Page 20 of Off the Beaten Path

“Oh my gosh.” Wren is at my side in an instant, standing on her toes to reach the top of my head. Her fingers press into the tender spot, feeling for a lump. “Are you okay?”

“You’re moving?”

She blinks at me, her face painted in confusion. “No, I bought the cabin to rent out.”

I don’t know why this makes me feel relieved. Wren is easily the most annoying neighbor I’ve had, and that includes the weed-smoking couple who lived above the first apartment Mia and I shared. They fought loudly and made up even more loudly.

But at least they didn’t torture me on purpose.

It’s my turn to say “oh.” And then I nod, causing her hand to move with the motion. We’re close again, and I find myself getting distracted by the plump curve of her bottom lip, the shades of blue in her eyes, the perfect ringlets that frame her face. I don’t know how I’ve never noticed these tiny details before when they seem so intricately important now.

“Right,” Wren says, and takes a step back. “Do you need ice?”

I shake my head, trying to hide my wince at the sharp pain the movement causes. Spinning around, I twist the knob to the gas stove until it clicks and the flame lights under the cast-iron skillet.

Wren moves until her back is against the island, hands pressed to the counter on either side of her. “Holden?”

“Hmm?” I’m pulling open her drawers, looking for a butter knife and spatula. Just the spatula will do in a pinch. I should have expected her drawers would be stuffed with utensils, no organizational efforts attempted.

Wren watches me searching through her drawers, not stopping me or moving in to help. “What are you doing?”

“Making you lunch,” I say simply, because it’s obvious she wouldn’t have done it herself if she’s this upset. I’ve spent my entire life surrounded by women, and if I know one thing, it’s that being hungry and being upset never go well together. “Have a problem with that?”

She shakes her head, and her curls bounce with the movement. “No complaints here.”

“Your kitchen is a mess,” I say when I finally find the spatula buried under a mound of other utensils in the drawer. It likely means she’s never used it. I guess you can just peel the pizza rolls off the baking sheet without one. I did find an incredible number of potholders and multicolored dish towels in one drawer, however, so I wouldn’t be surprised to discover she eats straight from the baking sheet.

A small smile touches her lips. “Thank you.”

I give her a flat look, and she lets out a laugh so quiet it’s barely audible over the sound of butter hissing in the pan.

“So you bought a cabin?” I ask, returning to our earlier topic.

The smile melts off her face, and I don’t miss the way her fingers tighten on the countertop. “I bought a cabin.”

“Where?” There are cabins all over town, and even more in the mountains surrounding us, overlooking the lake or river or facing miles and miles of national park.

“Edge of town. You can see the river in the distance, but it’s not quite on the river.”

I make a noise in the back of my throat. Personally, those are my favorite locations. They have the best views without the hassle of being right on the water. Plus, the waterfront properties are stacked a lot closer together, with docks facing one another, but the cabins up in the mountains are spread farther apart, quieter and more remote.

After assembling the sandwich, I place it in the pan and turn to face Wren. “Why didn’t you hire me to renovate it?”

She snorts, looking at me like I’m crazy. Only when she realizes my question is genuine does her face line with confusion. “Holden, you wouldn’t have said yes. You reported me to the HOA last year for installing a picket fence without getting their approval first.”

I have to bite back a smile. “That was only because you started it at six a.m. on a Sunday morning. It’s my only chance to sleep in, since June is at my mom’s.”

Wren throws her hands in the air. “That’s the only day my dad and uncle could do it!”

We’ve had this argument before, and I can’t explain the rightness that settles over me at the familiarity of it. Things have felt so tenuous since Matty’s, since I realized Wren was my friend, whether I meant for it to happen or not. Arguing with her still feels right, even if now I know what she looks like when she’s falling apart or how she texts when she’s tipsy on strawberry wine.

“Wren,” I say, and she pauses mid-rant. “Do you want me to work on the cabin?”

She blinks at me, taken off guard, and I have to wonder if I’ve really treated her so badly over the years that this simple act of kindness is throwing her so thoroughly. I never meant for it to be like this.

“Jimmy was giving me a deal,” she says, and it looks like it pains her to admit this to me.

I shrug, turning to flip the grilled cheese in the pan. “I can make it work. How much needs to be done?”

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