Chapter 2
The cabin was smaller than I expected. A squat little ranch tucked so far back into the trees it felt forgotten, as though it had slipped off the map on purpose.
There was no road noise or neighboring lights.
Just the quiet sense that no one knew it existed anymore—no one except the Airbnb owner and the handful of people who’d found their way here before us.
Dark wooden logs crossed over one another. The porch wrapped far enough around the front to suggest ambition without ever committing to it—like my ex.
Snow coated the railings, the steps, and the pines surrounding the cabin.
The trees grew too close here, branches bowing inward, needles sagging under the weight of fresh powder.
It was the kind of place people described as cozy or peaceful, words that sounded nice online but meant very little once you were standing there with no cell service and a sinking feeling in your stomach.
Noah killed the engine, and the sudden quiet pressed in hard. The car ticked as it cooled, metal contracting in irregular pops. Somewhere deeper in the trees, snow slid off a branch with a soft sigh.
“Well,” Maddie said, clapping her hands once. “We’re here, and everyone’s alive, so that’s a win.”
“Give it time,” Ricky muttered, already hauling his duffel from the back.
I stepped out of the SUV, and the cold bit straight through my jeans. Fresh snow crunched beneath my boots, my breath fogging the air in front of my face. It smelled clean in a way that felt almost aggressive, like it was daring me to breathe.
I stared at the cabin, trying to convince myself that the unease rolling through me had nothing to do with the stupid pen sitting in my tote bag.
It was just nerves. It was just Jake. Once I got inside, and there was warmth and noise and alcohol, I’d settle.
That’s what I told myself, even if I didn’t believe it.
“Where’d you find this place, Noah? AirRIP?” Ricky teased.
Noah laughed. “I made sure it had Wi-Fi but forgot to ask about evil spirits.”
The front door stuck. Noah jiggled the handle once, frowned, then shouldered it harder than necessary. The wood resisted before finally giving way with a low, reluctant groan.
Inside, the cabin opened directly into the living room and kitchen.
There was no buffer or hallway to ease you in—just a vaulted A-frame ceiling soaring overhead and a massive stone fireplace anchoring the far wall.
The stones were uneven and dark, stacked with the kind of care that suggested someone had done it by hand a long, long time ago.
It was functional, not decorative, like it had been built to endure something harsh and unyielding.
A cracked leather couch faced the fireplace, its cushions sagging in the middle. Two armchairs flanked it, already draped with thick blankets. The kitchen sat off to the side with a small island and mismatched stools. The cabin felt lived in, which somehow made me more uneasy.
“There’s only one bathroom,” Noah announced, already poking around cabinets like he was taking inventory. “Back end of the hallway. Be kind to it.”
“One bathroom?” Ricky echoed. “For five people?”
“It builds character,” Jake said.
I shot him a look. “I thought being told no did that?”
“Pretty sure everything does,” he said. “Breakups especially.”
“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to talk about it.” I squinted.
“I’m talking about breakups in general. Not—” He stopped. “You know what I mean.”
“Okay.” Noah clapped his hands once to change the subject. “Bedroom assignments. Maddie and I got the king. There’s a queen, and a room with a full bed and a pullout couch.”
“Dibs on the queen,” I said.
I expected Jake to argue. To remind me that, before everything, that had been our room. Instead, he pressed his lips together and gave a small nod. Something flickered across his face, surprise maybe, or disappointment. I couldn’t tell.
“I don’t do pullouts,” Ricky said.
“I’ll take the couch,” Jake offered, already lifting his bag again. He didn’t look around for a reaction. He just adjusted the strap on his shoulder and moved down the hall, making himself smaller in the space instead of larger.
I ignored the tightness in my chest, disappearing into my own room.
It felt colder than the rest of the cabin.
A queen-size bed was shoved against the far wall beneath a single window clouded with frost. The plaid comforter was pulled too tight and neat to be inviting.
A narrow dresser leaned slightly to one side, and a framed print of a frozen lake hung crooked above it.
On the opposite wall, an old mirror stared back at me, its glass cracked in places that suggested it should have shattered but somehow survived.
I set my bag down and unpacked methodically, like I could impose order on the space if I tried hard enough.
Clothes hung in the small closet on wire hangers.
Makeup lined up in neat rows. Toiletries arranged by size.
Undergarments in the middle drawer because it was the only one that didn’t stick when I pulled it open.
When I reached into my tote bag again, my fingers brushed the pen, and I froze.
