Chapter 2
It’s Friday—Nadia’s due date—when I pull into Grand Trees.
The town sits at the southern edge of the Sierras, home to giant sequoias and pine forests but not far from the white sand and cacti of the Southern California desert.
It’s a tumultuous vista of all the American West has to offer.
For a time, it was my favorite place on earth, back when I used to believe in its magic. When I used to believe in magic at all.
It took me all week to convince myself that I could withstand a couple of days here, and my resolve has frayed with each mile eaten up by my tires.
Somewhere in the recess of my mind, Jeff’s betrayal and Adelaide’s call are connected.
In order to process my most recent heartbreak, I must finally stop running from my first. It’s as if Grand Trees extended its haunted branches across the state to drag me back into its fold.
Look, it whispers through its windswept limbs.
This is where your life derailed. You must retrace your steps to get it back on track.
Or it could be a cruel cosmic joke, and the universe wants to kick me while I’m down.
Or maybe I’m just a coward who’s running to avoid thoughts of Jeff and his imminent fatherhood.
Maybe running is the only way I know how to cope.
Perhaps home and here are the two poles that control my gravity.
I’m starving after the seven-hour drive.
It must be nerves, because I’ve done nothing but snack since I forced myself into the car.
I bypass the restaurants that Mom and I once frequented and head toward Nowhere Saloon.
It’s been here as long as I can remember, even though Mom never took me inside, which is part of its allure, I suppose.
I park along the curb and gather myself before stretching my right leg. It still gets stiff on long drives. I take several steps before coaxing the limp back into hibernation.
Pushing through the double doors, I take in the brick walls, brass bar rail, worn leather booths, and dim overhead pendant lights.
I navigate through the sea of revelers to settle at the bar, climbing onto a swivel stool at the corner.
It’s a mixed clientele. If I had to guess, most are tourists.
I feel like I’m back in the Bay Area when I catch fragments of a conversation about tech stocks.
A group of men crowds me while watching a basketball game.
They gesture aggressively toward the television as if they can sway the officials from here.
An older group across the bar checks out a hockey game on the smaller screen over my shoulder, and a quartet of women in their twenties waits as the bartender pours colorful cocktails.
When a roar erupts from the crowd beside me, I pivot to the TV, but my gaze lands on a man standing alone, leaning on the mahogany bar with one elbow.
He’s broad shouldered and imposing, with dark waves poking out from under a beanie, his jaw hidden behind a scruffy beard, which is unkempt but can’t hide his soft mouth.
My perusal catches on a white scar that bisects the fullest part of his upper lip, creating the illusion of an off-center Cupid’s bow.
My instinct is to look away, but then I remember I can admire an attractive man.
I can do more than that, actually. God knows Jeff did a shit ton more than that.
I’m single now, although out of practice and a little gun-shy.
The bartender makes her way over to him, and when he whispers something to her, the shell of my ear warms in response.
She nods once before pouring a beer from the tap.
His gaze shifts, and I flush when he catches me studying him, but something in his steady stare is more powerful than my embarrassment.
As our eye contact lingers, a bolt of lightning electrifies my nerves.
It’s exciting and unnerving to be watched by a stranger and have the confidence to let him.
I’m startled by something wet on my cheek, a splash of beer from the drink my neighbor just slammed on the bar. I drag my gaze away from my mystery man, and my clumsy seatmate turns as I wipe the liquid off my face.
“My bad.” He hands me a napkin.
“No problem.” I take it from him and wipe the spot below my eye.
“They really need to get a rebound. They’re getting killed on the boards, you know?”
I bob my head in a gesture that’s neither a shake nor a nod.
“Games are won on defense.”
“Right,” I say, because he probably is, even though I don’t know or care. Jeff loved basketball. His team, the Warriors, is playing. Maybe he’s watching from the delivery room, shouting at the small TV while Nadia breathes through contractions.
“I’m Darren.”
“Eden.” I shake his proffered hand but turn back to my phone immediately. I’m single, but I still have standards. He’s a close talker, and the smell of the beer on this guy’s breath kills the burgeoning sparks of desire my mystery man ignited.
