Page 18

I sit in the truck for a moment, gathering my thoughts. I owe her an apology, but it's more than that. I owe her the truth about Mike and Jason, about the walls I've built, and about the fear that's been driving me for five years.

The cabin door opens before I reach it. Sheryl stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the warm light behind her. She's still wearing my t-shirt. The sight of her stops me in my tracks.

"You're soaked," she says, concern replacing whatever anger might have remained from our argument.

"Occupational hazard." I step inside, dripping on the entryway floor. "Sorry about the mess."

"I don't care about the floor." She closes the door against the storm. "Are you okay? Was anyone hurt?"

Her concern for strangers she's never met is so genuine it makes my chest ache. "The hiker has a bad break and mild hypothermia, but he'll recover. Everyone else is fine."

She nods, relief evident in her expression. An awkward silence falls between us, the weight of our unfinished argument hanging in the air.

"I need to change," I finally say, gesturing to my soaked clothes.

"Of course." She steps back, giving me space to move past her. "I’ll make coffee. You probably need it after being out in this."

The thoughtfulness of the gesture isn't lost on me. "Thank you."

In my bedroom, I strip off the wet gear and towel dry quickly before pulling on dry clothes. My gaze falls on the photographson my dresser—the ones she'd been looking at when I reacted so poorly.

I pick up a photo, studying the three smiling faces. Mike with his wild theories about everything. Jason with his medical textbooks and terrible jokes. Me, younger and unburdened by loss.

For the first time in years, the memory brings a bittersweet ache rather than sharp pain. I set the photo back carefully and head to the kitchen.

Sheryl is pouring coffee into a mug, looking nervous. She hands me the coffee without meeting my eyes.

"Thank you," I say, taking a sip.

She nods, finally looking up at me. "About earlier."

"I'm sorry," I interrupt. "I overreacted."

"No, I shouldn't have been snooping."

"You weren't snooping. You were looking for clothes, and the photos were right there." I set the coffee down and take a deep breath. "I'm not used to sharing my space. Or my past."

She leans against the counter, watching me carefully. "I understand if you don't want to talk about them."

"That's just it," I say, surprising myself with the realization. "I think maybe I do. Need to talk about them, I mean."

Her expression softens. "I'm listening."

I pick up my coffee again, needing something to hold. "Mike and Jason were more than roommates. They were family, the closest thing I had after my parents died in my twenties."

She listens silently as I tell her about them—Mike's dreams of opening a climbing school, Jason's determination to become a trauma surgeon, our shared adventures camping in the mountains. For the first time, I find myself sharing the good memories, not just the tragedy of their loss.

"I'm so sorry, Alex," she says when I finally fall silent. "They sound like amazing people."

"They were." I look down at my now-empty mug. "When they died, it changed me. I shut down. Built walls. Decided it was easier not to care too much about anyone."

"And then I showed up and set fire to your carefully ordered world," she says, a small smile playing at her lips.

"Literally," I agree, feeling the tension between us finally begin to ease. "Sheryl, what I said before, that was unfair. I know that's not who you are."

"Thank you." She takes a step closer. "For what it's worth, I think Mike and Jason would want you to be happy. To live, not just exist."

"That's what I was thinking out there tonight. During the rescue."