I pulled it out and stared at it. The hockey-stick shape looked childish now. stay wild was chipped and uneven, the letters printed without much care. I turned it over in my palm. It was heavier than it had any right to be, as if it carried more than ink.
I set it on the dresser and tried to forget about it. I stood there longer than I meant to, watching it like it might move if I looked away. It didn’t.
From down the hall, laughter spilled out of the living room—beers hissing open, voices overlapping, the sound of people settling comfortably into a place that already felt uncomfortable to me. I waited a beat, hoping Maddie might come looking for me. When she didn’t, I went looking for her.
I found her in the main bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed with a sweater in her hands, folding and unfolding it like she couldn’t quite decide where it belonged.
I knocked lightly on the doorframe, startling her. She looked up and smiled.
“Hey,” she said. “How’s it going?”
“Good,” I lied.
She tilted her head, squinting. I stepped inside and eased the door shut behind me.
“I just hate being around him now.”
“Jake’s . . . processing,” she said, setting the sweater aside, half folded.
“Well, I’m not. It’s already been processed.”
Maddie frowned. “Was it really that bad?” she asked, hesitant. “I mean—you two were fine most of the time. Weren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Most of the time. And then the rest of the time chipped away at me.”
“I guess I didn’t notice,” she said, shrugging.
“You wouldn’t have. Not from the outside. He was great at that part.”
“At what?”
“At making it look like everything was fine. At making it seem like I was the difficult one whenever it wasn’t.”
She exhaled slowly. “I just . . . I don’t know. With Noah and me, it’s stupid stuff. Dirty clothes. Dishes. Hair in the sink. It never feels worth blowing everything up over.” She listed it out like a receipt, like proof.
“My issue wasn’t chores, Maddie. It was respect. It was him shrinking me because he was afraid to grow. Every time I wanted more, he treated it like a threat.”
She looked down at her hands, worrying at her nails. “I just don’t want this to ruin everything.”
“There it is,” I said quietly.
She looked up. “What?”
“The real problem,” I said. “Not whether it was bad. Not whether I’m okay. It’s that this makes things awkward.”
I understood it then. I wasn’t being misunderstood. I was being managed.
“We still have a semester left.”
“I know. I didn’t do this to make it harder on everyone. I did it because, for me, pretending was harder.”
She was quiet for a beat. “I don’t get why you did what you did.”
“I know,” I said.
“But,” she added, softer now, “I love you.”
It felt like pity dressed up as loyalty.
“I love you too.”
It was easier to give her comfort than to ask for it back.
From the other end of the house, Noah’s voice carried down the hall. “Ladies! Drinks!”
Back in the living room, the fire crackled loudly, throwing shadows that stretched too far across the walls. Maddie curled into Noah. Ricky sprawled with his boots toward the heat. Jake sat stiffly on the couch, rubbing his temple. I perched on the arm of the chair farthest from him.
“You okay, Jake?” Ricky asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just got a headache.”
“Hair of the dog.” Ricky tossed him a beer.
Jake caught it easily. “Between the breakup and the drive, I think I deserve something stronger than this.” He flashed a grin that lingered a beat too long, like it was meant for me.
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t tell if he wanted a reaction or if he just didn’t know how to stop reaching.
All I’d wanted was one last easy weekend. A clean ending. A few days with my friends before the start of our final semester, before we scattered for good. I’d told myself that was reasonable. That I wasn’t asking for too much.
Looking around the room now, I understood how wrong I’d been.
This wasn’t going to be fun. It was going to be a weekend of careful conversations and forced laughter.
A weekend of people insisting they weren’t taking sides while quietly rearranging themselves so no one had to choose.
A weekend where every glance lingered on me just long enough to suggest I was the variable that had changed.
I was the problem introduced into an otherwise functional equation.
They didn’t say it out loud, but I could feel it anyway—how the balance had tipped.
The breakup wasn’t something that had happened between Jake and me; it was something I had done to all of them.
I’d ruined the dynamic. I’d made things uncomfortable, and I’d broken something that hadn’t belonged solely to me in the first place.
I’d known this would happen. I just hadn’t expected it to happen so fast.
I drifted toward the window, a cold beer sweating in my hand, and took a long sip I couldn’t really taste.
Outside, snow fell steadily now, soft but relentless. The narrow road we’d driven in on faded beneath white, disappearing as if it had never existed at all. I pressed my palm to the cold glass, realizing that even if I wanted to leave, I couldn’t.