Page 7 of Off the Beaten Path

I stare at her message for a long moment before I respond, and even though I’ve never actually heard her voice, it’s like she’s urging me in my ear to try out this friend thing.

user6872:Why was the ending bad?

I must have shocked her into silence by asking a question, because her reply is a long time coming. We’ve been talking nightly for months now, since Finley signed me up for the stupid app back in the fall, and while she’s always trying to pry my secrets out of me, I don’t usually ask for hers.

LikeStrawberryWine:I know you don’t ever wish for a partner in life. You’ve made that abundantly clear. But sometimes I want someone to help carry the burden, you know? Sometimes my house feels too quiet and my bills are too much and making dinner for myself or lighting a fire in the fireplace is too hard. And I just want someone to be there, doing all of it with me.

That’s the moment I know she’s never been in a serious relationship, because if she has, she’d know they’re not like that. There’s always one person carrying the majority of the weight, shouldering more than their fair share. Maybe there are a select few people out there who find what she’s talking about, but most of us don’t get that lucky. I know I didn’t.

I don’t know how to tell her that what she’s looking for is a fairy tale, so I stare at the screen until it goes blank, then open it and respond as truthfully as possible.

user6872:I hope you find it.

Ifellasleeponthe couch last night, still dressed in my corduroy pants and sweater from the day before, waiting on the response fromuser6872. My mascara-crusted eyes drift around the room, landing on the empty wine bottle sitting on the coffee table, and the memory hits. I sent a brutally honest wine-fueled message to my anonymous friend last night.

My phone somehow has maintained 1 percent battery, so I swipe the screen and see the message that must have come in after I dozed off.

user6872:I hope you find it.

I stare at the message until my phone goes black, finally surrendering that last 1 percent, a sleepy smile curving up the corners of my mouth. It’s taken months, but he’s finally started to come around to this whole friend thing. If I’m being honest, I don’t know what drove me to keep messaging him in those early days when it was clear he didn’t want to talk to me. Maybe I sensed that despite the surliness, he needed connection as much as I did.

Regardless, I’m glad to have him—even if I have no idea who he is. Sometimes living in a small town can be incredibly lonely, but it’s nice to know I have someone just a tap away.

Glancing up at the clock on the wall in the kitchen, I groan. I forgot to set an alarm last night, and I have to meet with the volunteers for the Galentine’s Auction in less than an hour. I push up off the couch and bump into every piece of eclectic vintage furniture in my cottage on the way to the bathroom. Icy water splatters across my skin when I turn on the shower, and I hiss, stepping back to be closer to the radiator. Through the tiny window, I can see the lights on at Holden’s place, the silhouette of his frame and June’s much tinier one moving around behind the sheer curtains.

The sight of him reminds me of the packages from last night, and that sick feeling returns to my stomach. I spent weeks scouring the internet for an affordable yet stylish light fixture for the cabin and finally found one online. It was a little outside my budget, and I probably spent too much on it, but I also want to invest in quality pieces to make the space feel luxurious. ExceptHoldendropped it on the ground, shattering the glass inside into fractured pieces. I left the box on my kitchen table next to the stack of cabin bills that I’ve yet to look at. Between the bills, the construction materials, the furniture and decor I’ve budgeted for, and what I’m paying the contractor, I’m starting to feel like I’m drowning.

Turning away from the window, I hop into the now warm shower, desperate to get my mind focused on something else—like the thousands of little details I still have to organize for this auction.

It doesn’t take me long to shower and get ready, and I manage to make it to the town square on time, though the ends of my wet curls grow stiff and crunchy in the chilly air. I probably should have driven, but I love surveying the town in winter, with snow crunching under my feet and flurries landing on my eyelashes.

When I let myself into Smokey the Beans, the only coffee shop in town, it’s already bustling, which isn’t unusual for a Saturday morning. My mail carrier is sorting through mail at a table in the corner. My high school Spanish teacher, Mrs. Garcia, is reading a bodice ripper on one of the couches, her hand pressed to her throat. The teens behind the counter are making a video of themselves dancing.

My volunteers are at a table near the window, bickering about something, and I can’t help but smile as I make my way over to them.

“Wren!” Melissa, a sixty-three-year-old woman with dyed auburn hair and bright green eyes that always sparkle, calls out when she sees me approaching. “You can settle our argument.”

Myra, her best friend, places her folded wrinkled hands on the table and leans forward. “How long do you think it will take Carl Sanders to realize that his new wife is older than she says?”

Carl Sanders owns a urinal cake manufacturing plant on the edge of town, and he’s probably the richest resident in the county. About every five years, he trades out his wife for a newer model. What he hasn’t realized is that his newest wife is probably three years older than his last. She just drives three hours to Charlotte every couple of months to get Botox.

“I’m going to need coffee before I start in on something like that,” I respond to the group of women eagerly awaiting my reply.

Stevie launches out of her seat. “I’ll go with you.” Tagging me toward the counter, she hisses, “You’re late. You left me alone with Myra and Melissa for too long and they cornered me about matrimony.”

I snort a laugh. “What did you tell them?”

“That I gave up men cold turkey.”

“And that worked?” I ask, cocking a brow.

She shakes her head. “Not even close. They said it’s now their mission to show me the value in men.”

“If you were going to lie, you should have just told them you’re seeing someone,” I say as we approach the counter. One of the teens, still filming her dance, holds up a finger at me, signaling they need another moment.

Stevie leans a hip on the counter. “Like that would have worked. Plus, my mom is there, so that would have opened another can of worms.”

I hum in the back of my throat just as one of the teens comes to the register, out of breath and smiling. “What can I get for you?”

---