2. Mason
“Oh, no!” Christian howls as I toss the gaming controller aside, defeated again. “You’re completely getting ruined tonight! I almost feel sorry for you, man!”
The video game teeters to a “Play Again?” screen, but I press nothing on my end, and Christian takes the hint. He sits back and stretches, his grin remaining.
“Don’t sulk. I used to beat you all the time in college, too. Or did you block that out?” he taunts me.
Flopping back on the leather loveseat, I dart my eyes toward the ceiling and cast my best friend a sidelong look as Christian reaches for his beer and hands me mine. I shake my head, folding my arms over my chest. His smile finally falters.
“You okay? You haven’t touched it at all,” he notes astutely, indicating the beer as he sets it back down. My eyes travel back toward the coffee table, where piles of papers sit stuffed inside an overflowing zippered notebook.
“I should be working, not screwing around,” I reply, sitting forward, placing my elbows on my knees. The heat of the fireplace hits me with a blast as I change positions, and my gaze settles on the snow outside the carriage house window beyond the living room.
“Want me to go?” Christian asks, immediately standing.
A flash of guilt shoots through me at the suggestion, but I don’t stop him. It’s not his fault I’m not working. It’s mine. I called him over here in the first place, looking for the distraction. In fact, these past two weeks have been nothing but procrastination on my end.
But Christian doesn’t move as he waits for me to answer him, sensing I need to get something off my chest. “Mason?”
I exhale. “I can’t seem to focus on the restaurant,” I confess without answering him directly. “Every time I start working on the menu or the décor…” I shrug. “I get writer’s block or whatever the equivalent is when it comes to opening a restaurant.”
Christian reclaims his spot, his blue eyes narrowing compassionately. “Do you regret coming to Spruce Crossing?” he asks delicately.
I blink. “No! No, I think this is the perfect spot to open Wild Sage. Are you kidding? I mean, the scenery alone is worth it. And in five years, this place will be booming.”
“And by ‘scenery,’ you mean me, right? You’re coming here to learn how to attract all the ladies?” Christian teases, and I snort, my agitation melting away with his sense of humor.
“You’re my best friend. You know you’re the main reason I picked up and came here in the first place. You’ve been like family to me since college—the only family I have,” I reply, turning back to look out the window again. It’s really coming down out there. “Maybe I’ll feel better when I’m out of your mom’s hair,” I add. “I shouldn’t be staying here.”
Christian bursts out laughing. “First of all, my mom is happy that you’re staying in the carriage house,” he informs me—as he has many times over the past two weeks since I arrived. “She’s got serious empty nest syndrome since I moved out. If you want to live here forever, she’ll happily make the arrangements.”
I manage a weak smile. That is definitely not part of the plan.
“I appreciate that. I’m just starting to feel like a thirty-one-year-old man living in his best friend’s mom’s basement… or, in this case, carriage house.”
Christian rolls his eyes and waves his hand dismissively. “Second, you came here to open your restaurant, Mase. Focus on that right now. It’s been your life goal for as long as I’ve known you, even when you were killing yourself studying for the LSATS. Are you having second thoughts about it? Do you want to go back to practicing law?”
“Not at all!” I choke, the idea of ever stepping foot in a firm again churning my stomach.
“First steps are always the hardest, but you’ve already taken yours. You bought the building downtown. Now you need to fill it. Get your menu together. Hire your staff. Finalize the blueprints.”
I’m well aware of what needs to be done. That’s not the issue. The issue is doing it without the crippling doubt attached to my every decision. But sitting here playing video games will not get it done.
I stand abruptly, and Christian stares up at me expectantly. “What are you doing now?” he demands.
“You’re right. As always,” I tell him, stalking toward the door. “I am living my dream. This is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”
“Okay…?”
“But I’m not getting a real feel for it here. I need to get into the building and map out everything from in there.”
“Woah, wait! Now?” Alarm splices through Christian’s voice. “It’s snowing, Mase.”
Grabbing my coat, I flash him a grin and retreat to the table to grab my notes and business plan from the coffee table, ignoring his protests. “You want to come with me? I’ll buy you dinner when I’m done. It won’t be as good as my food, but I’m sure we can wrangle up something to eat in this one-horse town.”
I wink to show him I’m joking.
Christian shakes his head. “Not in this mess. I wish you would stay put, too. This can wait until tomorrow.”
“I thought you were a Montana boy,” I jeer. “It’s not that far away. It’ll be fine.”
“I’m such a good Montana boy that I know exactly how fast these storms can turn. Just wait until tomorrow,” Christian grumbles. “I’m going to hang out with my mom until the storm passes, and maybe even stay the night in her house.”
“I’ve been sitting on this long enough,” I insist, but secretly, I’m relieved he opted out. It’s better if I go alone.
“Be careful out there, Mason,” Christian warns as I grab the door handle, and I nod once, pulling my hat over my head.
“Always,” I reply, disappearing into a snow squall.
There’s nevermuch traffic in Spruce Crossing. It’s one of the first things I noticed when I arrived from Spokane.
Rush hour involves three or four backed-up cars trapped at a red light. Even when I am “stuck” in traffic, I don’t mind it at all. Mountains surround the little town and quaint streets, and the fresh air is untainted by pollution and smog.
But I can’t see any of those pretty little storefronts today, the snow too thick in front of me, my visibility limited. My pulse quickens as I steer my black Mercedes toward my new building on Main Street, wishing I’d heeded Christian’s warning.
My hand reaches for the radio dials on the steering wheel to check the station for a weather update.
