Chapter 8
The cabin smells incredible. I walk out of the bathroom Stevie and I share with wet hair, dressed in jeans and a worn-out navy University of Utah hoodie, I find her in the kitchen making breakfast. She wasn’t there when I slipped in and out for my run this morning, but she’s somehow made enough food during the length of my shower to feed an army.
Crispy bacon stacked high on a paper towel lined plate.
Eggs frying in a skillet on the stove. Gravy bubbling beside it. Homemade biscuits going into the oven.
She hasn’t noticed me come out yet. Her hair is tied back in a loose braid, strands of thick, dark hair falling out of it and slipping over the curve of her long neck.
She’s also weaning jeans, but instead of a hoodie, she’s got on a long-sleeved striped tee and a fleece vest. Her feet are bare, toes painted a dark brown.
“Morning,” I say, and she startles, spinning on her heel to face me, a Waffle House coffee mug in hand.
“God, you scared me.” More hair slips from her braid. “You’re too quiet.”
“You should tell my twin that,” I say, lowering myself into a barstool.
“He’s always said I’m too loud in the morning.
” Evan is not a morning person. When we used to work at the local ranch in high school, I’d have to drag him out of bed.
He wouldn’t even speak to me until we were turning down the dirt drive, his coffee finally drained. Then he wouldn’t shut up.
“I didn’t wake you this morning when I got up to run, did I?”
She shakes her head then takes a sip of coffee. “No, I didn’t even know you were up until I heard the shower going. Did I wake you up when I went running?”
I arch a brow. “You went running?”
She tips her head to either side. “More like half-jogging, half-walking. The first time I’ve gone since the concussion. But I go most mornings. I used to hike a lot in the mornings, but I just haven’t had time lately, so I started running instead.”
“No, you didn’t wake me.” I take in her face.
She never wears much makeup, and this morning is no exception.
Dark lashes, a smattering of freckles against her tan cheeks, glossy lips.
If I had to guess, I’d say it’s something practical, like chapstick instead of actual gloss.
“We must have just missed each other this morning.”
She grins, then hooks a thumb over her shoulder at the food. “Must have. I made breakfast as a thank you for helping me with the Airstream today.”
“Not necessary,” I say. “But thank you.”
I push from my chair and circle the island.
“It’s just the usual,” she tells me, pointing out the items on the stove and counter. “Eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy.” When she looks back at me, my eyes are wide. “What?”
A soft laugh rumbles out of me. “Nothing, this is just very much not the usual for me.”
“More of a cereal kind of guy?”
I shake my head. “Way too intensive. Poptarts. Protein shakes. Yogurt. Fruit, if I’m feeling fancy.”
A smile tilts her lips. “That’s pitiful, Jonathan.”
“So close,” I say with a fake sigh.
“The biscuits will be done in a few minutes. Go ahead and make your coffee. I notice that’s the one thing you actually take your time on.”
I nod sagely. Unlike Evan, I may be able to function without coffee, but like him, it’s still essential to my wellbeing.
We move through the kitchen in a silence that has come to feel companionable, although I’m not sure when it happened.
We really haven’t talked all that much the last week, besides the last few evenings when I get home from a shift, and even then, it’s mostly been us asking if the other is using the washer or coordinating shower schedules.
We haven’t eaten dinner together on the couch again or watched sitcoms in the dark.
Still, there’s something easy about existing with her.
Easier than sharing a room with Evan, who is a bit of a slob, or any of my college roommates, who were all friendly enough, but never became close enough to live with for a second year.
When the biscuits have turned golden brown and the entire kitchen smells yeasty and buttery, we scarf down breakfast, somehow managing to finish every last bit, and head out the door.
The morning is brisk as we load into Stevie’s truck and drive down the mountain, windows cracked to let in the thick smell of pine in the air.
“So tell me about this Airstream,” I say. “Was it a van-life type thing?”
