After
AFTER
On my second morning at the cabin, the world beyond the windows looks different. Sunlight has polished the swaying grass to a gilded shine, and the sky stretches, somehow broader than yesterday. Even the birdsong sounds brighter. Clearer.
I perch on the edge of my bed and marvel. It’s amazing what a change of scenery and a few hours of decent sleep can accomplish.
I spend the morning bustling around, making scrambled eggs and strawberry French toast, then surprise myself by devouring every bite. At noon, I’m busy scrubbing out the pan when the phone rings. I zip into the living room, but my shoulders droop when I answer. “Oh, hey, Mom.”
“Hey, sweetie. How’re you doing? Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” A reluctant smile digs into my cheek. “I’m okay.”
While she chatters away, I survey last night’s mess. Weirdly, the sight of the extinguished lantern—along with the new ashes in the fireplace and the empty cups littering the hearth—almost makes me feel as though I haven’t lied.
We discuss the cabin: what needs to be done before the closing, whether the new owners will use the place themselves or list it on Airbnb. But my mind drifts. By the time my parents sign over ownership, my three days with Grayson will be up.
God, that man. He seemed so optimistic last night, so hopeful that he could resurrect a girl who wilted to nothingness long ago. Meanwhile, the most I’d hoped to find here was strength, like I did with Margo. Still, the way I looked in that picture from Hawaii—
“Mina? Are you there?”
I jerk back to reality. “Sorry, what?”
Worry threads through my mother’s tone. “Are you sure you’re all right? You seem distracted.”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry. Just haven’t had any coffee yet.”
I spend another few minutes soothing her. Once we hang up, I stare at the quiet phone, my heartbeat pattering, then scold myself for behaving like a teenager with a crush. If there is one rule I actually believe in, it’s that women should never wait on men to call. Not even grieving widows with strange affinities for their ex-brothers-in-law. So I pack my laptop into the Porsche and head for town, parking once again at Grounds for Dismissal.
On the way in, I step aside for two twenty-somethings with dewy skin and hot coffees in their hands.
“I heard he was here ,” one bubbles to her friend, “in Millbrook. Can you believe it? Devina saw him at the Shell station this morning. She said he was driving some kind of car she’d never even seen before.”
I linger, holding the door for them. I would’ve done it anyway, but I don’t hate the chance to eavesdrop, considering I know exactly who they’re talking about.
“I wonder if he’s staying at the Roadside Inn,” says the other. “He must be, if Devina saw him at the Shell.”
I exhale hard. Damn. I didn’t even think about the challenges of finding a hotel room at 4:30 a.m. in a town like this. I hope Grayson didn’t actually get stuck at the Roadside. All the rooms there smell like cigarettes.
What was I thinking, letting him leave?
The first girl smiles at me in passing before turning back to her friend. “Totally. So you wanna go stake out the Burger Shack across the street?”
“Oh, yeah. I just have to find my lipstick first, the one that makes me look like...”
Their voices fade as they waltz down the sidewalk. I quell a grin and head inside for a hazelnut latte, then curl into an armchair by the windows and open my computer.
I tell myself I’m here to get a head start on my next article, but the truth is an idea drifted into my head this morning while talking to my mother. One so nascent and fragile that I fear acknowledging it directly might pop it like a gleaming soap bubble.
So I don’t think about what I’m doing, even as I bring up a fresh Word document and begin to type.
Once upon a time, I ran away from my own life, into the forest. You see, my husband had just died, and...
It’s just an experiment, and at first, I can’t even say what will come of it, because the words arrive in halting bursts. But soon, they gather momentum. Vines of black blossom across the screen.
It’s like wrenching open a tap that had previously rusted shut. For so many years, I’ve pushed away the words I’ve wanted to write. Sentences have appeared in my head sometimes, usually in the shower—luscious turns of phrase to capture the feel of a new-to-me but ancient city, or a field of sunlit wildflowers waving in welcome.
I always shrugged them off along with the hot water. Let them slip down the drain like slivers of spent soap.
But maybe they never truly left, because now I breathe them onto the page. I craft lines about starglow filtering through pine needles and how lantern light makes a beloved childhood haven look warmer and more welcoming than any other place in the world. I write about the unique loneliness of trapping yourself in a place you once shared with someone long after they’re gone, and how sometimes a change of scenery equals so much more than just a geographical shift—it’s a breaking down of mental walls, a reclamation of your own sovereignty.
When I finish, my empty mug has grown cold and my chest rises and falls like I’ve run a marathon. I glance at my phone. Nearly three o’clock, though it feels like only minutes have passed.
I do a quick scroll through the pages. They’re special. The most honest ones I’ve ever produced. I snick my computer closed and look up. And freeze.
The opposite armchair no longer sits empty, as it did when I arrived. An incredibly large, incredibly beautiful man sits there, wearing a leather jacket and a rapt expression.
“Hi,” Grayson says.
I set my computer on the tiny table between us—slowly, like he’s caught me doing something illicit. “Hi. How long have you been there?”
“Half an hour, maybe.” His long fingers wrap around a mug as empty as mine.
