1. Mara
Mara
THREE MONTHS LATER
Iwill never get used to this view.
Snow drifts past the window in slow, lazy spirals, flakes so soft and fine they look like feathers against the predawn dark.
Sweet Creek Falls is still asleep beneath it, a hush over the rooftops, the streetlights glowing dimly through the storm.
I can see the outline of Hartwell Café's sign from my window, the lettering faint under a thin crust of frost.
Beyond it, the slope of the road disappears into white.
The town looks like something from an old postcard, the kind my mother used to keep in a tin box. "Greetings from Colorado!" they'd say in loopy script, a little piece of nostalgia mailed from strangers who believed in magic.
I sit up slowly, the throw slipping from my shoulders. My phone buzzes faintly against the coffee table, and I blink blearily at the screen. 5:52 a.m. Tess's last text still sits there, sent hours ago, unread until now.
Tess: Got home late. Don't wait up. We'll talk later, promise.
I must have fallen asleep waiting for her again. The couch cushion still bears the imprint of my body, and the old throw I pulled over myself smells faintly of coffee beans and detergent. The tiny apartment over the café creaks as the wind presses against the windows. It's barely six now.
I stretch, joints popping, and pad to the bathroom. The pipes groan awake as I twist the shower knob, steam curling through the air. I step under the spray and let the water hit my skin until my breath evens out.
The heat helps chase away the ghosts of old dreams—Jonathan's hand on my wrist, Mason's laugh echoing through the dark. I've learned not to let my mind linger there.
After the shower, I take my heat suppressants—two small white pills that dissolve bitterly on my tongue. They've become part of my morning ritual. I still don't like the way they make my body feel distant, muted, but it's better than the alternative. Better than being vulnerable again.
The mirror fogs, softening my reflection.
I wipe a hand across it, studying the face that looks back at me.
The shadows under my eyes have faded since I left Denver.
My cheeks are less hollow. My hair—chestnut brown, nearly black when wet—falls past my shoulders again, no longer brittle from stress.
I almost look like a person who's healing. Almost.
I pull on jeans, a thermal top, and the apron Margaret insists everyone wear while on shift—soft gray cotton with "Hartwell Café" stitched in faded red across the chest. The scent of baking bread drifts up through the floorboards, rich and comforting, and my stomach grumbles in response.
Downstairs, the café is warm and dimly lit, only one lamp glowing behind the counter. Margaret is exactly where I expect her to be—standing by the industrial coffee maker, tying her silver-streaked hair into a bun. She's been up since five, same as always.
"Morning, sweetheart," she says without turning. Her voice is soft but carries an energy that fills the whole room. "You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep," I admit, tugging the sleeves of my top down over my wrists. "And I figured you'd need help with the morning prep."
She smiles over her shoulder, eyes kind and full of something that always feels like home. "You know I'll never say no to that. Coffee?"
"Please."
She pours a mug and slides it toward me. The first sip burns my tongue, perfect and strong. Around us, the café hums quietly with the rhythm of routine—the clink of mugs being stacked, the low whir of the espresso grinder, the smell of cinnamon and sugar rising from the pastry oven.
Hartwell Café isn't big, but it's full of charm.
The walls are paneled with worn wood, the kind that gleams with years of polishing.
Old photographs hang between shelves of chipped mugs and jars of preserves.
Every table is a little different: one round, one square, one with mismatched chairs that somehow still belong together.
The front window has wide benches lined with faded plaid cushions, perfect for watching the snow fall.
It's the heart of Sweet Creek Falls. The gossip mill. The comfort stop. The place where everyone knows your order before you sit down.
I lean against the counter and watch Margaret knead dough for the morning batch of biscuits. Her movements are practiced, the same way she kneaded my shoulders when I was fifteen and trembling after the funeral.
Tess's parents, Margaret and Henry Hartwell, have been my family longer than anyone else.
When my parents died in a car accident, it was the Hartwells who took me in without hesitation.
No paperwork, no second thoughts. Margaret simply showed up at the hospital, wrapped me in her coat, and said, "You're coming home with us, honey. "
They didn't have much—just the café, the upstairs rooms, and Tess's laughter echoing through the halls—but it was enough.
They kept me busy, kept me fed, kept me from breaking.
