19. Jensen
JENSEN
We’re quiet on the trail back from Rick’s cabin, which suits me fine.
I love talking to Sloane—could and have done it for hours—but the silence between us feels just as good. No need to add words when the crunch of pine needles under our boots and the last light of day casting shadows through the trees is a perfect accompaniment to the short hike.
We stayed longer than planned because Sloane was the ideal audience for Rick’s never-ending stream of stories from his life in the woods.
She charmed that seventy-year-old hermit like he was the most fascinating person she’d ever met.
The man lit up every time she laughed, and hell, I know the feeling.
The more time I spend with her, the worse it gets.
I’m down so bad there should be a support group.
Hi, my name is Jensen, and I’m still trying to convince myself that a once-in-a-lifetime, lightning-in-a-bottle connection is something I can walk away from at the end of a backcountry adventure I’m not supposed to be a part of in the first place.
Not one cell in my body is buying it.
She’s my person. I don’t know how else to explain it.
I didn’t realize my life had a Sloane-sized gap in it until she walked into that Nashville bar.
I wrote a hopelessly romantic song about finding her without truly understanding what it would mean if I did.
Now that I know, I can’t unknow it. Can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube or unhear the melody.
Pick your cliché, because they all apply, and none of them is a big enough emotional truth.
Rick had assumed we were a couple. Asked how long we’d been together, like we’re some kind of happily-ever-after postcard. I couldn’t bring myself to correct him, but Sloane had smiled and said we were just friends.
Just friends.
Sure. We’re just friends, the way whiskey is just brown water that burns on the way down.
Rick shared his own story over dinner. He met a girl right out of college when he got a job as an engineer in St. Louis, but city life never fit him. The mountains called, and she didn’t want to follow, so they parted ways. There was never anyone who took her place.
It sounded as if he’d made his peace with it a long time ago. “Lonesome doesn’t seem like much up this high,” he told us, gesturing toward the peaks turning purple in the fading light.
I understand that. For most of my life, I’ve felt the same way about music.
Nothing has been more important than playing, and doing it on my terms, without being part of the country music machine or chasing another hit in order to stay relevant.
Writing, producing, and backing up other artists has been more than enough.
Music was my first—and I believed only—love because I’d always have it.
Music wouldn’t leave.
My mom spent her whole life pining for men who took what she offered and gave nothing back.
I watched her heart break over and over.
She’d pick up the pieces and hand them to the next guy who didn’t deserve her.
Then she got sick, and Jamie and I were the ones at her bedside when she took her last breath.
But even at the end, she was asking about some asshole who’d promised to show up then hadn’t.
I made myself a promise that I’d never let myself want something so badly that losing it would hollow me out and leave me reaching for a bottle or a needle or whatever else could dull the ache.
So I devoted myself to the music, because it’s safe. My guitar won’t break my heart.
But Sloane is changing the rules I built my whole life around.
I don’t know how I’m going to walk away when this is over, but she hasn’t given me any reason to believe she wants me to stay.
There has been no discussion of what happens when we get back to real life.
No hint at a future that includes both of us in the same zip code.
But there’s no doubt the past few days have solidified her position as the most important part of my world.
The woman walking in front of me is braver than anyone I’ve ever known, and it would be a goddamned honor to be allowed into her heart. But I’m pretty sure she has no intention of giving me the keys to that particular castle.
We’re passing through a high alpine meadow, boulders scattered throughout the silver-green grass and bordered on all sides by pine trees, when she stops.
“Jensen.” Her voice is low, taut. “There’s a moose.”
I freeze behind her. Maybe forty yards ahead, a massive cow moose stands at the edge of the tree line with her head raised as she watches us with dark eyes. We saw one yesterday morning on a distant ridge, but this one is close enough that I can see her ears twitch.
“It’s okay,” I say, having no authority to make that statement. We didn’t have moose in the mountains around Whisper Falls. Black bears, yes. Coyotes and about a million trash pandas. But moose are something I know from Animal Planet. “We should probably—”
We both turn at a noise behind us.
A calf comes ambling out of the trees, all gangly legs and oversized head, moving right toward us like we’re not there.
