Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
She doesn’t know I’m not staying put. I can’t. There is a stirring inside me that is longing for something. I just don’t know what yet.
I’ll check in. Drop off the duffel. Take a hot shower if the water pressure’s decent.
Then I’ll ride.
Up every winding road. Down every valley. Across the ridge and back again. Until my head stops buzzing and my pulse slows and I stop feeling like I’m about to snap at the next bastard who looks at me wrong.
The farther I ride, the more the tension bleeds off.
By the time I hit the old state road that climbs toward the mountains, I’m almost smiling.
Almost.
The trees thicken as I climb, pines rising tall and dark against the sky. The air cools sharply. The sun disappears behind ridges. I lean into each curve, the bike gliding with me like we’re one creature.
The world narrows to road and wind.
Miles slide under me like water.
Hours pass without me noticing.
Somewhere past the third overlook, the first real flicker of peace hits.
It settles low in my chest, a heavy exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding for… hell, maybe ten years. Maybe longer.
I check the map on my phone placed in the handlebar mount. Honey sent me the address last night with a cheerful message and a heart emoji she uses when she’s trying not to nag. Some cabin near the creek. Some quiet rental tucked away where no one will bother me.
Fine by me.
I turn off the main road onto a narrow gravel lane that winds deeper into the woods. Sunlight filters weakly through the bare branches, casting long shadows. A stream gurgles somewhere nearby.
The cabin finally comes into view around a bend—a little place with a blue roof, a wreath on the door, and warm light spilling out the front windows.
Cozy. Quiet. Peaceful.
Not my usual style.
But something about it hits… right.
I ease my bike to a stop in the driveway, kill the engine, and the sudden quiet rings in my ears. Only the creek and the wind and the distant rustle of leaves remain.
I swing off the bike, stretch my back, and take it in.
The place is small. Clean. Charming in a way I should probably find annoying. But there’s something about it—about the way it sits tucked between the trees, about the glow from the windows, about the faint smell of woodsmoke whispering on the air.
I don’t know who runs it—just the listing Honey sent me.
Holley’s Hideaway.
Some over-the-top name for a place this humble. Maybe they named it for their daughter like I did my business. Either way, it doesn’t matter what they call it.
I’m here.
I’m away from town.
Away from responsibility.
Away from the noise in my head.
And tomorrow?
I ride again.
Tonight?
I’ll step inside this little cabin, drop my duffel on the floor, crack open that bourbon, and sit my ass down on whatever couch she’s got inside.
A second of peace is better than nothing.
And for the first time in a long damn while…
I’m looking forward to something.
Even if I don’t know what it is.
Six
Holley
The gravel crunches under my tires as I ease into the far corner of the state park’s gravel lot—the same spot I always tuck into, hidden behind the cluster of picnic tables and the fat pine tree that blocks me from the road. The sun is gone now, sinking behind the ridge, and the shadows stretch long and blue across the empty lot. The temperature has already dropped. The air has a bite to it I wasn’t expecting this early.
I cut the engine and sit for a moment, letting the silence settle around me.
This is usually when I breathe. When the rush of prepping the cabin, the scramble to get everything ready, the stress of seeing numbers I can’t afford on bills I can’t avoid—it all hits once I’m alone and slowing down. When the next task isn’t on the forefront of my brain is when the fears, worry, and stress creep in threatening to overcome my mind.
But tonight, I can’t quite settle. The cold presses through the windows, already hinting at how miserable sleeping here is going to be if the temperature drops lower than forecasted.
I rub my hands together and pull my coat tighter, then reach back and unzip my duffel. I tug the thin fleece blanket out and shake it out across the backseat.
It’s fine. I try to convince myself that it isn’t so bad.
“Please let the weather app not be lying,” I mutter to myself.
I sit back and check my phone again. The cabin rental app shows the reservation as “upcoming,” still with that neat little countdown.
Guest arrival: 1 hour, 11 minutes
Plenty of time. No notifications from him. The cabin lights are on their timers. Everything inside is clean enough to pass a white-glove test. And my duffel is half-organized.
And yet…
Something nags.
A shiver works up my spine that has nothing to do with the cold.