Chapter 16
WILLOW
Itry calling my mom today.
It goes straight to voicemail, which both relieves and unsettles me.
I leave her a message anyway, keeping it light, careful. I remind her that I’m out of pocket for a bit, but that she can leave me a message now at a new number.
I give it to her slowly, clearly.
I had to switch free call-forwarding services just to get one that offers voicemail.
It feels ridiculous and necessary all at once.
Today was good.
Actually—good.
The mill is loud and chaotic and oddly thrilling.
Tim explains that this is the in-between season—prep season.
Mack calls it mud season, says it like a curse and a joke at the same time.
There are repairs happening everywhere. Equipment torn down and rebuilt. Tools laid out, checked, replaced.
March and April, I learn, are for spending money—fixing what winter broke and preparing for what summer demands.
The men are out clearing drainage ditches, repairing access roads, prepping landings so they can get heavy equipment in once logging starts up again in July and August.
Then fall comes, and it’s cutting and hauling and stacking logs for winter inventory.
It’s a cycle. A rhythm.
I probably butchered half of the explanation in my head, but the way the guys talk about it—the mountain, the seasons, the work—it sounds almost magical.
Like the land and the people are in conversation with each other.
And I hate that my time here is temporary.
Because the truth is—I like it here.
I’m enjoying myself. My job.
More than I expected to.
More than feels entirely safe, if I’m being honest.
Enjoyment used to come with conditions.
With consequences.
With the unspoken fear that it would be taken away if I got too comfortable.
But here?
Here, it just exists.
And yeah, the scenery indoors is just as appealing as the scenery outside. Which still makes me laugh a little.
Who knew Wranglers and flannel could be just as enticing as Armani and silk?
I shake my head at myself as I peel off my clothes and step into the shower, steam blooming around me.
It’s been a long day, the good kind—the kind that leaves my body tired but my mind clear.
I close my eyes and let the warm water hit my shoulders, washing away the last of the noise.
This cabin is tiny. Smaller than anywhere I’ve ever lived.
But when I really think about it, I’ve never truly lived alone before. I went from my childhood home to college dorms, to cramped apartments with roommates.
Then straight to Florida with Dan, carrying the weight of his expectations like they were mine.
It’s an old story. A tired one.
But I’m not trapped in it anymore.
I left.
I chose myself.
And now I’m here.
For the first time in my adult life, I’m standing on my own two feet—and it doesn’t feel nearly as terrifying as I thought it would.
In fact, it feels solid. Grounded.
I think about the things I tolerated.
The way I shrank to keep the peace.
His bad moods.
The constant badgering.
The demolition of my self-esteem.
The quiet erosion of my confidence until I started believing I deserved it.
Why did I stay so long?
The question doesn’t sting the way it used to.
Now it just feels distant.
Like I’m looking back at someone who didn’t know she had options yet.
I do now.
This place isn’t fancy.
It isn’t permanent—yes, that stings.
But it’s mine, for now.
And that’s enough.
I’m surviving.
And maybe—with a little more time—I’ll do more than that.
Maybe I’ll thrive.
The water turns colder, and I hurry to finish my shower.
Thatcher reminded me about the storm warning earlier.
I nodded when he said it. I heard him.
But storm warnings have been nonstop since I got here, so I didn’t give it much weight.
Famous last thoughts.
I’m just rinsing conditioner out of my hair, humming along to the soundtrack of an old Jim Henson movie I loved as a kid—the TV murmuring faintly from the other room—when I hear it.
A sound like a dull pop.
Then—nothing.
The lights cut out.