“Shit,” I mutter. Now we’re between a mother moose and her baby, and even I know that’s very, very bad.
“Do we stay still?” I ask, trying not to sound as scared shitless as I feel. “Or maybe we should make ourselves look bigger? Wave and yell?”
I start to raise my arms, but Sloane grabs my wrist and pushes it down.
“No, that’s bears.” Her voice is calm in a way that makes me feel like an idiot. “With moose, you don’t want to seem threatening. We need to give them space and look non-confrontational.”
“I want no conflict.” I incline my head toward mama moose, who is moving in our direction. “How do we convince her of that?”
“There’s a boulder cluster to our left.” Sloane’s three steps ahead while I’m standing here with my pulse hammering in my ears like a kick drum. “If we head toward it slowly—don’t run—we can put space between us and the calf. Let mama get to her baby without feeling cut off.”
“You sure?”
She nods. “We have moose in Colorado, and I read up on this before the trip.”
Of course she did. Sloane knowing what to do, while I’m as useful as the guy who plays cowbell in the band, has been the pattern of our entire journey.
She had the tent, the first-aid kit, the moleskin and the antiseptic, not to mention the plan, while I showed up uninvited with brand new shoes and an inflated sense of my own competence.
She took care of me anyway, and now she’s saving my ass again.
“Follow me,” she says, and…duh.
I’d follow her off a cliff at this point, which is the kind of observation that confirms I’m so royally screwed, even without the moose.
As we inch toward the rocks, the mother tracks us with her ears pinned forward, but she doesn’t charge. The calf keeps wandering, oblivious to the tension crackling through the meadow.
“Don’t make eye contact.” Sloane squeezes my hand. “She could take that as a challenge.”
“I’m about to be trampled. There’s no challenge in that.”
“You’re not going to be trampled.” I’d enjoy the thread of amusement in her voice if my knees weren’t knocking. A real value-add in the moment. “Keep moving. You’re doing fine.”
We make it to the boulders and position ourselves so there’s solid rock between the moose and us. The mother snorts once, loud in the evening quiet, then ambles toward her calf. A few seconds later, they both disappear into the trees like they were never there at all.
As the adrenaline hits, my legs go rubbery, my hands shake, and there’s a buzzing in my ears like I just walked offstage after a three-hour set. Sloane leans against the boulder, the tension leaving her body in one long exhale.
“Well,” she says, nudging my arm, “that was exciting. We did good.”
I bark out a laugh that’s ninety-five percent relief. “I did nothing.”
“You stayed calm.”
“I stayed behind you.”
She flashes an ear-to-ear grin, then shrugs like it’s not a big deal. “We should get back before our next encounter is a grizzly.”
“Agreed.”
By the time we reach the cabin, dusk has settled into something closer to dark. I hold the door for her, then flip on the lantern and let the warm glow fill the small space.
She moves around the cabin like she belongs here, and the fact that this is temporary and in a few days—or maybe tomorrow—she’ll walk out of my life again causes the pressure that’s set up camp in my chest to expand until it’s hard to breathe around it.
Don’t do this right now.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She looks up from unlacing her boots. “For what?”
“For being useless back there, and honestly, for being dead weight this entire trip.” I run a hand through my hair, frustrated in ways I can’t fully articulate. “You’ve been handling all the important stuff while I’ve contributed nothing.”
She straightens, her blue eyes finding mine. “That’s not true.” A grin tugs at her mouth. “You make good coffee.”
I should not be standing here melting like butter in a warm pan because a woman tells me I’m adequate at a basic life skill. But my whole life, I’ve been the guy who handles things. Built my identity around being needed. And being given permission to not carry everything nearly guts me.
“I also like having you read to me,” she adds, and I’m pretty sure she’s blushing.
“Give more credit to our buddy Henry David than my recitation of his words,” I say, embarrassed by my own reaction.
“It’s you,” she insists, then bites down on her lower lip. “I’d like to hear you read… Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s something.”
She sighs as the smile she’s trying to hide breaks through anyway. “We’re reading a shifter romance for book club this month. I’d like to hear you read the sexy bits.”
Jesus.