Her eyes skate to mine before returning to the road, wind whipping the hair from her freshly redone braid. She seems to weigh her words. “No, I guess I just like minimalism.”
“Fair enough. So you’ve never taken it anywhere?”
“No, I haven’t.”
The words feel loaded in a way I’m not sure how to interpret, so I drop the conversation and instead focus my attention out the window.
The cabin is up a winding mountain road but when you get down it, you’re basically in the middle of town.
Fontana Ridge has already started decorating for the fall, with bales of hay stacked in front of storefronts and pumpkins stuffed into every street corner.
When I stopped at the coffee shop, Smokey the Beans, before work yesterday, the handwritten fall menu proudly announced pumpkin spice lattes and hot apple cider.
The storms last week scattered the first of the leaves from the trees and left the ground littered with them.
It’s that time of year when everyone has to wear jackets in the morning and shrug them off by the afternoon, only to pull them back on when the sun sets.
And right now, everyone we pass is dressed in flannel or denim, wind tugging at their hair.
It’s the best kind of day.
“How are you liking Fontana Ridge?” Stevie asks, pulling me from my observations.
“I love it,” I tell her truthfully. I’ve been all over the country for work the last ten years, and only a few places have left a lasting impression on me, but I can tell Fontana Ridge will be one of them. It’s the kind of town in movies, the ones that never seem real.
When I tear my eyes from a man stooping to pet a golden retriever on the sidewalk, I catch Stevie’s expression as we stop at a red light. It’s unreadable. “Do you like it?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, and the light turns green. We’re moving forward again by the time she says, “Yeah, I do. It’s home, you know?”
I murmur in agreement, but I don’t really know what she’s talking about. I’ve been avoiding my home for over a decade.
Stevie turns on the radio, and eighties rock softly fills the cab, ending our conversation, but I don't mind. Silence is my default, and I’m grateful it seems to be hers too.
The downtown starts to fade from storefronts to homes settled behind white picket fences to longer and longer stretches of trees until we finally take a turn onto a dirt road that is still a little muddy from all the rain last week.
Trees crop up all around us, standing tall and dense against the bright blue of the sky.
The road is a wilder version of the one to the cabin, spiraling up and up, although no other houses litter the way, until we finally come to the end of it, stopping in a cleared cropping.
In the middle of it is a shining silver Airstream, mirroring all the nature around it.
Outside is a picnic table, with Edison bulb lights strung from the Airstream to poles on either side of it.
It’s painted cherry red, and the seats look like they are wrapped in a matching gingham plastic fabric.
Behind it are miles of pines, rolling with the hills.
A bird calls in the distance. Leaves tumble from the trees.
It’s scenic. Serene. And I’m starting to realize why Stevie never took it anywhere else.
“Wow,” I breathe.
Stevie glances over at me, unbuckling her seat belt. “What?”
“It’s just…” my voice trails off, lost for words. “Beautiful.”
She assesses me for a long moment, then returns her attention to her home, and I wonder if she’s trying to see it through my eyes. “Thank you.”
She sounds genuine, but there’s something beneath her voice I can’t quite put my finger on.
“So where’s the hole?”
“On the back side. C’mon, I’ll show you.”
We hop out of the truck and I follow Stevie around the back of the Airstream, finally noticing what I hadn’t before—the snapped tree branches and the Edison bulbs that must have shattered in the storm.
The ground squelches with mud, more wet in places where the foliage above is thicker, blocking the sun.
When we arrive at the backside of the Airstream, Stevie motions to a spot near the top covered in tarp, the area around it dented and scratched.
Beside the Airstream on the ground, is a large, heavy-looking gnarled tree branch.
I stare at it for a long moment, my mind cataloging all the ways the incident could have been much worse, and relief punches through me.
“That’s the culprit,” Stevie says, interrupting my thought. She lightly kicks at the branch, heaving out a sigh. “The shitty part is, I thought about cutting that tree down a year ago. It’s dying, and I knew it was probably too close to the Airstream.”
