Page 2 of Grumpy on the Mountain

My bladder has apparently decided that six hours of gas station coffee and pure adrenaline is the perfect recipe for a emergency bathroom situation in the middle of a snowstorm.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Through the swirling white, I spot a warm glow in the distance. Golden light is spilling from windows that promise heat. Heat and possibly hot beverages.

Maybe, if the universe decides to throw me a bone for once, there might also be some locals who won't side-eye me for resembling a walking snowman having an existential crisis, and will point my disaster-prone self toward a mechanic. Or a miracle worker. Or possibly a qualified life coach who specializes in women who make spectacularly bad decisions while wearing completely inappropriate footwear.

As I get closer, dragging my suitcase behind me like the world's most pathetic train, I can make out a hand-painted sign swinging gently in the wind: "The Bear Paw Café."

I actually giggle. Out loud. In a snowstorm.

The Bear Paw Café.It's so cute I might die. Or at least laugh a bit harder if I didn't have to pee so bad.

I move closer and it's like someone took everything cozy and wonderful about small-town life and condensed it into a probably-adorable-when-not-obscured-by-weather storefront.

The door has a cheerful bell that jingles when I push inside, announcing my arrival to what appears to be the entire population of the town.

The warmth hits me immediately—not just the temperature, but thefeelingof warmth. Like walking into a hug that smells like cinnamon rolls and fresh coffee.

And something indefinably comforting that I haven't felt in... God, maybe years.

The floors are worn hardwood that creaks in all the right places, and fairy lights are strung everywhere like someone decided Christmas should happen year-round. Mismatched tables and chairs give the place a collected-over-time charm that makes my designer-everything apartment back home seem sterile and sad. Black-and-white photos cover the walls with pictures of families, celebrations, and dozens of people who look genuinely happy instead of Instagram-perfect.

I'm dripping melted snow all over their beautiful floors, my suitcase leaving a trail of destruction behind me, and I probably look like a drowned rat who got lost on her way to a very different life.

It's the opposite of the life I left behind.

Riley's apartment—our apartment—was all expensive furniture and perfectly clean surfaces, like the image he projected to everyone.

I spent two years tiptoeing around that place, around him, around the women he brought home when he thought I wouldn't find out. Cleaning up lipstick-stained glasses and pretendingI didn't see the texts. Making myself smaller until I almost disappeared completely.

"Oh, honey…"

I shake the memories away as a voice comes from behind the counter. I turn to see a woman who can only be described as the physical embodiment of maternal warmth. Silver curls pinned back with what appears to be a pencil, rosy cheeks, and an apron dusted with flour.

She's looking at me like she's already planning to adopt me.

"You look like you could use some coffee and about twelve hugs, dear."

"Coffee would be amazing," I manage, then realize I should probably attempt to be a functional human being and try to find the menu somewhere behind her. A menu that doesn't exist. "Um, could I maybe get a triple-shot oat milk cortado with extra foam and maybe some vanilla syrup?"

She stares, then her eyelids drop and rise ever so slowly, as if processing what I've just said.

"Honey," she says gently, like she's talking to a particularly confused child. "This is a coffee or not-coffee establishment. How about I start you with some warm milk and we work from there?"

Oh God.I can't even order coffee correctly.

What the hell has that man done to me?

Seriously.

What does this say about my life skills? What does this say about my ability to function as an independent adult? I spent far too long letting Riley order for me at restaurants because he said I "took too long to decide," and now I can't even navigate a simple coffee shop without revealing myself to be a walking disaster of urban pretension.

"Coffee," I say quickly as the lady starts to steam some milk. "Just... coffee. Please. Whatever kind of coffee you think I need."

She beams at me like I just said something profound. "Now you're talking sense. I'm Betty, and you look like you need a slice of cherry pie."

"I didn't order pie—"