ks up as the phone rings.
“Hey.”
I’m stunned silent, that single word stealing my breath. His voice is rich, like a warm hug after a long day. It reverberates through my bones, sending a chill up my spine.
“Paige? Are you there?”
“Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t expecting you to sound like… that .”
If Cade’s voice is a warm hug, his laugh is pure sex. I could drown in it.
“Thanks…I think.”
“It’s a good thing, I promise. You could narrate audiobooks with a voice like that.” He could read the phone book and I’d probably come on the spot, but I don't say that. Ignoring every inclination to snake my hand between my thighs, I try to find something else to move the conversation along.
“Your pickup lines are getting worse, I fear.”
“It got you to call me, didn’t it?”
“You got me there.”
What was supposed to be a solitary evening soaking in the tub quickly turned into something else entirely. We talked until my bath water became tepid, and eventually I made my way back to my room. I hear rustling on the end of the line. Is he getting into bed? Down, girl.
“Tell me about your family,” he says.
That hits me like a bucket of cold water. It’s not a question and I’m not sure how to broach this particular subject, so I tread lightly.
“I’m not sure if we have time to unpack all of my generational trauma, Cowboy.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“My parents are divorced, and I have an older brother, Luca. My relationship with my mom is…” I exhale a shaky breath. “Complicated. Ho nestly, my entire family dynamic is complicated.”
“I can understand that. My parents got divorced when I was 5. I don’t have much of a relationship with my dad.”
I feel for 5-year-old Cade, I can't imagine having your world turned upside down at such a young age, but then I had mine torn apart at 13, so maybe I can relate in some way. I never talk about what was ultimately the last straw before my parents got divorced, but I find myself wanting to tell Cade.
“When I was 13, I noticed my dad parked at someone else’s house and I mentioned it to my mom. Turns out he was having an affair and I had inadvertently aired out his dirty laundry. She kicked him out and not long after, I chose to move in with my dad, but his girlfriend, Susan, and I didn’t get along, so I bounced back and forth between houses a few times. Dad eventually took a job out west, forcing me to move back in with my mom permanently.”
“God, Paige, I can’t imagine how hard it must have been at 13 years old,” he says with a softness in his voice.
“It definitely didn't help with my teenage mood swings. Mom tried to get us to go to therapy, but I was an angry kid — I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I was always somewhat defiant, especially after the divorce. I didn't make things any easier on myself.”
“It wasn’t your job to fix things, Paige. The adults in your life should’ve noticed you were struggling.”
“I think leaving for college helped. Mom and I tend to get along better when there’s physical distance between us. Dad and Sue moved back to the area not too long ago, so he’s only a few hours away now. We’ll never be close like we were when I was little — there’s a Sue sized barrier in the way. To be fair, I think I caused a lot of damage on my own, being as angry as I was at them and at myself.”
“You can’t blame yourself for how you reacted back then. You were young, and you did your best to cope in the only ways you knew how.”
“Yeah, I guess.” I don’t know why I let myself trauma dump on this man, but I wouldn’t blame him if this was all too much too soon for our friendship to withstand. The conversation hangs in the air for a beat, neither of us saying anything.
“I can hear the wheels turning in your head, Sunshine.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you. What do I owe you for this therapy session?” I laugh, but it’s stilted.
“No charge, Sunshine. I’m always happy to listen.”
“What about you? Anything to get off your chest?” There’s a loud exhale across the line.
“Maybe that’s a conversation for another day. It’s getting late.”
“Ok. I’m here if you need to talk, too.”
“Thanks. Goodnight, Sunshine.”
“‘Night, Cowboy.”