Page 6 of The Space Between
I’ve only been in Juniper Falls for two days, but it already feels more real than the last threeyearsof my life. Not safe, exactly. Not yet. Butquiet. And that counts for more than I can explain.
I step barefoot into the morning heat, coffee in hand, and sink down onto the top step of the porch. The river’s already glinting in the sun like it’s got secrets, the water is green-hued. I’m not certain if it’s from what’s in it or the trees above it, maybe both. Downstream, toward Gruene’s shop, I hear voices—early floaters getting set up for a day on the water. Someone laughs. A dog barks and it carries. There’s a hum of summer that feels… untouched.
And then, I hear his boots.
Gruene.
He doesn’t make a sound otherwise—no greeting, no whistles, not even a cough as acknowledgement of my presence. Just the steady crunch of his steps as he walks the worn path from his cabin to the dock we share. Every time I hear his feet meet the ground, something twists low in my belly.
He doesn’t even glance my way, but I watch him out of the corner of my eye.
His gray t-shirt with his company logo on the chest molds to him, showcasing his trim physique. Even the ridges of the scars I saw in the moonlight are visible under the worn fabric. His jeans are faded and fit like they were custom-made. That same low-brimmed cap adorns his head, shadowing his eyes. He’s got a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, and even from here I can see the tension in his jaw. The scar appears white in the darkness of his scruff. He’s always wound so tight. Always appears so closed off. But I can’t stop watching him.
I know that posture. I know what it means to walk like your skin doesn’t fit right.
I know what it means to carry weight no one else can see. And he’s so attractive. Wounded and guarded, but he almost steals my breath.
What happened to him? What caused those scars? And why is he so guarded?
He drops the bag on the dock and kneels to check something near the boat launch. His shirt rides up slightly, and my stomach clenches at the edge of a scar I didn’t notice the first night. It curves along his lower back like a cruel fingerprint. One of many.
I sip my coffee, trying to pretend I’m not staring. But I am. Because when he moves, Ifeelit.
He’s a storm with legs. And something about him makes me want to predict the weather.
What are you talking about Blakelyn?
No. That is the last thing I need.
By late afternoon,I’ve unpacked the last of my few boxes and hung the lone photo I brought—me and Grandma Nan. Our arms are wrapped around each other as we stand in front of the school where I got my first teaching job. It’s the same school she taught at for forty years before retiring. She’swhyI became a teacher. She’s also the only person who ever believed I could be more than someone’s bruised possession.
She died last year. A stroke. It was quick and quiet. She probably didn’t even know what was happening, the doctor said. The kind of ending she probably would’ve preferred. But she would’vehatedhow long it took me to leavehim.
“I did it, Grandma Nan,” I whisper. “I finally left. I’m okay.” My voice cracks, and I press my fist against my chest. “I’m okay,” I say it again. Louder. But the tears still come. Sinking to the floor, I let them fall because even here, even free, I’m not whole yet.
I don’t expectthe knock.
It’s not loud. Just two quick raps on the screen door. I jolt upright from where I’ve been sitting on the floor, swiping at my face with my sleeve.
Gruene is on the other side when I open it.
His eyes flick to my cheeks. He doesn’t mention the tears.
“Don’t just open the door. You ask who it is. But I fixed your mailbox,” he gruffly says.
I figured it was him. Who else would it be?
I blink. “What?”
“You’re a woman living alone. Be smart. And the mailbox was crooked. The post was rotting. I had a spare four-by-four.”
I stare at him.
Is he lecturing me about my safety? And he fixed my mailbox.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Figured it’d bother you,” and turns to go.
“Wait,” I say.
