Page 7 of Taught By the Mountain Man

Dancing with Barrow feels different than I expected. I had imagined it would feel like every other time I had to perform in front of people—awkward, forced, and full of nerves. But with Barrow, it feels like a simple, natural thing. Like we’re floating in time, and nothing else matters except the way our bodies move together.

As the song winds down, Barrow’s hand slips from my back to my hand, and he gives me a small, sincere smile.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For trusting me enough to come here tonight.”

I blink, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in his voice. The words hit me harder than I expect, like a gentle wave breaking over the walls I’ve built.

“For what?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“For being here,” he repeats. “For giving me the chance.”

His words settle over me, wrapping around me like a blanket, and I don’t know how to respond. But I don’t have to. I just nod, feeling the weight of everything we’ve shared so far in the quiet simplicity of this moment.

Maybe — just maybe — this is the start of something good. Something real.

A new song begins, but Barrow doesn’t begin to move us to the music once more. Instead, he gives me a half smile. “Want to get out of here? I’ve done my duty as school staff, and I’d rather spend the rest of my night doing something else.”

It’s like he’s tossed a bucket of water on the flames that have been kindling with in me. “Oh, I say, voice flat, trying to hide my disappointment. I’d been inventing everything — I’m nothing more to Barrow than a convenient date for an inconveniently mandatory work event. “What’s that?”

But he’s still smiling. “I’d rather spend the rest of my night getting to know you, Star.”

And just like that, the flames are back, crackling higher than ever, setting my cheeks alight.

“What do you say?” he continues, a flicker of uncertainty dancing in his eyes.

I squeeze his hands in mine. “There’s nothing I want more,” I say, grinning once more.

Barrow

The night air bites at my skin as we step outside the gym, and I can feel the chill creeping in through my jacket. But when I glance over at Star, I can see her shivering in that little dress of hers, the thin cardigan doing little to protect her from the cold.

Without thinking, I pull my jacket off and drape it over her shoulders.

She’s cold. I can’t stand the idea of her being cold, and somehow the simple act of doing something for her feels like it matters more than I thought it would.

"You're freezing," I say softly, my voice almost a whisper in the quiet of the night. "Let’s take a walk. The fresh air might warm us up."

She doesn’t say anything but nods, pulling my jacket tighter around her. The way she does it — almost protectively, like she’s embarrassed to need help — hits me in the chest. I don't want her to feel that way. Not around me.

We walk in silence, the sound of our footsteps crunching on the gravel filling the space between us. Heartwood’s streets are quiet at this hour, the soft yellow glow of the streetlights casting long shadows on the pavement.

The town feels small tonight, almost deserted, like it’s just me and her here, alone in this little bubble.

I keep glancing over at her, wanting to make sure she’s okay, wanting to understand why she looks like she’s carrying something heavy. I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s hiding something. And Star? She’s hiding a lot.

I want to ask her what’s bothering her, but I don’t want to push her too hard. I want her to open up to me, but I don’t want her to feel like she has to.

I can’t help but feel protective of her. She’s got this quiet strength, but I know from experience that sometimes that strength is just a wall—a way to keep people at a distance. I don’t want her to be alone with that wall. I want to be the one she lets in.

Finally, I break the silence. “Star, if you’re comfortable… I’d like to know more about you. About what brought you to Heartwood. I mean, I know you’ve been here a while, but…” I trail off, unsure of how to ask without coming across as too pushy. “I — I want to understand you more."

She stops walking, her feet crunching to a halt on the gravel, and I almost stop with her. I can feel her pulling away, like she’s trying to find the right words, but they’re stuck.

It’s a painful silence, one I want to fill, but I know it’s up to her to decide when she’s ready.

She takes a breath, then speaks slowly, each word heavy with something unsaid.

“I’ve lived here my whole life,” she begins, her voice quiet. “Heartwood is small. It feels like everyone knows everyone else’s business. And for most of my life, that was fine. But then things changed.”

---