Page 22 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

I don’t like the way Sam’s face looks as realization dawns on it. It’s a crumpling expression, a sturdy structure giving way under an immense weight. My heart breaks looking at it.

But my mom is right. I can’t rely on him to take care of me. It’s not fair or safe.

Then Sam shakes his head and breathes out a laugh so soft I almost don’t hear it. He packs that sad expression away. The smile that replaces it looks strained at the edges.

“Yeah. A good weekend,” he agrees. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his worn blue jeans, mimicking my stance. “All right, Remy. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you around.”

There’s a questioning tone that almost sneaks out at the end of that sentence. Almost. Sam reins it in with impressive discipline.

“Sure,” I say.

He nods at me and finally walks back to his truck that’s been parked in my driveway all weekend. As he climbs in behind the wheel and starts it up, I suddenly remember that tomorrow is Monday. I love Mondays, because Sam always comes into the library. The treats and the cards are nice additions to the day, but the highlight has always been chatting with him. Talking books and movies and listening to his recommendations for places to eat in Granite-Glacier, like there are more than four restaurants.

I guess my Mondays will probably look a little different after this.

As Sam’s truck growls onto the dirt road, he gives me one stiff wave out the window, and then he’s gone.

And I’m here alone, with my cabin and my spring peepers, and my broken heart.

Chapter 11

Samuel

“Sam, buddy,” Noah says.

He’s staring at me over his cymbals, his head cocked to the side, long blond hair cascading over his shoulder. This is at least the third time he’s had to snap me back to attention. Honestly, we should probably just pack it in for the night.

“Sorry,” I say, and I flash him a grin. He just rolls his eyes and goes back to tapping out an impatient beat with his sticks.

Josiah has been sneaking glances at me all session. I get it. I’m a space case today. My head is still stuck back at Remy’s cabin, on his front porch where he stood as he watched me pull away. Sometimes, when I let my mind drift enough, I’m kissing him in the shower, in his bed, under the shelter of a portaged canoe.

My brother lets out a soft sigh. “You good?” he asks.

He never asks. He’s not a talker, and he trusts people to handle their own affairs. But here he is, turned fully toward me, his big arms crossed over the curve of his guitar as he waits for my answer.

“I’m good,” I tell him but my tone is so light that it exposes the lie of itself.

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