Revelry Read online

  I didn’t smile much anymore, which my team at the boutique jokingly told me was a good thing. Less wrinkles, after all. But I missed my smile—my real smile—and I wondered when it would come home. If it would come home.

  I played that thought over and over as I waited for the sound I knew would come. And just like the sun sets and rises, my phone rang at exactly ten o’clock.

  Keith had called me every night since I’d left. The first couple of weeks, I made the mistake of answering, but his pleading and denial had turned into anger and hatred. Our last phone call had ended in him calling me a shitty wife and telling me no one would ever love me.

  I’d never answered again.

  I thought the calls would stop once we filed, and I definitely assumed they would after our court date, but even when the divorce was final, he still called. Sometimes it broke my heart, because he loved me, and I had killed him by leaving. I knew that. I knew we had both been through hell, were still going through it, and neither of us would escape the flames without scars of our own to bear for the rest of our lives.

  But his love had changed, just as mine had, and all that remained between us was a toxic opposition of values that left him angry and me resentful. The difference was that I still wished him happiness, but he only wished me to be his—the way he thought I should be.

  I counted to eight once the buzzing of my phone had subsided until it began again. But this time, I smiled.

  “Oh good,” Adrian said as soon as I picked up. “Just making sure you didn’t answer for Asshole.”

  “Haven’t in weeks, babe.”

  “I know, but I still like to check.”

  I switched the phone into speaker mode when he paused, folding the last of my shorts and tucking them away into the bottom drawer of the only dresser upstairs.

  “How are you?” he asked. “Are you... are you in the woods?”

  “I’m in the cabin, yes, and I’m okay,” I lied, which made me pause. I didn’t know the last time I said I was okay and actually meant it.

  “I almost regret telling you to go and I’d cover things here. Don’t get me wrong, the boutique will be fine, but I miss you already,” he said on a sigh. “This is going to be good, Wren. For your heart. For your soul.”

  “I know,” I told him, picking up the phone from the dresser and holding it to my ear once again. “It physically hurts me that I’ve gone so long without being able to sketch. I’m just hoping I can, I don’t know, piece myself back together out here.”

  “You will. It’s not in you to give up, Wren Ballard.”

  I smiled. Adrian believed in me more than I believed in me most days.

  “I never thanked you for letting me stay with you as long as you did, by the way,” I said as I slowly walked down the stairs into the living room. “I owe you and Oscar big time for taking a whiney adult in when you already have a newborn in the house.”

  “Oh please, you know you are always more than welcome to stay with us. Seriously,” he emphasized. “Anytime.”

  “I know. Thank you.”

  Adrian sighed into the other end, and I pictured him running a hand through his always-styled fade. Even though it was late, I imagined he was probably still dressed like he was on his way to the boutique, suit ironed and shoes matching his over-the-shoulder work bag. No doubt he was still donning a perfectly-folded scarf or well-shaped trilby hat, too. Adrian’s style was pristine, and he knew better than anyone how to dress for his skin tone and body type. He was tall, dark as night, and handsome as hell—and he knew it.

  “Please promise me you’ll call me often.”

  “I promise.”

  “And I promise to give you updates on the boutique while you’re gone. I think we’re going to—”

  There was a muffled noise on the other end, his voice laced with static.

  “Adrian?”

  More static.

  “Hello?”

  His voice cut in and then out again and I pulled the phone back from my ear, noting a barely there service bar in the top left corner of the screen.

  “I think I’m losing service.”

  I thought I heard him tell me to call him later, but I couldn’t be sure before the call completely failed. I frowned, typing out a quick text to let him know I’d call him later. Placing my phone face-down on the kitchen counter, I let out a long breath through flat lips and looked around.

  I’d propped the front door open, but felt a little stupid now that I’d changed into my sleep romper. It was a smooth and soft cotton garnished with beautiful lace detail, the admiral blue fabric breezy and light. It was perfect for sleeping in the city, but now I wished I had something warmer.