My eyes skate to hers. “Why didn’t you?”
“Got busy,” she says with a shrug, but I can tell she doesn’t feel as nonchalant about it as she looks.
In the grand scheme of things, I hardly know Stevie at all, but I don’t like the way grief has seemed to wash over her since her tires rolled up the last bit of the drive, the Airstream coming into view amongst the trees, the sun glinting on its aluminum.
“Show me around?” I ask.
Stevie’s gaze lifts to mine, holding for a brief second before she nods. “Come on.”
She leads the way back around the Airstream and opens the front door, boots clomping on the stairs, me on her heels.
The inside is small, and it smells like wet earth, but I immediately like it, despite the damage.
The light green walls, the warm wooden floors.
There are books everywhere, crammed into every available space, and little terracotta plants lining the window sill.
The side closest to the door seems to be the only portion that was damaged, but to my left, the kitchen stretches out like a hallway, leading to the bedroom in the back.
There’s a well-loved knife block on the kitchen counter.
Magnets on the stainless steel fridge. A neat stack of mail on the table.
It’s homey, lived-in in a way that no place I’ve rented the last ten years has looked. It’s a home.
When I look back at Stevie, she’s standing close. There’s not really another option, considering the damage to our right, but her nearness still shocks me a little.
“This,” she says, motioning around, “is it. Living room, or what used to be.” She gives me a self-depreciating smile. “Kitchen is to your left. Dining table and bathroom are just past it, and the bedroom is at the back.”
“I like it.” I run a hand along the butcherlock kitchen counter.
It’s nicked in places, and I can imagine her here, knife in hand, hair tied in a braid, chopping vegetables for some elaborate meal she’s going to cook.
I wonder how often she cooks for other people, if she ever hosts here. “It fits you.”
She lifts an eyebrow in question.
“Of what I know about you, anyway.”
Bracing her hands on the little desk behind her, she leans back on it, kicking one leg over the other. The vest she’s wearing unzipped over her shirt slips off one shoulder, snagging in the middle of her arm. “What do you know about me?”
In the light shining through the windows, her hazel eyes look less muddy, and more clear. There’s a starburst in the center. They’re the color the leaves turn when they land on the ground in the summer, turning from green to brown under the warmth of the sun.
“You like to cook,” I say. “Your kitchen shows it, even if it’s small. Those knives in the knife block look very fancy, and your countertops are full of knicks. The recipe books on the shelves in the kitchen look well-used.”
“Observant.”
“You like nature. Being outside. I liked all the little areas out there. The picnic table. The firepit out back. The garden. What do you grow?”
She looks surprised that I noticed all of those things, but she doesn't comment on it. Her eyes fix on the skylight above. “I used to grow mostly fruits and vegetables. A few flowers my friend Finley told me were easy to take care of. But I didn’t plant anything this year or last year.”
When her gaze settles back on mine, I ask, “Why?”
The shoulder that her vest is hanging from lifts in a small shrug. “Too busy.”
“Sounds like you’ve been really busy lately. Too busy for the tree. The garden. What else?”
She blinks at me, quiet for a long moment. “A lot of things, probably. Book club. Hobbies. Spending time with friends.”
“Why?”
A heavy breath fills her lungs before she lets it out. “Responsibilities.”
“What kind of responsibilities?” I’m not sure why I’m pressing, but something about Stevie makes me want to know her more. She’s as guarded as I am, I think.
She holds my gaze for two heartbeats, three. Then shakes her head, pushing off the desk. “Like fixing up this Airstream. You ready to get started?”
The door swings open beneath her hand, her shoulder brushing my front as she steps out into the yard, the wind lifting the pieces of hair that have already escaped her braid. When she turns back to me, I’m still standing in the doorway, watching her.
“Coming? All my tools are in the shed out back.”
I dip my chin in a nod, shaking myself out of whatever trance I’d fallen into. “Yeah, let’s get to work.”