Chapter 2 - Eli
I make it about three miles before I realize I'm gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hurt.
Ridge is watching me from the passenger seat with that look he gets, the one that says he knows I'm doing something stupid and he's going to judge me for it later when I'm trying to sleep.
"Don't start," I mutter.
He huffs and turns to look out the window.
The road out to the cabin is all gravel and switchbacks, carved through trees that have been here longer than the town itself. I've driven it enough times that I could do it blind. Muscle memory. The same way I can fieldstrip a rifle or dig a foxhole or wake up at 0400 without an alarm.
Some things just get into your bones and stay there.
I shouldn't have talked to her.
That's the thought that keeps circling back, like a vulture looking for something dead. I shouldn't have corrected Frank. Shouldn't have shown her the basin wrench. Definitely shouldn't have stood there in the parking lot having a conversation like I'm someone who does that.
I don't do that.
Haven't done that in six years, and there's a reason for it.
The cabin comes into view through the trees.
Small, rough, exactly the kind of place that doesn't ask anything of you except that you keep the roof patched and the firewood stacked.
I park the truck and Ridge jumps out before I've even killed the engine, heading straight for the tree line like he's got important business to attend to.
I grab my gear from the bed and head inside.
It's quiet. It's always quiet. That's the point.
No neighbors. No traffic. No voices except my own, and I don't use that one much these days. Just me and the trees and the kind of silence that doesn't expect you to fill it with small talk or explanations or reasons why you're the way you are.
I drop the toolbox on the counter and stare at it. I gave her the basin wrench speech. The whole thing. Like I was running a training exercise for some boot who didn't know his ass from his elbow.
*You'll need a basin wrench. Don't overtighten. You'll crack the seal.*
What the hell was I thinking?
The answer, unfortunately, is that I wasn't thinking.
I was reacting. She'd been standing there with that smile, the kind of smile that people who haven't had the optimism beaten out of them yet still manage to pull off, and I'd opened my mouth before my brain could catch up and remind me that I don't do this anymore.
I don't help.
I don't engage.
I definitely don't stand in parking lots explaining plumbing to women I don't know.
Ridge scratches at the door and I let him in. He trots past me, heads straight for his water bowl, and drinks like he's just crossed a desert.
"You're a traitor," I tell him.
He ignores me.
I move to the sink and start washing the dirt off my hands.
The water's cold. It takes a minute for the heat to kick in out here and I watch it run over my knuckles, over the scars, over the calluses that have built up from six years of swinging an axe and hauling timber and doing anything that makes my body too tired to let my brain take over at night.
She'd crouched down to pet Ridge like it was the most natural thing in the world. Didn't hesitate. Didn't ask permission. Just dropped down and gave him the kind of attention he loves, and he'd eaten it up like the attention whore he is.
*Your dog likes me.*
*Do you?*
No.
I meant it when I said it. I don't like people. Not in the way she probably meant. Not in the way that involves getting to know them or letting them get to know me or any of the other things that used to feel normal before everything went to shit.
But the truth, the part I didn't say, is that it's not about liking or not liking.
It's about distance.
It's about the fact that proximity to me costs people something, and I learned that lesson the hard way in a desert on the other side of the world when the men I was supposed to bring home came back in boxes instead.
I turn off the water and dry my hands on a towel that's seen better days.
The problem is that she doesn't know that.
She doesn't know anything about me except that I'm the guy who corrected Frank in the hardware store and has a dog named Ridge.
And because she doesn't know, she's going to do what people like her do, people who are friendly and smiley and haven't learned yet that some doors are closed for a reason.
She's going to try.
I can already see it. The way she grinned when I said I didn't like people, like it was a challenge instead of a warning.
The way she didn't flinch when I walked away in the hardware store.
The way she looked at me in the parking lot, head tilted back, blue eyes bright, like I was interesting instead of broken.
I've seen that look before.
It never ends well.
Next Morning
I'm up before the sun. That's normal. I don't sleep much, and when I do, it's not the kind of sleep that leaves you rested.
