Page 5 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

Chapter 3

Samuel

“Lovesick,” is my answer when my brother asks me how I’m doing.

I collapse dramatically into my chair at his cabin and fling a forearm over my eyes like a swooning Victorian lady. Josiah’s sigh reverberates off the cedar planks. Behind me, I hear our friend Noah snicker.

“The object of your affections didn’t just telepathically pick up your unstated advances?Again?” Noah needles. He’s only hauled in half of his drum kit, and he’s already sweaty. “I can’t imagine why this keeps happening.”

I flip him off and plink tunelessly at my keyboard a bit while the other two get ready.

The three of us have been making music together since we were kids. Granite-Glacier winters are long, and you’ve got to have a hobby that’s not weather-dependent if you want to make it through to April.

Josiah, eighteen at the time and ten years older than me, tinkered with woodcarving. Me, I could hole up for months with stacks of books. But Noah, the only other eight-year-old who lived on Harlow Mountain, never had the patience for either. And, in a bout of desperation after an ill-advised Christmas gift ofdrums, his mom shoved him in our direction.

Dad was musical, so we always had instruments around the house. And he didn’t mind the cacophony created by three boys. Josiah, a focused and competent teenager, picked up the guitar instantly, and served as a guide for Noah and me as we learned. So we played together.

And we still are.

Next weekend, we’re setting up at Cabin Fever Fest. The local brewery hosts the festival each year. It’s the unofficial end of winter, and most of the town turns out for it. We’ll play a couple of sets and then, if I’m still this lovelorn, I am going to get very, very drunk.

“He’s socute,” I whine.

Josiah and Noah cast withering looks at each other, and I grin at them. I grew up surrounded by the strong, silent type. I like to think I keep things interesting for all of us.

Josiah sighs. “Don’t worry so much, Sam,” he says, “these things have a way of working themselves out.”

I narrow my eyes and point at my sweet, smitten gentle giant of an older brother. “Useless,” I say.

Josiah rolls his eyes at me and then goes back to smiling dreamily at his acoustic guitar as he tunes it. As if the love of his life didn’t simply fall into his lap last Christmas. As if love justhappenslike that for the rest of us mere mortals. Some of us have to work for it.

Noah is panting a little as he hauls in the last piece of his drum kit from the truck. The arms on that guy are incredible. He manages the feed store in town and mostly spends his days lugging bales of hay around the storage barn. Moving his drum kit every weekend is just a snack to him. Something to keep him limber.

“What about just asking him out?” Noah asks, dropping heavily down onto his stool. “I know it sounds crazy, but it’s clear and direct, and you’d get an answer. No more waiting around.”

And Noah’s not wrong. He’s not. I want to ask Remy out. I want an answer. I’m almost certain he would say yes.

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