“As in Garden of?”
I force a smile and don’t respond, hoping he’ll go back to the game.
Making an obvious joke about my name is such a self-absorbed move.
It assumes I haven’t already heard that joke about a hundred times, as if I haven’t lived with my own name until this moment.
Eden’s not a biblical reference, at least not directly.
Dad’s an amateur horticulturist. He’s told me that my birth was the only thing more magical than coaxing an orchid to thrive.
There’s a commercial break, so Darren’s focus returns to me. Well, not me precisely: my breasts, which are not on display. And even if they were, the display would be minimalist. He looks back at my face.
“Are you in town for the Mud Run, too?” he asks. Nothing about that question surprises me. Darren has that restless middle-aged bro quality, like an old high school athlete trying to reclaim his former glory.
“No.” I return my attention to my phone again, hoping he gets the point. He might be a perfectly nice guy, but I have no need to find out. I sneak a glance at the end of the bar and see the mystery man is gone.
“What brought you here, then?” he asks with half his attention on the game.
“Family.” I wave to the bartender. But no luck.
“Visiting home. Nice.” Darren leans closer. He’s wearing so much cologne, it’s aggressive. It’s a spicy, antiseptic scent.
“Something like that.”
“Well, if you need to get away from Mommy and Daddy, you should come by the race tomorrow. I’m running in it.” He leers at me but keeps one eye on the game.
I offer a noncommittal nod as he high-fives a friend in celebration of a buzzer-beater to end the half.
I start tomorrow’s crossword puzzle on my New York Times app. He doesn’t take the hint because then he says, “And I’d love to have a pretty cheerleader at the finish line.”
I look toward the end of the bar, hoping to grab the bartender’s attention. I really don’t want to give up this seat. But this guy has gone beyond chatty, leaped over flirty, and has landed somewhere near creepy.
Darren leans perilously close to my personal space. “Let me buy you a drink.”
I shift away. “No, thanks. I’m just here to grab food to go,” I say, which is a lie. I wanted to linger, stall, and take enough time to rebalance my blood sugar before heading to my mom’s house and whatever awaits me there.
Darren laughs, and it’s a condescending chuckle. “You can stay for one drink. C’mon, lighten up.”
“I’m good,” I say evenly.
But he waves to the bartender, his long arms grabbing the attention of the tattooed beauty with a purple pixie cut. “Let me guess,” he calls over his shoulder. “Rosé?”
“I’m going to head out—”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” someone beside me hums. I do a double take because the words seem intended for me, spoken by the man who just squeezed in beside Darren, who lowers his arm and inspects our new guest.
I startle when I realize he’s the hot lumberjack who had been standing beneath the TV earlier.
I wait for him to apologize, laugh, and say he thought I was someone else, but he doesn’t.
His whiskey-colored eyes widen in a conspiratorial look before he rests his forearm on the bar. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”
And that voice. There’s gravel in it; it’s so low I have to lean forward to hear his words, but the vibration lands somewhere deep in the center of me, rattling something alive. My heart does a stutter step when he whispers in my ear, “Need a rescue?”
I pick up the hint, taking my chances that this knight in rugged armor might have noble intentions, even though I am, obviously, a pathetic judge of character. I nod.
The knight gestures to the far wall. “I have a booth.” And it sounds like a proposition, one that I wouldn’t take if I weren’t so captivated by whatever his voice is doing to my insides.
I pause a few beats, calculating my odds, before sliding off the stool. He points to the far corner, and I lead the way through the labyrinth of bodies as Darren glares at us.
“Thanks for the save,” I say.
“Consider it your Grand Trees welcome.” His voice is dry and raspy.
A half-empty mug of beer is resting on the tabletop, and he gestures to the far side.
“Do you do that often?” I slide into the booth.
“What?” After he settles across from me, he takes a swig of his beer, and I watch as he swallows, mesmerized.
“Rescue women from drunken bros?” I unzip my fleece and set it beside me on the bench.
“It’s a first for me. But we sold our town’s soul for the tourist revenue those meatheads bring in. It’s the least we can do.”