Chapter 2 Kara
kara
The drive up the mountain is treacherous. My wedding shoes are useless against the pedals. My dress tangles around my legs every time I shift gears. Snow starts falling as I leave everything behind. It’s soft at first, then harder, until I can barely see the road.
My hands shake on the steering wheel, but not from the cold. It’s been three years since I've driven this route, but muscle memory guides me through every curve. By the time I reach the turnoff to Lumberjack Lagoon, I've lost the guilt, the panic, and the worry.
My phone still has a signal. It must be bouncing off the ridge for now, but I know it won’t last. Out here, one downed tower and I’ll be off the map. At this point, losing cell service and going dark sounds like a dream.
I get as close as I can before I bury Wilder’s truck in a snow bank at the bottom of the long driveway.
I’ll have to hoof it from here. But since I’m all out of fucks to give, that’s not a problem.
I pull a balled jacket from the backseat of Wilder’s truck and drape it over my shoulders.
Then I slip my phone into the pocket and start walking up the icy path.
The first thing I lose is the veil. It rips free on a low branch like the mountain itself has decided to object to my being here. The second thing I lose is the feeling in my toes. My dress is layers of satin engineered by a vindictive seamstress and it drags like deadweight around my thick thighs.
By the time I stumble up the porch steps of the last cabin in Lumberjack Lagoon, the sun is setting. The snow comes down in thick, glittering sheets. It’s the kind of scene that looks pretty until you realize it’s trying to kill you.
My lungs burn. My heart jackhammers and somehow even my sweat is freezing into droplets. I’m panting when I reach the door. A chainsaw sits on the porch beside stacked cordwood. It’s definitely still his place.
It dawns on me that I’ve had all this time but didn’t give a single second of thought into what I'll say. But that doesn’t stop me from making a fist and pounding on the door.
It doesn’t open, so I do it again. When the door still stays closed, I keep pounding because I don’t have a backup plan. He has to be home. This has to work.
When the door finally swings open, the heat hits me first. There's an axe leaning against the entry bench. Through the doorway I can see his work boots drying by the fire. Then he steps into the doorframe and it’s all him.
Rustin Michael Reynolds. I can hardly breathe.
Rustin is shirtless with flannel pajama pants slung low on his hips. I count eight individual ab muscles… Is that even possible? An eight pack is a thing? The man is tall, broad, and straight from the cover of a lumberjack romance book. It’s unreal.
There’s a light dusting of sawdust on his shoulder. It’s like glitter for manly men. His dark hair is damp and curling at the ends. While I was busy ruining everyone's best laid plans, it seems Rustin was cutting timber on the mountain. That feels right.
Rustin’s gaze takes me in, once, all the way up and all the way back down. His stare brings heat to my cheeks, but he doesn’t smile. It makes my stomach ripple with nerves.
I must look like a real asshole right now with this stupid dress and the jacket and the snow.
“Kara.” His voice is a grind of gravel and thunder. “You picked a hell of a night.” He gestures to the white out behind me.
“Hi.” I let out an awkward chuckle. Adrenaline brought me this far, but I don’t exactly have a script to follow here. “Long time. Weird day.” I lift the tattered skirt of my wedding dress. “So, what are you up to?” I bite the inside of my cheek.
One dark brow lifts. “Kara, I swear, only you would show up like this in a damn blizzard. Where did you come from?”
“I only meant to outrun a string quartet. But then, well, I…” I try for a laugh and get a choked little sound instead. “Can I—” I point vaguely at the warm room behind him. “Can I maybe not freeze to death in your doorway?”
He shakes his head. Then steps back without a word and gestures for me to come in. It’s not exactly the open arms I hoped for, but I take it.
Inside, pine and woodsmoke wrap around me.
The cabin looks exactly like a memory I’ve been trying not to touch.
But being back here hits me like a brick.
The massive oak beams, the stone fireplace, and the wooden hooks by the door take me back in time.
The battered iron skillet on the stove looks like it hasn’t moved in three years.
There’s a strand of warm white lights on the mantel and a lopsided wreath that looks the opposite of Pinterest-perfect. I’d call it more, aggressively homemade. I can imagine Rustin pulling it together on December first made from the branches of one of his fallen trees.
Or maybe there’s a chance someone made it for him. My throat tightens, not that it has any right to… It’s been three years. There is, of course, a chance someone else lives here. Any woman would be lucky to have him. Selfishly, I hate the thought.
There isn’t very much symmetry to this thing. No bow or ornaments either. No woman would make a wreath with no bow. It has to be his doing.
Rustin kicks the door closed behind me. The wind howls and claws, but the latch holds.
He doesn’t ask why I’m in a wedding dress. Instead he rakes a hand through his hair. “Boots.” He nods at my feet.
“Not wearing any.” I sit on the bench beside the door and lift my hem. My fancy satin shoes were almost abandoned somewhere near a snowbank and a curse word. But what’s left of them dangle from my frosted feet. “It turns out bridal shoes are more decorative than anything else.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard they aren’t known for their tactile agility.” His jaw works as he crouches beside me.
“I couldn’t feel them walking up here, but now they’re tingling and achy.”
