Chapter Seven
“ Maybe I got lost for a reason..”
Skye
Two weeks after my wilderness adventure, I'd almost convinced myself I was fine.
My apartment was back to its usual state of organized chaos—star charts pinned to walls, half-graded papers spread across the coffee table, and three mugs of partially consumed tea forgotten on various surfaces. Summer session classes started in a week, and I'd thrown myself into lesson planning with the kind of manic energy usually reserved for doomsday preppers stocking their bunkers.
"The difference between asteroid, meteor, and meteorite," I muttered, typing furiously on my laptop. "Include actual meteorite sample from university collection if Professor Hendricks ever returns my emails. Add joke about space rocks being out of this world—too cheesy? Definitely too cheesy."
My phone buzzed on the table beside me. Mandy's face appeared on the screen, her expression caught mid-laugh at some long-forgotten party. I briefly considered ignoring it, then sighed and picked up.
"If you're calling to tell me about another emergency teaching gig, the answer is no," I said by way of greeting. "I've filled my near-death experience quota for the summer, thanks."
"Hello to you too, sunshine." Mandy's voice was as cheerful as ever. "And no, I'm not calling about a job. I'm calling because you've been dodging my texts for days, and I want to know if you're actually alive or if you've been replaced by a very productive robot version of yourself."
I glanced at my phone's notification bar, which did indeed show eight unread messages from Mandy. Oops.
"Sorry. I've been busy. Summer session prep and all that."
"Uh-huh." Her tone made it clear she wasn't buying it. "So, you finally had tent sex with a lumber-beast, and now you're ghosting the forest?"
I nearly choked on my tea. "I am not ghosting the forest. That's not even a thing."
"You're ghosting me, and I'm the closest thing to a forest representative you've got, so yes, you are."
"I've been busy," I repeated.
"Star Babe, you've probably created six new PowerPoint presentations in two weeks. For classes that don't start until next month. That's not busy. That's avoidance."
She wasn't wrong. I'd been filling every waking moment with work to avoid thinking about a certain green-eyed wilderness guide with hands that—
Nope. Not going there.
"Fine," I conceded. "Maybe I have been avoiding things. But what exactly am I supposed to do? Call him? He doesn't have a phone. Send a carrier pigeon? Smoke signals?"
"You could drive out there."
"To do what? Beg for a relationship with a man who clearly stated he wasn't interested in one? No thanks. I still have some dignity left."
Mandy sighed, the sound crackling through the phone. "That's not how I remember it. He didn't say he wasn't interested. He just said it would be complicated."
"Same difference."
"Not even close. Look, all I'm saying is that you two had a connection. Anyone with eyes could see it. And I know you, Skye. You don't fall for guys easily."
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars I'd stuck to my ceiling years ago. "Maybe that's the problem. I fell too hard, too fast. And that's on me, not him."
"Did you ever consider that maybe he's just as freaked out as you are? The dude lives alone in the woods. He probably hasn't had a meaningful relationship with anyone in years."
"Again, not my problem to fix."
"I'm not saying it is. I'm saying maybe you both got scared and chose the easy way out."
I didn't have a good response to that, so I changed the subject. "How were the rest of the camp activities? Did Tyler ever stop talking about bear attacks?"
Mandy allowed the pivot, launching into stories about the campers and their adventures. I half-listened, making appropriate noises of interest while my mind drifted back to the memory of Leif's eyes in the morning light, the way his voice had roughened when he said my name, the feeling of his hands on my skin...
"—so then the alien spaceship landed, and we all got probed."
"Mmhmm," I murmured, then startled. "Wait, what?"
Mandy laughed. "Just checking if you were still with me. Look, I have to run. But promise me you'll at least think about what I said."
"About the alien probe?"
"About not ghosting the forest. Or yourself."
After we hung up, I sat staring at my laptop screen, the half-finished lesson plan blurring before my eyes. Mandy wasn't entirely wrong. I had been avoiding dealing with my feelings by burying myself in work. It was a time-honored Dawson family tradition—when in emotional distress, recalibrate a telescope.
Speaking of which...
I glanced at the clock. It was nearly 8:30 PM, and the summer sky would be darkening into prime stargazing conditions. My apartment balcony offered a decent view, but it couldn't compare to my dad's old setup in the garage of my childhood home.