  I also wished I knew what to do with myself.

  I could watch TV, I thought. Or light a fire. I sniffed, wiping at my nose as the cold nipped at it, and that small sound seemed to make such a loud noise.

  The silence was deafening.

  I raided the cabinets for a glass and poured water from the tap, which seemed too loud amidst the utter and complete quietness of the cabin. I was alone. Really alone. I wondered how far away the neighbors were. And then I wondered if there were any crazy mountain men running loose.

  Which was probably why I screamed like the last survivor of a horror movie at the sound of a croaky meow behind me.

  My sock-covered feet slipped on the wood, and I struggled to catch my balance while not dropping the glass now bobbling between my hands. I finally caught my grip and steadied myself, heart racing and hair wild, and looked down to find the culprit behind the terror attack simply gazing up at me. He flicked his tail on the hardwood floor.

  And the bastard meowed again.

  I closed my eyes, hand still pressed against my racing heart as I let out a shaky laugh.

  “Well hello there, little guy.” Wait. “Girl?”

  The cat meowed again, lifting himself from the floor to do a little turn before plopping down again— just long enough for me to see that he was, indeed, a he, and to come to the conclusion that he hadn’t eaten in a while. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t stopped unpacking to eat.

  “You hungry?” I asked, eying him over my shoulder as I searched through the cabinets and fridge.

  He was pewter gray, with bright green eyes that looked back at me lazily as he simply licked a paw in answer

  There was plenty of cookware and dishes but not a single thing to eat, which I guess was to be expected. It wasn’t like the cabin would come fully stocked with Veneto merlot and brie, although I would have used a genie wish to make it so at that moment. I sighed when I found a tiny can of tuna in the last cabinet.

  “Gross,” I said, wrinkling my nose, but the cat popped up at the sight of the can. I lifted a brow, reaching into the drawer near the sink for the can opener I’d spotted. “Yeah, I guess you probably aren’t as picky as me right about now, are you?”

  He seemed wary of me, still staying a few feet away as I opened the can and set it down on the floor. He didn’t move for it immediately, eyes darting to where I stood and back to the can again. When I moved to pick up my glass of water and took a seat at the stool on the other side of the kitchen counter, he slowly sauntered over, sniffing at the can for only a second before graciously chowing down.

  “There you go, boy. Eat up.”

  I smiled, but when my stomach growled again, I realized I was still in a predicament.

  I pulled up the notes section on my phone and started a list of groceries and supplies, including leggings, which I hadn’t worn since Tim Gunn had deemed them appropriate for the gym or bedroom only. My beautiful romper would have cried out in rage if it had a mouth, but my prickly legs would have sighed in relief. It was too damn cold for fashionable sleepwear. Thinking back on all the clothes and shoes I’d just unpacked upstairs, I wondered if I’d brought much of anything that was actually practical. I’d used my little trip as an excuse to buy adorable Hunter boots, but other than that, I had a feeling I was screwed.


  From the drive in and what Abdiel had told me, I’d have to make a little drive into the nearest town in the morning to stock up. It seemed like the perfect way to start my first full day at the cabin.

  I left the door open until my new friend had finished eating, just in case he wanted to escape for the night. But when he licked the last bit of fish from his jowls, he simply flopped down again and croaked out another rough meow as thanks. I chuckled, poured him a small bowl of water, and shut the door for the night.

  It was surreal, climbing back up the stairs and into a strange bed with sheets I’d never felt before. I at least had my favorite blanket—goose down, covered in a bright mint duvet cover that I’d sewn in college—and I pulled it up to my chin, smelling the familiar yet distant scent of home.

  As the quietness settled in around me, I stared into the darkness. A pang of loneliness hit my stomach while I tried to fall asleep in a home that wasn’t mine. My lids were heavy, but so were my thoughts, and I’d spent enough sleepless nights at Adrian’s to know which one would win out if I didn’t succumb to sleep soon.