His huge and gentle hands wrap around my calves to brush clinging snow away. Heat slams through me so hard I sway. He looks up at me from beneath his lashes and heat pools in his eyes. For a second neither of us moves.
Then without warning he stands. Rustin yanks a thick wool blanket off the back of the couch, and wraps it around my shoulders like he’s furious with the cold on my behalf.
His hands linger on my shoulders for just a second.
His thumbs brush where the blanket doesn't quite cover.
A droplet of melted snow trails down my neck, and his eyes follow it, darkening to that shade I remember too well.
"Rustin," I whisper.
His fingers tighten for just a second, and I feel the tremor run through him. Three years, and my body still remembers exactly how his hands feel.
"Dammit Kara." His voice is gravel and heat. "You can't—" He steps back abruptly, his hands falling away, leaving cold spots where his warmth had been. "You can't look at me like that. Not when you're wearing white for another man. Sit on the couch.” He nods at the hearth. “I’ll get the fire up.”
“Just so you know, I appreciate it,” I blurt, because the silence is too loud. “I ran without thinking and now I have nowhere else to go.”
His mouth tips, but it isn’t a smile. “That makes two of us.” He crouches and stacks kindling with ruthless efficiency. “Storm’s supposed to turn nasty after midnight. The roads are already going.”
“Yeah, I left Wilder’s truck in a snowbank at the bottom of your driveway.” I shiver despite the blanket. “Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your way before morning when it clears.”
A muscle jumps in his throat. “You won't be going anywhere tonight. This storm's supposed to blow through by morning, but the plows won't get up here until afternoon at the earliest. County's already issued warnings for overnight travel.”
“Oh, right.” My eyes land on the wreath. “Hopefully I’m not interrupting you and, well, anyone in your life.”
My phone buzzes insistently and it pulls his attention. Rustin makes his way to the snow soaked jacket slung onto the wooden hook. I’ve been ignoring the sound. But the echo of it vibrating against the wall makes it sound more frantic by the second.
Rustin tosses the phone to me. “You should probably answer that.” He doesn’t look at me. “Before they send search and rescue.”
I pull out the phone with numb fingers. There are an impressive forty-three missed calls and over a hundred texts. The most recent is from my mother.
Mom: If you don’t respond in ten minutes, I’m calling the state police.
“Shit.” I stand too fast, the blanket sliding off. “You weren’t too far off. I need to—”
“Yeah.” He stands too, moves toward the kitchen. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
Rustin leaves the room and I feel a ridiculous ache to ask him to stay with me. But I ignore it. I can’t lose sight of the fact that this man was here living his life the way I asked him to when I left him. He didn’t ask me to bring any of this to his doorstep. This chaos is all mine.
My hands shake as I type my response.
Me: I’m safe. I’m not coming back. I need time. Please tell everyone I’m sorry.
I hit send and the phone immediately rings. It’s Mom pushing her agenda like the boomer she is. I decline the call and follow up with another text like a proper millennial.
Me: I said I’m safe. I’ll call tomorrow. Please stop.
Mom isn't deterred. I wait out two more phone calls from her as well as a few from my Dad. I knew this wouldn’t be my favorite day, but I never could have guessed it’d be this awful.
In the time it takes me to implode what’s left of my relationship with my parents, I determine that Rustin absolutely lives here alone.
It’s the leather pillows and lack of wall art that really gives it away.
I count it as a win which I desperately need right now seeing as I’ve caused a public relations nightmare for my dad’s campaign team on top of everything else.
I lean back into the silence of Rustin’s cabin and it wraps around me like a blanket.
My father will do anything to win an election.
There’s no cost too steep. I thought I could comply.
But in the end, I didn’t have it in me. I won’t be slinging any apologies his way.
But while I’m on a roll of disappointing people, I decide to text Marshall.
Me: I’m sorry for the way I left today. You deserve better than someone who runs. You deserve someone who loves you completely. That’s not me. I never should have let it get this far.
Marshall’s response comes quickly and I hold my breath as I read it.
Marshall: I know. I think I’ve known for a while. Be safe, Kara. Be happy.
My chest hollows. I reread the message and the grace of it breaks something in me. So that’s it then. Marshall never loved me. Which is in this case a good thing but somehow still feels like a giant dumpster fire.
I sit in silence watching the embers crackle in the hearth. The gravity of the situation settles heavy on my shoulders. I’ve let so many people down.
Marshall and I may not have been in love…
But it was a partnership. He was going to finance Dad’s campaign.
I was going to be on his arm for the entire campaign trail.
Dad even toyed around with giving me the role of Chief Strategist in training.
He said it would hold me over until Marshall and I had kids.
Then I’d retire and show the world what a trad wife really looks like.
None of it was my dream. In fact, almost every part of it sounds like a nightmare. But at least it was a plan.
Now I have nothing but a deep sense of emptiness. I sink onto the couch. I scroll social media long enough to see Marshall’s post on Instagram. It’s just his hand without the ring with the caption, New Chapter. The comments have already exploded.
I turn off my phone and let it fall into the fur rug. Then I try not to sob as the whole world fractures into pieces that swirl around me.
That’s how Rustin finds me… Crying into my knees in a destroyed wedding dress.