Chapter 34
Thanksgiving feast with the entire extended family is loud and chaotic in the best kind of way.
My cousins come in from Nashville and we all spend the day cooking at the farmhouse, listening to music and telling stories about childhood.
Uncle Silas and my dad deep fry a turkey, shuffling through the first snow of the season.
I hold my cousin Hazel’s new baby and let my cousin Cam’s daughter show me how she recently learned to braid hair.
It’s the kind of day that makes me feel lucky to have grown up here in this town with these people.
Hazel and I stay up late talking at her parent’s house after her husband, Alex, puts their son to bed, but when her eyes start drooping, I decide to call it a night. I think about going back to my parents’ house and crawling in my childhood bed, but decide to make the drive home.
My phone rings as I let myself back into the Airstream, and my heart picks up its pace in my chest when I see Jack’s face on the screen, a photo I shot of him at the Harvest Festival, powdered sugar from my funnel cake coating his face.
I slide open the call, closing the door behind me, shutting out the cold. “Hey.”
“Happy Thanksgiving.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes me ache a little, the pain of missing him that I’ve been trying to ignore all day finally catching up with me.
It would have felt good to have him there today with all my family.
I know he would have gotten along with Cam, and that Hazel would have made him laugh.
He would have fit there, I think, the way he seamlessly slotted himself into my life.
My back hits the door, resting against it, the chill seeping through my jacket and sweater. “Happy Thanksgiving. How was the trip? How is it being home?”
I’ve thought about texting or calling, but I figured he wanted some time with his family and to adjust to being back in Montana, working through all the feelings that come with it. I know it was the right choice, but now that I’ve heard his voice, I’m greedy for it.
There’s rustling on the other end, and I wonder if he’s in bed, turning over. I look at the clock on my stove, the red letters reading 2:03, meaning it’s just after midnight there.
“The trip was good,” he says. “Long, but I don’t mind that. Things here…” he trails off for a minute, and I think I can hear my heart beating in my chest as I wait for him to continue. “They’ve been really good.”
A relieved sigh rushes out of me, and my pulse returns to its normal rate. I don’t realize I’m clutching the collar of my sweater, hand pressed to my chest. “I’m really, really glad, Jack.”
“I should have come back sooner. I thought it would be harder, being here without her, like it was way back then. And it is,” he says.
“But it’s not like I thought it would be.
It feels like she should be here with us, but it doesn’t feel like there’s this ghost either, I guess. Does that make sense?”
I move through the Airstream, turning on a lamp and settling onto the sofa. My fingers trail against the soft fabric, new since the renovation. “Yeah, that makes total sense. How are things with your brother?”
“Evan is the kind of person you can go months and years without seeing, and then when you’re with him again, it’s like no time has passed. But I don’t want to go this long without seeing him again. Or Kate or Clara. I’ve missed them.”
He pauses, but I get the feeling he’s not done talking yet, so I stay quiet, listening to the sound of his breathing on the other end as I pick at a loose thread on the hem of my jeans.
“I’m thinking about staying for a while, not signing another contract right now. I need to talk to Evan about it, see if I can stay here for a couple more days until I can find somewhere to rent.”
“Wow,” I breathe. “How long do you think you’ll stay?”
He sighs, and I hear the rustling again. “A few weeks, maybe. I was thinking about hanging around until after Christmas. I think it would be fun to see Clara open her presents.”
A smile coasts over my face as I imagine him watching his niece Christmas morning, staying up late to finish wrapping presents and eat Santa’s cookies Christmas Eve night.
It’s the kind of thing I always imagined myself doing one day, in an ambiguous sort of way.
I never gave much thought to a husband or kids, but I always assumed they’d be in my future, that I’d get to create the kind of magic my parents always made for me on holidays.
Pancakes with whipped cream beards and blueberry eyes.
Tinsel hanging from the trees and stockings over the fireplace.
Watching movies in our pajamas and taking homemade cookies to the hospital staff that had to work the holiday.
“I think you should,” I tell him. “Did your brother keep any of the traditions you had growing up?”
