6. Rosalyn
ROSALYN
This mountain is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.
I thought it the moment I stepped off the truck and breathed air that smelled of pine trees and cold water.
I thought it again while Barrett showed me every room of his cabin with unassuming pride, pointing out things he’d built with his own hands as if they weren’t extraordinary.
I think it now as I follow him up a winding trail, my shoes crunching over pine needles while sunlight filters through the trees.
I understand now. I understand why he stayed. I understand why he never wanted another life. I understand why he looked so out of place in Hawaii.
Most of all, I understand that I made the right decision when I got on that plane.
The trail steepens, and I groan-laugh under my breath as I grab the walking stick Barrett cut for me.
“You doing okay?” he asks over his shoulder.
“I’m doing great.”
“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”
“No.”
He glances over his shoulder with one of those irresistible, hard-won smiles of his. “I figured.”
He slows until we’re walking side by side.
He’s carrying a backpack with water, snacks, and a first-aid kit because, in Barrett’s words, you prepare for things before they become problems. I teased him about it.
He responded by adding an extra jacket for me because the overlook sits higher than the cabin.
Being taken care of by him has become dangerously easy to accept.
“You’ve got a little climb left,” he says. “Then it levels out.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know you can.”
There’s no empty encouragement in his voice. He says it because he means it, and that makes me straighten my shoulders and tackle the next stretch with fresh determination.
When I finally reach the top, I stop walking.
“Oh.”
The word slips out without thought. The mountain rolls away in every direction, endless layers of green fading into distant blue.
A river catches the sunlight far below. Snow still clings to the highest peaks even though the valley is warm, and the breeze carries the scent of trees through the open air.
“It’s...”
I don’t finish.
I don’t have the vocabulary for this.
Barrett stands beside me without saying anything. He doesn’t interrupt the silence or point out landmarks. He simply waits while I take it all in.
“I wish I could wake up to this every day.” The words leave my mouth before I realize I’ve spoken them.
The silence beside me changes.
I turn toward him. Barrett isn’t looking at the view anymore. He’s looking at me. Something in his expression makes my stomach tighten.
“What?” I ask.
He lets out a slow breath. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say something.”
My heart starts beating faster.
“Rosalyn...I know you came here thinking this was a visit.”
I don’t answer.
“I know you wanted an adventure.” His voice is steady, but I can hear the effort underneath it. “But that’s not what this is to me.”
My throat goes dry.
“I want you with me next month. Next year. Ten years from now.” His eyes never leave mine. “I want forever.”
The mountain suddenly feels very quiet. I stare at him, my thoughts exploding in every direction at once.
Forever. Did he really just say forever?
“Barrett…you’ve known me for less than a week.”
“I know.”
“And you still feel this sure?”
“Yes.”
Emotion presses against my ribs so hard it almost hurts. Part of me wants to tell him he’s moving too fast. Another part of me knows I’ve never doubted the sincerity of a single thing he’s said.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He lifts my hand and brushes his lips across my knuckles. “I just needed you to know.”
Three more days pass and we don’t talk about it, but it’s there in everything.
It’s there when I wake up and he’s already made coffee.
It’s there when he spends an entire afternoon restringing a fence line on the edge of the property and I bring him water and hand him tools.
It’s there on the day we take the creek trail down to the rope swing, and I go out over the water three times before I let go, and Barrett stands on the bank with his arms crossed and something quiet and satisfied in his face.
Every day pulls me a little further from the argument I’ve been having with myself.
My friends are back home, my job, my routine, my plans that haven’t finished forming yet. I have a life I built and it’s a good life, and feeling something enormous for a man I barely know doesn’t make any sense.
The problem is that every day I spend here makes a little less sense of the life I left behind.
On my fifth morning on the mountain, I wake before sunrise and reach across the bed without opening my eyes.
My hand finds nothing but cool sheets. The empty space beside me shouldn’t matter.
Barrett is probably outside splitting wood or checking the fence line or making coffee.
He’s an early riser. I’ve known that since the first morning I spent here.
But the quiet beside me strips away the last of the noise in my head.
I open my eyes and stare at the place where he should be. Somewhere over the past few days, waking up beside him has stopped feeling new. It just feels…normal. The realization steals my breath.
I don’t just want this trip.
I want this life.
I want to wake up beside him tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, and ten years from now. I want evenings on the porch, hikes to the creek, and the comfort of knowing exactly where home is every time I open my eyes.
I want to share the rest of my life with him.
The realization arrives without fanfare. It simply settles into place, as solid and immovable as the mountain itself. Every apartment, every job, every road trip, every plan that changed halfway through, all of it suddenly feels less like wandering and more like a path that led me here.
I throw on one of his sweatshirts and step into the hallway, calling his name. The bathroom is empty. The kitchen is empty. I check the porch, then circle the cabin, my pulse climbing faster with every second I don’t find him.
I hurry around the side of the house and glance toward the woodshed. Empty. The workshop door stands open, but there’s no sign of him there either. I step out further into the yard, the cool morning air brushing against my bare legs as I scan the tree line.
“Barrett?” I call.
Only birds answer.
A knot tightens low in my stomach. It’s ridiculous. He’s lived on this mountain his whole life. He’s probably down by the creek or checking one of the trails, completely unaware that I’m working myself into a panic because I woke up without him beside me.
The thought should calm me down.
It doesn’t.
Movement catches my eye near the path that winds through the pines toward the creek. A second later Barrett steps into view, carrying a loose bundle of wildflowers gathered against his chest. Pink, yellow, white.
He sees me right away and slows.
“Morning,” he says, his voice warm, completely unaware that my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest.
Relief rushes through me so suddenly my eyes sting. I don’t think. I cross the yard at a near run. His brows lift in surprise just before I throw my arms around him. He catches me easily, one arm circling my waist while the other keeps hold of the flowers.
“Easy, sweetheart,” he says with a soft laugh. “What’s wrong?”
I bury my face against his chest and breathe him in. “You weren’t there.”
“I wasn’t where?”
“In bed.”
His hand moves slowly up my back. “I’m sorry, baby. I wanted to surprise you.”
He eases back just enough to lift the flowers between us.
I look at the wild bouquet, then back at him. My chest feels so full it hurts.
“Ask me.”
His expression shifts into confusion. “What?”
“Barrett, ask me.”
For one long moment he simply stares. Then I watch realization spread across his face. “You sure?”
I nod. I’ve never been more certain of anything.
A rough, joyful laugh escapes him. He ducks his head, rubbing his thumb across his jaw as though he’s trying to get ahold of himself. When he looks back up, his eyes are bright.
“Marry me, Rosalyn.”