The house itself had been sold after his death, but I'd kept the detached garage, converting it into a small observatory with the inheritance money. It was a ridiculous extravagance that tied up funds I could have used for a better apartment or a car that didn't make concerning noises on cold mornings. But I couldn't bear to part with the space where I'd spent so many nights with my father, mapping the heavens and discussing life's big questions.
Decision made, I grabbed my keys and a light jacket. The garage was only a fifteen-minute drive, and I suddenly needed the comfort of that familiar space.
The neighborhood was quiet when I arrived, most houses dark except for the blue flicker of television screens behind curtains. I unlocked the side door of the garage and stepped inside, inhaling the familiar scent of metal, machine oil, and the faint mustiness of a space that was used infrequently but with great care.
I flipped on the small lamp by the door rather than the overhead lights, preferring the soft glow that wouldn't interfere with night vision. My father's main telescope—a serious Schmidt-Cassegrain that had cost him months of overtime—stood on its mount in the center of the room, its black surface gleaming in the dim light.
"Hey, Dad," I said softly, running my hand along the telescope's smooth barrel.
Talking to my father's telescope was a habit I'd developed after his death. It was silly, perhaps, but sometimes I could almost hear his responses in my head, delivered with his characteristic mix of scientific precision and dad jokes.
I moved to the garage door and pressed the button to roll it up, revealing the rectangle of night sky visible from this angle. The light pollution from Missoula dimmed the stars somewhat, but it was still a vast improvement over most urban viewing spots.
"So I met someone," I said to the empty garage as I adjusted the telescope. "He's completely wrong for me. Lives in the woods like a recluse. Actually, he is a recluse. Doesn't own a phone. Probably makes his own soap."
I paused, looking up at the stars twinkling overhead.
"But there was something there, Dad. Something real. And I ran away from it.”
I positioned myself behind the eyepiece and began scanning the sky, searching for familiar celestial landmarks.
"I wonder if you're up there somewhere," I whispered. "One of those stars, looking down on me. What would you say if you could see me now? Probably something about following the evidence where it leads, even if it takes us somewhere unexpected."
I located Saturn, its rings clearly visible through the powerful telescope. The sight of it, so familiar yet always awe-inspiring, settled something in my chest.
"Maybe I got lost for a reason," I murmured, the thought forming as I spoke it. "Maybe the flat tire and the wrong turn and all of it was the universe's way of putting us in the same place at the same time."
I knew, scientifically, that was nonsense. The universe didn't orchestrate flat tires to create meet-cutes. But sometimes scientific explanations, while accurate, didn't capture the full picture of human experience.
I stayed for another hour, mapping stars and planets, letting the familiar routine soothe my restless mind. By the time I packed up and headed home, it was nearly midnight, and a peaceful exhaustion had settled over me.
My apartment was dark and quiet when I returned. I kicked off my shoes at the door and dropped my keys in the bowl on the entry table, not bothering to turn on the lights as I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.
The sudden ring of the doorbell shattered the silence, making me jump so violently that I sloshed water down the front of my shirt.
"Omigod!" I yelped, heart pounding. Who would be ringing my doorbell at midnight?
A neighbor with an emergency? The building manager about a pipe leak? A very lost pizza delivery person?
I approached the door cautiously, peering through the peephole.
And found myself staring at Leif Brannick.
For a moment, I thought I was hallucinating. Maybe I'd fallen asleep at the telescope and was dreaming this whole thing. But when I opened the door, he was still there—solid and real and looking distinctly uncomfortable in a button-up shirt that strained slightly across his broad shoulders. In his hands was my duffel bag, the one I'd apparently left at the camp.
"Leif," I managed, my voice emerging as little more than a whisper. "What are you—how did you—"
"You forgot this," he said, holding out the duffel.
I blinked, trying to kick my brain back into gear. "You drove three hours to return my duffel bag?"
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "Yes."
"That's not why you came." The words slipped out before I could stop them.
His eyes met mine, those pale green depths revealing more than his stoic expression. "No. It's not."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Why, then?"
He hesitated, then took a step forward, close enough that I could smell the pine and cedar scent that clung to him, even in the city.
"Because I can't stop thinking about you."