“Doing what?” I say, all caution.
“Watching you write.”
My mouth goes dry. I want to be surprised that he knows what I was doing, but I’m...not. “Sounds boring.”
“It wasn’t. It was riveting, actually.”
“Riveting?” I echo.
“Yeah. Your face. It was luminous.”
Luminous . My fingers dig into the chair arms. My god, this man is going to make me do something I’ll regret, using words like that. “How’d you find me?”
He chuckles. “This town is the size of a postage stamp. And Michael’s car doesn’t exactly blend in.”
“Right.” I clear my throat and look away, only to find the girls from earlier out on the sidewalk, peering in through the window.
Thank god. Something harmless to talk about. “Looks like you attracted an audience.”
Grayson twists around, waves at his admirers, and turns back. “Yeah, that happens sometimes.”
The girls flush and cover their mouths. One returns his wave, even though he’s not looking anymore.
“Does that bother you?” I tilt my head. I don’t know how I would feel about strangers habitually following me around.
“Not really.” He shrugs. “It’s usually innocent, even if they’re expecting someone different than who I actually am. I only get annoyed when people take pictures of me without asking. Or when women try to fix me—when they decide I’m some kind of problem that needs solving, and they’re the answer.”
I nod, recalling the photo of him cold-shouldering that model in the nightclub. Strangely, I understand that so much better after having met him. “You never know. Maybe someday one of them will be the answer.”
He crooks a half smile. “Maybe. But that one probably won’t give me the time of day.”
I snort. Delicately. “You know you could have any woman you want, right?”
He sets his empty cup down, the leather creaking. “Not any woman,” he says, holding my eyes.
I turn that over, wondering if that’s part of the allure. I’m certainly no pushover, which might be why he finds me so intriguing. But I’m only so reticent because of losing Michael, which makes Grayson...what? A broken man who loves other broken things? Or a normal, red-blooded male who relishes a challenge? “Well, you could have the ones out on the sidewalk, at least.”
He scoffs. “They’re children. And I don’t just mean because of their age.”
I look again. The girls are fresh-faced, pretty, with the bright eyes of those life hasn’t yet managed to discourage. They have years and years of possibility ahead of them, and they know it.
He drums his fingers against his knee. “Can you really imagine me with someone like that? Actually try to picture it. I’ll wait.”
My attention drifts back to him, taking in the scars—both inner and outer—and the wry, pained twist of his mouth. The stains of a past that seem to cling to his skin.
“No,” I say. “You’re right. It’d be like pairing a tiger with a kitten. It’d only end up with something carnivorous happening.”
“Then there you go.” The bitter tilt of his lips relaxes. “And now that we’ve cleared that up, how about those cheeseburgers I promised?”
I chuff a laugh. My hand sneaks to my midsection, which still bulges from my lavish breakfast. Hours have passed, but my stomach has grown unaccustomed to such generosity, and I don’t have room for anything else just yet. “How about later? Tonight?”
“That’s perfect, actually. I have some work stuff to take care of, and I’d like to switch hotels, but I can come by around seven.”
“Great.” My tone comes out even, but underneath, my heartbeat accelerates. I almost tell him he can stay at the cabin. Almost. But the invitation gets stuck just south of my Adam’s apple.
“I’ll see you later.” Grayson stands. He sounds so damn casual, the bastard. He swipes up my empty mug and totes it to the bussing bin along with his.
It’s a small thing, done with the sort of thoughtless automaticity that makes me suspect he doesn’t even notice he’s gone out of his way to make my life easier.
But I notice, and I’m still thinking about it when he pauses out on the sidewalk to chat with his admirers. They bat their eyelashes. One digs in her handbag for a copy of some gossip magazine I’ve successfully managed to avoid seeing, then hands it over along with a Sharpie. Grayson runs a hand through his shamelessly beautiful hair, which I decide is completely unfair to them, the poor things, then autographs whatever page details his latest debacle.
While he does it, he looks up through the window and holds my eyes. And winks.
My stomach clenches. Jesus. I’m definitely going to do something reckless if he keeps that up. The urge gathers strength inside me, heady and delicious and wicked.
I lower my gaze to the fruit icon on my computer until the feeling passes. When I look again, Grayson is zooming off in something red and aerodynamic. Like Devina, I don’t recognize it. A Lotus, maybe?
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Michael was the one who loved expensive things, not me.
Outside, the girls tilt their heads together for a quick conference, then come into the shop. As the jangling bell over the door quiets, they walk right up to me.
“Hi,” one says. “Sorry to bother you, but...do you know him?”
I can’t help but smile at her directness. “Yeah, I do.”
Her hazel eyes round. “Wow. How?”
I glance around. It’s late in the day for coffee, and now it’s only me, these girls, and an older woman reading a book. I have no reason to avoid the truth for a measly three people. “I married his twin brother. That’s all.”
“Whoa,” says the second. “Twin like, identical twin?”
“Yep.”
Now they both look impressed. “You’re married to a guy that looks like Grayson Drake?”
A needle twists in my chest. “I was. He died.”
