Page 19 of Off the Beaten Path

I’m just not entirely sure what Jimmy has to do with this particular situation.

Wren nods, not really answering my question.

“Jimmy Chin quit what?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle like when I’m trying to figure out what’s bothering June. I never would have guessed I’d have a reason to use this tone with Wren, of all people.

But she just holds on tighter, fitting against me better than my favorite pair of jeans, the ones I’ve worn until there are holes in the pockets and at the knees.

“The cabin,” she says, and my pulse jumps when her nose brushes against my chest through the worn fabric of my T-shirt.

Suddenly, this moment feels less comforting and more intimate, less like consoling June when she’s sad and more like staring at my ceiling in the middle of the night, remembering what it felt like when it wasn’t so empty. When there was a person I could reach for, someone who would reach back. When it was skin and hands and lips and teeth and feeling desired and wanted and needed.

I release my grip on Wren, putting some much-needed space between us. Her cornflower blue eyes are red rimmed, and there’s a dent in her bottom lip from her teeth. Her hair is a mess and her freckles stand out against the ruby red of her cheeks. She looks wild and disheveled, and it’s not at all helping the turn my thoughts are taking.

“What about Jimmy Chin?” I ask, desperate to get this conversation back on track. I can still feel the imprint of her sweater’s fabric on the palms of my hands.

Wren blinks up at me, looking as dazed as I feel, although I’m assuming for very different reasons. Whatever this is, I need to snap out of it.

“He had to quit the cabin remodel because Miss B fell and broke her hip.”

I’m not really sure which question to tackle first. “Is she okay?” I finally ask.

Wren nods, gripping her elbows and shivering. There’s a chill in the air, and I only now realize it’s because I left the front door open. Kicking it shut with my foot, I stride into her living room, just a few short steps from the foyer. Wren stares after me, her feet rooted to the spot.

“I think so,” she says, watching with creases lining her forehead as I stack logs in her fireplace. “He said she’s having surgery and it’s going to be a difficult recovery, so he has to put his projects on hold.” She trails off for a moment. “Holden, what are you doing?”

I glance at her over my shoulder, confused. “I’m starting a fire.”

“Why?” She sounds wary, defeated, unlike I’ve ever heard her before. I can’t say I like it. Quiet and introspective is my thing. She’s supposed to be shitting rainbows.

“Because you’re cold.”

“Oh,” she says, eyes fixed on the flame at the end of the lighter as I press it to the kindling. It catches, and I push the logs around with a poker until it begins to burn evenly. Then I make my way across the tiny living room into the kitchen.

“So Miss B is okay?” I ask, pulling open cabinets that are frighteningly bare. The fridge, too, is mostly empty, only a few slices of off-brand American cheese and bagged lettuce between half-full condiment bottles.

“Yeah, she will be,” Wren says, still fixed to the spot by the door.

I turn around to face her, cold air escaping from the fridge. “Where’s all your food?”

“I need to buy groceries,” she answers with a shrug, some of her defensiveness returning. “There’s bread in the cabinet by the stove.”

I pull it open and find bread, along with a large assortment of crackers and cookies. She eats like I imagine June will when she moves out, no real food in sight, only snacks and desserts to survive on.

“You need to eat healthier. This is pathetic.”

Her blue eyes harden. “You need to mind your own business.”

I place my hand on the freezer handle. “How much ice cream is in here?”

“You can’t even find it under the bags of pizza rolls and frozen french fries.”

I let out a breath, rolling my eyes, but the tight ball that formed in my chest when I saw her tear-stained cheeks starts to loosen a little.This, at least, feels more normal. Or maybe what our new normal is.

“What does Miss B getting hurt have to do with you?” I ask, reaching into the fridge for the slices of American cheese and a tub of butter.

Wren’s feet finally unglue from the floor, and she takes the few steps into the kitchen, leaning on the arched doorway. “Jimmy Chin was remodeling my cabin.”

She says this as I’m crouched over, retrieving the bread from the cupboard beside the stove, and I smack my head on the upper cabinets when I shoot up.

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