“…blustery one, that’s for darn sure!” the DJ babbles through the speaker. “But it should clear up later on tonight after another twelve to fifteen inches dump down.”
“Twelve to fifteen inches!” his counterpart squawks. “How’s that for the end of November!”
“We’ll be having a white Christmas here in Pine Tree County, just like the song says!”
I’ve heard enough of their too-happy chatter, my head already pounding with the cheerfulness of it all. The death of my parents in my younger years have always made the holidays a strange time for me, neither sad nor joyous. Just odd, out of place.
As my hand flips off the radio manually on the dashboard, my peripheral vision takes in Greenfield’s Grocery Store on the right, the shop a few blocks down from my prospective restaurant.
I turn my head back to the road, but not in time to stop the accident that is about to happen. The crunch of metal on metal shocks my head forward, the gray vehicle in front of me barely registering in my purview as my head smashes into the steering wheel, both our vehicles sliding forward.
My world goes completely black.
I can’t sayhow long I’ve been out when my eyes open. Heart hammering, hands shaking, I merely sit in place, unmoving. Shock overcomes me, and a weird silence floods my ears.
I become distinctly aware of tapping on the window beside me. “Hey! Hey, are you okay? Hey! Can you look at me?”
My head turns to look, snow continuing to fall around me, but fall where? On whom? Who’s talking?
Suddenly, a thousand questions fill my head, but they all feel very far away, like someone is asking them from another room somewhere.
I stare at the window tapper uncomprehendingly. The auburn-haired woman’s eyes bulge in fear, and the vivid emerald of her haunted, blinking eyes confuses me even more. She reaches for the door handle, but it doesn’t open as I continue to sit in place, shaking. More people approach the car, voices flooding around me.
“Open the door!” someone yells.
“Are you hurt?”
“Did someone call an ambulance?”
“Break the glass. He’s hurt.”
The redhead cups her hands around the glass to look inside. The urgency in her face only conflicts me more. Why is she staring at me like that?
My head drops, and a blanket of sleepiness washes over me. I’m suddenly, insurmountably tired. I just want to sleep now.
“Mason!”
My name being called snaps me out of the fugue, and I raise my head again. A familiar face peers at me, but I can’t remember her name or how I know her. She stands next to the distraught redhead. She’s older, middle-aged. Is she one of my clients?
“Mason, unlock the door, honey,” the older woman tells me. “Please. Reach down and unlock the door so we can get you out, okay?”
Swallowing thickly, I look down and do what she asks. Immediately, the car door swings outward, and a blast of cold air touches my face.
The stunning green-eyed woman reaches for me, unbuckling my seatbelt.
Someone yells, “Mia! Don’t move him! He doesn’t look good. Wait for the paramedics. You might hurt him more.”
The redhead is at my eye level now, her fear palpable as she takes my hand.
“Are you injured?” she asks, crouching beside me to look me over. “You’re bleeding. Oh, my gosh!”
“W-what happened?” I finally manage to sputter, and relief colors her freckled complexion.
“You can speak,” she breathes with relief. “That’s good. That’s great!”
“What happened?” I croak again.
“You slid into me,” she explains. “The roads are icy. It wasn’t your fault.” Her cool hands cup my face as she studies my neck and cheeks. “Where does it hurt?” she demands. “Can you get out of the car?”
I start to say yes, but someone pulls her away from me, and I blink rapidly, snow covering the space where she was as two paramedics take her place. I want her to come back. Agitation floods me again.
“Sir,” one man says, flashing a penlight in my eyes. “Can you tell me where you’re injured?”
My eyes close, and the crowd’s voices become a collective din around me.
“Everyone needs to back up and give him space! He needs to go to the hospital!”
I mumble something incoherent, even to myself.
“Stay awake, Mr. Adler. You have a concussion,” the paramedic informs me, but his words are meaningless to me.
“I want to go with him!” I already recognize the redhead’s voice, but I can’t hear anyone’s response as I slip out of consciousness.
“Stay awake!” I’m forced to open my eyes, my stare resting on the paramedic. My bruised body is transported toward the waiting ambulance through the small crowd, and I see the damage to the car, my brow furrowing.
“Where…?” I sputter, struggling to sit up, but powerful arms hold me down.
“Just relax, Mr. Adler. Everything will be fine. We’re taking you to the hospital.”
“W-which hospital?” I croak. The gurney slides into the back of the ambulance, and the doors close, blocking out the snow and group on the road.
“Pine Tree County Hospital,” one of the two replies. “The only hospital in the county. It’s only about fifteen minutes from Spruce Crossing.”
This time, I manage to sit up, the world spinning around me. Nausea seizes me, but I don’t lie back. “Spruce Crossing?”
“Please, sir. You have to stay down! We need to run tests. If you don’t lie still, you could do more harm to yourself.”
I gawk at his concerned face. “Spruce Crossing?” I say again, my voice hoarse and horrified.
“Pine Tree County Hospital is the closest hospital to Spruce Crossing, sir,” he explains patiently, but he’s not answering my question.
Dumbfounded, I fall back to the gurney as the ambulance screams away from the curb, my heart racing wildly. “Where is Christian?”
They exchange glances. “You were alone in the car when we found you. Was someone else with you?”
“No! Christian Hargrove lives here! Spruce Crossing! I…”
Gnawing on the insides of my cheeks, I wrack my brain to remember how I ended up in the accident, where I was, what led me to this moment.
“Mr. Adler?”
My eyes close again, but I’m rudely woken. “How did I get here?” I demand in a breathless whisper. “What am I doing in Spruce Crossing? And when did I get here?”