When I was ready to leave for the Academy, they were the ones who helped me fill out the forms, scraped together the recommendation letters, and sent me off with a hug and a promise that Sweet Creek would always be here, waiting for me.
And when I came back three months ago, empty-handed and hollow-eyed, they didn't ask for explanations. Margaret just opened the door, pressed a mug of cocoa into my hands, and said, "You can stay as long as you need."
They know I'm hiding from something; they're too sharp not to see it. But they don't pry. Not yet.
I take another sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle in my chest. "Do you need me to start setting up the display case?"
"Go ahead," Margaret says, dusting flour from her hands. "The croissants should be done in a few minutes. Oh, and Henry's bringing in a new load of firewood for the café stove. The lodge ordered a shipment too, so he's roped one of the lumber guys into helping."
"Already?" I glance at the window. The snow's still coming down thick. "He's going to freeze."
"Don't you worry about Henry. That man's half mountain goat." She grins.
I laugh softly and move to the front. The big glass case sits beneath the counter, half-filled with yesterday's pastries. I wipe it clean, then start arranging new trays as the first light of morning begins to creep through the windows.
This hour—before sunrise, before the first tourists wander down from the ski lodge—is mine. The quiet hum of the heater, the faint creak of floorboards upstairs, the snow whispering against the glass. Sweet Creek Falls feels like it's breathing softly beside me, half-awake and dreaming.
By midmorning, the café will be crowded. Skiers flushed from the slopes, still in their jackets, laughing too loudly as they order hot chocolate. Locals bundled in scarves, gossiping about whose truck slid off the road last night. But right now, it's still and peaceful.
I lean on the counter, breathing in the scent of coffee and fresh bread, convincing myself that I'm fine. That I can live small, safe, and unnoticed. That no one will find me here.
Sometimes I almost believe it.
The memory of the bond contract still burns at the edges of my thoughts—the legal document Jonathan insisted I sign, binding me to them, sealing me into a life I never wanted. I shredded my copy before I left, but I still feel the phantom weight of it, a paper collar I can't take off.
The bell over the door jingles softly, breaking my reverie. I flinch before I can stop myself, a reflex I hate, my heart stuttering in my chest.
But it's not them. It's never them.
Henry steps inside, shaking snow from his hat. His beard is dusted white, and his cheeks are flushed from the cold.
"Morning, girls," he booms, voice echoing through the empty café. "Got a delivery for the stove. Thought we'd stock up before the real storm hits."
Behind him, a man follows, tall and broad-shouldered, a flannel jacket stretched tight across his chest. Snowflakes cling to his hair and the collar of his coat.
He carries himself with the easy strength of someone used to hard work, moving with the kind of quiet confidence that makes the air shift a little.
"Mara, this is Chris," Henry says, nodding toward him. "He's helping with the wood for the lodge."
Chris nods once in greeting, brushing a bit of snow off his sleeve. "Morning." His voice is deep, roughened by cold air and early hours.
"Morning," I echo, forcing a small smile. My pulse is still hammering.
Margaret comes bustling out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. "Chris, dear, set it by the back wall, will you? I'll make sure Henry doesn't throw his back out trying to help."
Henry chuckles. "Woman, I carried you up this hill during the blizzard of '98. Don't start doubting my strength now."
"Mm-hmm. And who bandaged your knee after you slipped?"
Their banter fills the room, warm and familiar. I watch them with a quiet ache of affection. They remind me of what love is supposed to look like—reliable, kind, built from decades of shared mornings.
Chris stacks the wood neatly by the stove, glancing around the café as he works. "Place smells amazing," he says finally. "Like cinnamon rolls and… home."
Margaret beams. "That's exactly what we aim for. Are you from around here?"
Henry nudges him with a grin. "He's from Maine. He's Nelson's nephew. And Chris, careful, Mara makes better coffee than you'll find up at the lodge. One cup and you'll be a regular."
Chris's gaze flicks toward me again. "I'll keep that in mind."
I duck my head, pretending to rearrange a tray of muffins. The heat that crawls up my neck feels irrational, unwanted. I came here to disappear, not to get flustered by strangers with kind eyes and rough hands.
I know this is just my body's natural reaction. I mean, I went from regular sex with them to months without anyone laying a finger on me.
I'm simply touch-starved… and I am so done with men anyway.
All men.