“Oh. Oh my god. I’m so sorry. That must’ve been really hard.” They go quiet, but not in that alarmed, what-did-I-just-say way that strangers usually retreat to. Instead, they crook their brows as if they can’t believe life could be so cruel.
I decide I like them. “It’s okay. I mean, you’re right, it was hard. It’s still hard. But life goes on and...you survive, you know?”
One nods, though I can tell she doesn’t appreciate the full gravity of what I’m saying. I hope she never has to.
“Well, we just wanted to come inside and tell you he likes you. It was super obvious, even from outside.”
I sit back a fraction. “You think?”
“Definitely,” says the second. “I mean, it makes sense. You’re really pretty. And also, we’re incredibly jealous.”
I laugh at her friendly tone, but when my amusement subsides, the smile left over feels tattered around the edges. They make it sound so easy. You’re really pretty, so he likes you .
What I wouldn’t give for life to be that simple again.
“Thanks,” I say. “But even just being around him feels weird, honestly.”
“What? Why?”
“Because. I was married to his identical twin. Who died .”
They look at me like I’ve sprouted another head.
“So?” says one.
“Girl,” says the second, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful or anything, but you’d have to be out of your mind not to pursue that. Who cares what the situation is?”
I blink. “Erm...I do?”
“Then you’re definitely overthinking it.”
I ease back in my chair. Huh. That attitude is so...blithely optimistic. So egocentrically youthful, too, but maybe that’s not a bad thing.
And really, so what if Grayson resembles Michael? From what I can tell, the similarities end at the surface. And it’s not like I owe my husband eternal celibacy. He’s gone, and I’m...not. Besides, if that folder I found is any indication, he might not have stuck around much longer, anyway. “You know, you might have a point.”
“Yeah, no kidding. Just...send Grayson our way if you decide you’ve got better things going on, all right? It was really nice to meet you.”
“You, too.”
They walk off, glancing back once from the sidewalk to wave.
I watch until they disappear, then snap open my computer again. Blithe optimism. I could probably use some of that in my life.
I pull up a browser and navigate to my favorite website, Travelique.com. I’ve visited it more times than I can count, always to salivate over the travel journalism and photo spreads of far-flung places. Typically, Travelique doesn’t feature stories about domestic destinations like Washington, but they publish articles with an outdoorsy bent, and it can’t hurt to try.
I find an email address for submissions, then type out a message and attach my article—if that’s what it even is—about searching for solace in the forest.
I hit Send before I can talk myself out of it.
That done, I pack everything away, breeze out onto the sidewalk, and duck into Michael’s car.
At the cabin, I toss all my things onto the daybed, then pull on my running shoes and venture back outside. On the porch, I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sun. Warmth presses against my cheeks like adoring hands.
I bask. I can’t remember the last time I stood like this, just enjoying a moment.
It feels damn good, and when I run, it feels different . Like a celebration instead of an escape. I fly down the gravel road, eating up the miles.
Ever since Michael’s death, I’ve shied away from our happiest memories, but today, I let them in. As the sun-warmed trees flicker past, I think of the way meeting him brought me to Technicolor life, how my heart expanded to fill my entire body when we swam to that underground cave in Canada. I recall the radiance of that last starlit night in Hawaii—not spent making love or even kissing, but just existing together, wholehearted. I even relive the wash of wonder that flooded me at the observatory all those years ago, when I looked into those sea-deep eyes and knew I had no desire to ever love anyone else.
Those moments are gone forever, never to be repeated. Somehow, though, the surrounding forest makes that certainty more bearable. And for the first time, I consider that, instead of being unfortunate enough to have lost so much, maybe I’m lucky to have ever had it in the first place.
When I finally make it back to the cabin and step into a steaming shower, the spray seems to rinse off so much more than sweat and dirt. It’s like my head is breaking water for the first time in half a year. I chase the feeling. I take a draft of the air I’ve missed so intensely and hold it in my lungs.
ward, I look in the mirror. Really look. Kate and Grayson are right—I’ve gotten too skinny, but I still find pleasure in the way my eyes catch the afternoon light and my hair skims my jawline.
The coffee-shop girls weren’t lying. I’m pretty.
I’d forgotten that.
I play it up, dusting blush on my cheeks, layering shadow and liner around my eyes. When I finish, I smile at what I see, then blow-dry my hair to a glossy black shine. I slip into a wine-red, close-fitting tank top and clingy dark pants.
It’s partly for Grayson. I can’t lie to myself about that. But it’s also for me. It’s everything I wrote in that article—a declaration, a statement about my independence.
I’m here. I survived. I still matter.
Maybe I should start acting like it.
I complete my ensemble with dangly earrings and head into the living room. While laying a fire, I think of what I told Kate, about how I’ll never fall in love again. How I can’t .
That still feels true, and I’m okay with that. But just because I can’t fall in love again doesn’t mean I’ve joined a convent.
I consider calling my best friend and telling her so, but ultimately decide against it. She’ll only talk some sense into me, and I don’t actually want her to.
Because for once, today strikes me as an excellent day to do something I’ll ultimately regret.