Page 17 of Merry'd to the Mountain Man
I walk to my bedroom and collapse onto the bed, still in my coat. The ceiling blurs above me as tears start to fall.
I cry for everything. For the years I spent trying to earn my mother’s approval. For the life I thought I wanted. For the mountain I left behind. For the man who looked at me like I was more than enough—even when I wasn’t supposed to matter to him.
I press my face into the pillow, my chest aching.
I just wish I had one more day.
One more day to wake up next to him.
One more day to pretend that I was his wife.
One more day to believe that maybe, just maybe, it was real.
Because somewhere between the pretending and the planning, I went and did the one thing I wasn’t supposed to do.
I fell in love with him.
The thought breaks something open inside me, and I cry until there’s nothing left.
Eventually, exhaustion wins. My body goes still, my cheeks damp, and my heart feels like it’s splintered into a thousand tiny pieces.
I close my eyes, whisper his name once into the darkness, and fall asleep wishing I could wake up back in his arms in our cabin on the mountain.
CHAPTER 14
Cole
The shop’s been my whole world for the past week.
If I keep busy, I don’t have to think. That’s the lie I tell myself anyway.
I’ve sanded, sawed, and stained everything that wasn’t nailed down, just to drown out the silence. The sound of the tools helps until it doesn’t—until I look up and realize I’ve been carving patterns into nothing, thinking about her again.
The cabin is too damn quiet without Frankie.
I barely go inside anymore. When I do, it’s like walking into a memory I can’t get out of. The decorations she put up are still there—the garland draped across the mantle, the tree lights that twinkle against the window. I should take them down, but I can’t.
Everywhere I look, she’s there.
In the mug she used for her coffee.
In the faint smell of the sugar cookies she made that we didn’t get to enjoy that still lingers in the kitchen.
In the way her pillow still smells like her shampoo—sweet with a hint of spice.
I stand in the doorway now, staring at the living room. I don’t know what makes me finally step inside, but I do. Maybe I’m just tired of avoiding the ghosts she left behind.
That’s when I see it.
A small box sitting under the tree. I could’ve sworn there was nothing left there before. Probably slipped under one of the branches when we were decorating.
It’s wrapped in red paper, tied with twine, neat but simple—like her.
The tag catches my eye.
To: My Husband
From: Your Wife