  These were the moments I felt my loss the most. When there was nothing to do, no one to talk to, not a single distraction from my thoughts, my memories. I wasn’t allowed to miss the warmth of my old bed or the man who slept in it with me for years, but I did anyway, my curse as the one who left. I was the bad guy, and the bad guy wasn’t allowed to hurt.

  But I did.

  There was a pat of pressure near my feet, and the stray cat announced his arrival with a soft mewl and a purr that sounded like a broken motorboat. I stretched my hand out toward him—I could barely see him in the moonlit room, but he seemed to appraise me, as if wondering if he could trust me. Maybe it was the tuna, or maybe it was an animal sense, but he nudged my fingers, granting me permission to rub his coarse fur before he curled into a ball near the back of my knees.

  “That’s some purr you got there, bud,” I said, scratching him behind the ears.

  He rolled, offering me his belly, and I rubbed it gently only a few times before he changed his mind and steered me toward his head again.

  “I think I’ll call you Rev, like the engine.”

  He meowed, and I took that as approval.

  I didn’t have words to tell that little ball of fur how thankful I was for him in that moment, for dulling my loneliness on that first night. With one last grin and a few more rubs behind his ear, I laid back again, and the little engine purred me right to sleep.

  LACONIC

  la·con·ic

  Adjective

  Using or involving the use of a minimum of words: concise to the point of seeming rude or mysterious

  Every day was the same.

  I woke up every morning, as soon as the sun started to break the sky behind the mountains. I didn’t need an alarm clock, my body was hardwired now, and I went straight from my bed into the shower. The water was always too hot, my skin always red when I emerged, and I’d wipe my hand across the steam on my small mirror just enough to reveal my eyes.

  They’d been dead for six years now.

  At least, that’s what the calendar said. It could have been six days for all I knew. My measurement of time was skewed, the days blending together, the nights one long, continuous stream of darkness.

  Today was no different from yesterday, or from last Saturday, and it would be the same tomorrow.

  I dressed without a second thought to what I was putting on, reaching blindly into my closet and dresser drawers until I had on jeans and a thermal. I tugged my boots on next, and they made the same sound they always did as I thumped down the stairs and into the kitchen. Coffee was already made, set on a timer for the same time every morning, and I poured a full Thermos of the dark brew and took a swig before tucking it in my toolbox.

  This was the hardest part of the day.

  Getting out of bed was difficult, talking on the phone with my aunt who tried to pretend she cared anymore always stung, living my life like it mattered wasn’t easy, but nothing hurt as bad as when I looked at her picture.

  It sat right by the front door, my favorite photo of my cousin, Danielle. She sat on the front porch of our old cabin, thick-framed glasses on her face, dark hair piled on top of her head, giant sweater hanging off her shoulders and pulled over her knee caps. Her book sat open beside her, one hand holding the pages in place as she stuck out her tongue up at the camera. I remembered that day like it was yesterday. I remembered what it felt like to wake up to a noisy house, to her and my aunt laughing loudly. I remembered her books and her words of the day and her college dreams and her unwavering faith in me.

  But none of that mattered anymore, because she was dead.

  And it was all my fault.

  Every time I looked at her picture, and I never missed a day, I felt a rusted knife right between the bones of my ribcage. This morning was no different, and I choked on the last breath I took with my eyes on the photo before grabbing my hat and pushing through the front door out into the cool morning air.

  The days were slowly getting longer, and I knew there was no outrunning summer now. I hated the summer, hated the memories it brought. I much preferred the dark days of winter, gray skies and snow on the ground. Then again, it didn’t matter what season it was, because in my life, every day was the same.

  I didn’t want to lose the guilt I felt, the weight or the pain of it. I stared at that river every morning and remembered. I guess most people would do the opposite, they’d want to bury the hurt and find a new life, find a new purpose. But my purpose died along with Dani, and I didn’t care to find a new life where she didn’t exist.