It's the kind where you wake up with your jaw clenched and your heart trying to punch through your ribs because your brain decided to replay the greatest hits of everything you've ever done wrong.
So, I get up. I make coffee. I take Ridge out to the tree line and let him run while I stand there in the cold and wait for my head to clear.
By the time the sun comes up, I'm already on my second cup and halfway through sharpening the chainsaw blade. It's meditative, this kind of work. Repetitive. Predictable. You do it right, the blade gets sharp. You do it wrong, you lose a finger.
Simple.
Ridge is lying in a patch of sunlight on the porch, watching me with half-closed eyes like he's supervising.
"Don't you have something better to do?" I ask him.
He yawns.
I'm about to tell him exactly how useless he is when I hear it, an engine. Coming up the road. I stop. Listen.
It's not the mail truck. Wrong day. Not Frank, either. His truck sounds like it's held together with duct tape and spite. This one's lighter. Smaller.
It gets closer, and then I see it through the trees: a little sedan that has no business being on a gravel road like this, bouncing over ruts like it's trying to shake itself apart.
Ridge's head comes up. His tail starts wagging.
And I know.
I know before the car even stops. Before the door opens. Before she steps out wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that's too big for her and boots that look brand new.
Jade.
She sees me and waves. Actually waves, like we're neighbors borrowing sugar.
"Hi!" she calls, picking her way across the uneven ground toward the porch.
I set the file down and stand up. Ridge is already halfway to her, tail going like a rotor blade.
"What are you doing here?" I ask.
She stops at the base of the porch steps, looking up at me with that same bright expression that I already know means trouble.
"I flooded my kitchen," she says.
Of course she did.
"And you drove all the way out here to tell me that?"
"No," she says. "I drove all the way out here to ask for your help."
I stare at her. "How did you even know where I live?"
"I asked Frank."
"Frank told you where I live?"
"Well," she says, "he told me the general direction. I had to ask two more people after that. Turns out everyone knows where the grumpy lumberjack lives."
"I'm not helping you fix your sink," I say.
"I'm not asking you to fix it," she says. "I'm asking you to tell me what I did wrong so I can fix it myself."
"You overtightened it."
"I didn't think I did."
"You did."
She tilts her head, considering this. Then she smiles. "See? You're already helping."
Ridge is leaning against her leg, tongue lolling out, looking at her like she's the best thing that's ever happened to him.
"You need to leave," I say.
"I will," she says. "Right after you tell me how to fix it."
"I already told you. You overtightened it. Loosen it, reseat the O-ring, tighten it just enough to seal. That's it."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"Then you call a plumber."
"I can't afford a plumber," she says. "I spent all my money on a house that's apparently trying to kill me."
I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what to say about any of this. She's standing in my driveway. At my cabin. The place I specifically bought because no one comes here.
And she's smiling.
"Please?" she says.
I look at her. At Ridge, who's clearly already chosen a side. At the tools spread out on the porch. At the trees beyond, silent and waiting. Then I hear myself say the stupidest thing I've said in six years.
"Get in the truck."
She blinks. "Really?"
"Before I change my mind," I say, already regretting every decision that's led me to this moment.
"Okay," she says, and she's grinning like I've just agreed to take her to Disneyland instead of fix her plumbing. "Thank you. Seriously. What about my car?”
"I’ll bring it later to your house. Now stop talking," I say, moving past her toward the truck.
Ridge is already at the passenger door, waiting. He knows the routine. I open it and he jumps in, settling into the middle of the bench seat like he owns it.
Jade follows, climbing in after him without hesitation. She's got to hoist herself up a little. The truck sits high, and Ridge immediately puts his head on her lap like they've been best friends for years instead of twenty-four hours.
"He really does like me," she says, scratching behind his ears.
I don't answer. Just start the engine and back out, trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing and coming up empty.
The drive back toward town is quiet except for the sound of gravel under the tires and Ridge's tail thumping against the seat every time Jade pets him. She's looking out the window, taking in the trees, the ridgeline, the way the morning light cuts through the branches.
"It's beautiful out here," she says after a minute.
"Yeah."
"Do you ever get lonely?"