Chapter 1 Wrenley #2
Thirty minutes later, we’ve loaded up with coffee, and we’ve acquired the only vaguely edible food items I trust from Starbucks before finally hitting the road.
I take a sip of the iced coffee I got and immediately shiver. Oof. Bad choice. I set it in the cup holder. Knowing that cold coffee is almost unbearable makes me sad.
She shrugs. I drink it year-round.
I look at my friend with a brow raised. You are a fascinating creature, I say as I turn on my seat heater.
At first, the drive is quiet as I watch the highway carve through endless forest and towering mountains.
It’s not that British Columbia lacks beauty.
I grew up surrounded by ocean and mountains and enough towering evergreens to make most people feel outdoorsy by association alone.
Alaska feels less curated, though. The mountains don’t look scenic so much as imposing.
Entire stretches of land pass without a single sign of life beyond trees, flowers, and water.
It’s beautiful in a way that almost feels intimidating.
After about an hour, Remi asks if I’ve listened to the latest episodes of our favourite true crime podcast. I haven’t.
And as the two chaotic hosts come through Remi’s speakers, I feel back in touch with our friendship.
We debate over the suspect list, laugh at the incompetent police investigation, and make deductions like we’re somehow qualified to solve the case.
Another hour later, and the episode is over.
So, Remi says slowly. You still good with living with Ruger?
This is something I’ve been back and forth on.
Sometimes my answer is yes.
Sometimes it’s absolutely not.
And the closer we get to Alpine Harbor, the more I want to say no while simultaneously realizing I’m too deep into this to back out now.
We talked through different versions of me moving here, but according to Remi, Alpine Harbor is too small for people not to notice things.
Apparently, the town collectively treats gossip like it’s an Olympic sport.
As much as we’re trying to keep this between us, we’re both pretty sure it’s only a matter of time before the entire town finds out.
And while we technically could’ve claimed I was living with her until the wedding for traditional reasons, the story falls apart pretty quickly, considering the town already knows neither Seale twin is particularly traditional.
Plus, Remi’s house isn’t exactly ideal for hiding my living there if an immigration official decided to check in on me, which, apparently, they can do whenever they want.
After spending her twenties and almost half of her thirties surviving on tips, ramen, and living in a basement suite that probably should be condemned while trying to make her writing career happen, Remi’s book deal bought her a modest two-bedroom place overlooking the water.
Perfect for one chronically overcaffeinated romance author who forgets to grocery shop whenever she’s on deadline.
Less perfect for two women trying to convince immigration officials this whole thing isn’t a sham so they can be roommates.
It’s also just delaying the inevitable. Eventually, I’d have to move in with Ruger anyway.
And finally, since our evidence proving this relationship already feels flimsy, having Ruger’s address attached to my visa paperwork at least helps reinforce the illusion that we’re a normal engaged couple planning an actual future together.
I have to be, don’t I? I say finally.
No, Remi says. You’re allowed to not be okay.
I look at her. I will be. I’m just nervous.
Well, yeah, Remi says. A lot’s riding on this. It’s basically your entire future.
Our future, I correct.
That makes her smile.
Exactly, she says. Just think. In a few years, we’ll be living in some fabulous city, drinking overpriced wine, while you design clothes for runway shows or Broadway, and I write toe-curling smut about sexy mountain men.
There was a brief period where we considered just moving to a city and getting married ourselves.
But financially, we didn’t know if it would be possible.
The more we talked about it, the more nervous Remi got.
Her books are doing well now, but writing isn’t exactly known for being a stable career, and I can’t contribute financially until I get my adjustment of status.
She’s worked hard to get to the level of stability she’s at now and wasn’t ready to take the leap to a city right away in case something changed.
And I get that. Fashion isn’t a lucrative industry either.
When things are stable, it can be hard to leave that.
So we agreed that Alpine Harbor would be a stepping stone, and then we’d go from there.
I laugh. Or maybe I’ll be making period costumes for movies.
See? she says. That’s the spirit.
Honestly, any of those options would be incredible.
The excitement hangs between us for a moment, warm and hopeful. But underneath sits the reality that this is the beginning of a long uphill climb. And hopefully, we make it to the top unscathed.
The road narrows as we come down the hills, trees parting to reveal flashes of silver-blue water to our right.
The ocean stretches beside us like glass, reflecting the pale fall sunlight and the jagged mountains rising in the distance.
To the left, the land slopes upward in layers of scattered houses.
Some are newer, with oversized windows and dark trim, while others look weathered by decades of salt air and harsh winters.
It’s quiet.
And if there’s one thing I remember about this small town, it’s that there’s no obvious sign you’ve arrived, like a skyline or cluster of buildings, to announce civilization. Just houses spaced nicely apart with personalized mailboxes.
We’re almost there, Remi says as she turns left onto a street lined with A-frame houses. Ruger lives at the end of this street.
The houses are close together, but not Vancouver close. People still have space here, with big yards and bigger trees.
A minute later, Remi pulls over in front of a maple picket fence.
The front yard is huge, with trimmed grass and a scattering of trees offering a little privacy from the road.
The house itself is a modest two-storey, with faded grey siding and a low roofline.
A covered porch stretches across the front, with three steps leading up to a navy blue door.
On the right side of the door is a neatly stacked pile of wood beneath a heavy timber frame, while an axe sits buried in a stump in the middle of the yard like some deeply threatening lawn ornament.
Home sweet home, Remi says with a bright smile.
Yeah, I say nervously.
Right then, a cellphone starts vibrating. Remi grabs hers from the centre console and groans.
It’s my editor, she says, flashing me the caller ID. You go ahead. I’ll catch up.
I can wait.
Ruger’s probably already seen us. Not to mention half the street, she says as she answers the phone. You should be jumping out of my truck, thrilled to see your fiancé. Go.
I sigh and slowly open the door. The air feels crisp as I step onto the sidewalk and push open the gate leading into Ruger’s yard.
As I look around, my eyes catch on a small, weathered wooden structure attached to one of the trees near the fence line.
It looks vaguely homemade. Rustic in that rugged-Alaskan-man way where everything appears to have been built using leftover lumber.
Must be some kind of birdhouse, I say quietly to myself. The whole thing is weirdly painted black, and instead of a circular opening like a normal birdhouse, there’s only a thin gap along the bottom.
That’s odd.
Curious, I wander closer.
Hey, little birdies, I whisper, peeking toward the opening. Just wanna see what you’re—
Something black and furious explodes out of the box with a shriek.
I scream so loudly I genuinely hear my voice echo off the mountains. I stumble backward, nearly tripping over my own feet as another black blur launches itself out after the first and wings flap wildly around my head.
Oh my God! I shriek, throwing my arms over my face. I’m going to die!