Page 4 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

I’m deciding whether to stuff a pillow over my ears—or over my face until I stop breathing—when my phone rings. Suddenly louder than the peepers, it infiltrates my cabin and fills it with artificial sound. Maybe I should record the peepers for my ringtone.

“Hey, Mom,” I answer, squeezing my eyes shut.

I had promised to call her this week. And then I had a teen reading group to organize and a library budgetary meeting to attend and then I was very, very busy sitting alone in my house, nibbling on the edges of mouthwatering baked goods and taping postcards to my walls. The week just got away from me.

“Baby,” she says, her voice warm, and I melt like I always do. “How are you doing up there?”

“Great,” I tell her, trying to smooth out the worried wrinkle in her voice. “Really great, Mom. Did you get my pictures? The ice is finally gone on the lake.”

“Are you staying warm enough?” she asks. “I know it’s spring now, but the nights must be cold still.”

“I have a woodstove, Mom.”

She sighs and takes a quiet moment before responding. “I know, baby. I just worry. You know that.” Then her voice brightens. “Do you have big plans for your birthday?”

I settle back onto the couch and stare through the woodstove door to gaze at the dancing flames. “Just a quiet night,” I say, “I’ll probably get a pizza.”

“And what about your friend? He must have something planned.”

Right.My friend.

When I first moved to Granite-Glacier, my parents had been so worried. Constant calls and texts andemails. Whose parents are insane enough toemailwhen their kid takes too long to answer a text? Mine, that’s who.

And I love them deeply, and I know they only want to make sure I’m safe and healthy and taking care of myself, but I’m nearly thirty years old. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.

Of course, logic doesn’t work with my parents. So after repeated and failed assurances that I was, in fact,notgoing to get eaten by a bear or trip on the steps on the way into work and somehow fall direction into Lake Superior where I would die a terrible, watery death, I kind of told them I was dating someone who was very capable and helpful.

What is he like? they asked.He has a beard, I told them, and theyooohhed. In my very academic family, having facial hair is basically shorthand for one’s ability to perform small-engine repair and win ax-throwing contests.What is his name?they asked.Sam,I said because, at the time, I was nibbling on a florentine cookie he had given me, and it was the first name that came to mind.

They were sufficiently impressed, and the topic didn’t come up again.

Until now.

And I can’t lie to them again. I can’t. It’s been six months, and I have clearly proven my ability to live alone up here without mishap.

“We kind of broke up,” I tell my mom. And, with a weird urge not to bad-mouth my imaginary ex, I add, “He’s a great guy. It just didn’t work out.”

My mom hums sympathetically. “You’re young,” she says, and I don’t know if she means it as a reassurance that things will be okay or an explanation for why my fake relationship didn’t work out.

“Anyway,” she continues, “baby, do something special for yourself this weekend, all right? Go see a movie, get a pizza. You’re turning thirty! That’s a big one.”

I make a noncommittal noise in response. What would I do? I know exactly three people in Granite-Glacier. I don’t drink. I’m not into the party scene, if this town even has a party scene. Sitting alone at the cabin with my books and a pot of coffee is about the right speed for me. And it’s not exactly the kind of thing you send out invitations for.

“Okay, Mom,” I say.

She hums again, this time with a skeptical note to her voice. “Okay,” she agrees like she doesn’t believe me. “Baby, I’ve got to go.”

“Tell Dad I said hi.”

We hang up, and the cabin falls silent again. My mother’s voice gives way to the chorus of spring peepers, the rasp of leaves.

Alone again in the warm, dim light of the cabin, I slide Sam’s plate closer to me. Gingerly, I pluck the last macaron and take a small nibble. Just a bite off the edge, nothing crazy, and let the flavor spread on my tongue. Pistachio and sugar and cream mingle, and I let out a soft moan of pleasure.

Samuel Bark might be the perfect man.

The kind of man who could sway my decision to stay in a place or leave it. Except that he would get bored of me in about thirty minutes if we actually spent time together. I’m not capable like he is. I’m not a rugged mountain man, despite my current living situation. I’m an indoor cat of a man, and Sam deserves someone who can keep up with him.

And that, I think as I sneak another nibble of macaron, will never be me.

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