  So I worked with my hands, getting through each day as I did the one before. I helped old man Ron work on his cars, fixed broken pipes, cleaned out flooded garages, repaired hot tubs and broken balconies, helped with maintenance on the rental properties in the community. I almost blacked out as I worked, and before I knew it, I’d be back in my shower, and then back in my bed.

  I was halfway through the day when the blur of it cleared in a sudden whoosh.

  “See you same time tomorrow,” I said to Ron as I packed my tools away, wiping my forehead with the same raggedy towel I’d had for years before throwing it in my back pocket.

  Ron was still under his 1978 Chevy Silverado, tools tinkering, only his legs visible from where he laid on the ground. He’d likely be there all day, unless he ventured down to Momma Von’s for a beer. I liked that about Ron. Every day was the same for him, too—and we both preferred it that way. He only grunted at me in response to my goodbye, and I walked myself out, boots crunching on the gravel until I reached the road.

  My feet carried me down the same road they always did, past the same cabins, the same cars, leading me down to the Morrisons’. Their shed needed a new roof and new panels in the back, and that would be the project that would carry me through to the night.

  But one cabin wasn’t the same. One car caught my eye. One moment, one look, and the haze I’d walked in for years blew out in a breath.

  Because every day was the same.

  And then I saw her.

  The drive into the small strip of stores and businesses in Gold Bar was short, and I’d enjoyed the windows down and music loud as I made the trip each way. I loved the way the air smelled, crisp and piney, with the promise of hotter summer days to come. And though I’d told myself that I didn’t buy too much when I was at the store, I realized as soon as I popped the trunk back at the cabin that I’d lied.

  I stared at the piles of bags, debating which to tackle first before slowly loading them onto each arm one by one and leaving Rev’s new litter box for last. Once I was red-faced and struggling and decided there was, in fact, no way I’d get them all in one trip, I turned to make my way inside the cabin. But I stopped short.

  There was a man at the end of my driveway.

  He was just standing there, staring at me, a large, rusted toolbox in one hand and rolled up sheet of paper in th
e other. Everything about him was hard—the bend in his brows, the edge of his jaw, the line of scruff that framed it. And because I was me, of course I noticed what he was wearing, and it was the first time in a long time that I’d seen someone who dressed for efficiency, not for style. His jeans were worn, but not dirty, with plenty of pockets that I could tell were each used in their own way. He donned a simple, deep red thermal with sleeves pushed up to his elbows and slight stains that ran down his chest and abdomen, and a charcoal gray hat sat low over his eyes, shielding them from the sun.

  He was tan, and even from the distance his eyes sparked against the warm hue of his skin. They were bright—blue, maybe? Or green? I couldn’t be sure, and I let his potent appearance mesmerize me for just a moment more before I shifted, hoisting the bags in my right hand up enough for me to attempt a half wave.

  If possible, his brow lowered farther, and he simply stalked off, clearing the view of my driveway in seconds.

  I frowned.

  “Well, hello to you, too.”

  So much for the friendly cabin town.

  I readjusted the bags, ready to make the first trip inside when one of them broke, spilling can after can right onto my foot before they tumbled the rest of the way to the ground. I howled, letting the rest of the bags drop as I mumbled a string of curse words that would have made even Adrian blush.

  “Oh dear,” I heard from behind.

  I spun, still hobbling on one foot as an older woman rushed toward me from the street. Leaning against the back bumper, I rubbed the top of my foot where the cans had hit, my cheeks flushing.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked, scurrying toward me.

  “I’m fine. A klutz, but fine nonetheless.”

  She chuckled, bending to retrieve a few of the bags as soon as she reached me. I helped, standing once each of our arms were weighed down.

  “Anything hurt?”

  “My pride.”

  A smile sparked on her face once more. “Ah, pride is such a funny thing, isn’t it? You never really even know it’s there until it’s wounded. Come on,” she continued, nodding to the cabin. “Let’s get these bags inside. I’ll help you.”