“Yeah, he and Kate take Clara to ride sleds down this one big hill in town, just like Mom always did. And they make meatloaf, but they don’t use Mom’s recipe because she was a terrible cook,” he says with a laugh that I can feel down deep in my chest. “I think that’s where I get it from.”
“You’re learning,” I say.
“You’re a good teacher.”
I can imagine him back in my kitchen so clearly it’s as if he’s really there.
His broad shoulders bumping into mine anytime we turned sideways, his bumbling hands as he tried to chop vegetables.
His wine-stained lips and his Fontana Lake eyes.
The ache of missing him grows stronger, cutting off my breath.
I want to tell him I miss him. I want to tell him I wish he was here, but he’s exactly where he needs to be after years of running away from it. So I don’t tell him, and I press my nails into the sensitive skin at my wrist to keep the words from tumbling out.
“How was your Thanksgiving?” he asks a moment later.
I have to clear the tightness in my throat before answering. “It was good. Dad and UncleSilas deep fried a turkey. Grandma was having a really good day, and my cousins were in town from Nashville. It was good to see them. I wish they were closer so we could see each other more.”
“You could always go visit,” he says, voice gentle.
“Yeah, I could.”
They’ve invited me dozens of times, but every time we planned a trip, something would come up—Dad would be hurt and they would need help on the farm, or one of the guides would call out so I would pick up their trip, or Grandma would be having a rough day and Mom would have a doctor’s appointment and not feel comfortable leaving her alone.
There’s always been a million reasons I’ve stayed in Fontana Ridge, but there’s never been one good enough to make me leave.
“If you could go anywhere in the U.S.,” he starts, “where would you go?”
I don’t really have to think about it. I have a list on my phone of all the places I’d like to go, the things I want to see.
It started in high school and has grown ever since—landmarks and small towns, cities and natural phenomena.
“Alaska, probably. I’d like to see Denali and the Northern Lights.
Or somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. There are so many National Parks, and I’ve never seen the Pacific.
We used to take trips to the Outer Banks every couple of years growing up, so I’ve been to the beach, but I’d like to see what it looks like there, you know? ” I pause. “Is that boring?”
“No, not at all. Oregon is one of my favorite places. It’s rugged and wild, and I honestly love the gloomy weather. All the rain.”
I sigh and lean back into my couch cushions. “I think I’d like it too.”
“It feels like you,” he says.
“What do I feel like?” I ask before I can think better of it. The words hang in the air, and I would snatch them back if I was able. It feels too raw, exposing myself like this.
“Soft,” he answers immediately, and it surprises me.
“Soft?”
“You’ve got a hard exterior,” he says, and there’s a rough quality to his voice. “But on the inside, you’re soft.”
“I don’t think many people see that side of me.”
“Well, then I consider myself lucky.”
His words fill something deep inside of me, and it feels better than being needed, than being the person people can always rely on.
Jack makes me feel seen and known in a way I’m not sure anyone else has.
It gives me the stomach-dropping sensation of standing on the edge of a cliff and looking down, knowing how easy it would be to fall.
I fear I already have.
“Jack, I—”
There’s a noise on the other end, voices, and then it’s muffled, like Jack has placed a hand over the speaker. I hear him say something, but I can’t make it out.
And then he’s back saying, “Hey, I’ve got to go. Evan wants me to come watch a movie with him. It’s ninety-percent likely to be stupid.”
He says it like he’s exasperated, but I can hear the fondness in his voice.
It makes something inside me split open, an aching, tender sort of happiness for him.
There was a hollowness to him when he first arrived in Fontana Ridge, like he was being haunted.
The look slowly faded as the leaves turned red and orange and yellow, dying as they did too.
I wish I could see him now, see if there’s a new sparkle behind his eyes, a light that dimmed years ago finally brightening again like the first long day after winter.
“Stevie?” Jack asks, and I realize I haven’t responded.
“Yeah, sorry. Have fun.”
“I’ll call you later, okay? I want to hear more about this deep-fried turkey.”
“The concept is vile, but it was actually pretty good,” I tell him.
His laughter feels like warming my hands over a bonfire. “I want all the details. Goodnight, Stevie.”
“Goodbye, Jack.”