Page 29 of Last Seen

Brockville is lovely, but it’s isolated.

To hear the wind moving the treetops, the hoots of an owl, makes me uncomfortable.

The forest has eyes everywhere. I feel like I’m under constant surveillance.

Who knew the depths of nature could be so overwhelming?

That such pervasive silence would allow my soul to be noisy?

Grow up. A breeze won’t hurt you.

I grit my teeth and get my bearings—I don’t think I’ve passed the path to the cabins yet, so I must still be on the appropriate route.

I continue walking the river footpath, now examining my purpose, my goals.

Reminding myself that I am here for a reason, notably to break out of my old construct, to become someone new.

To be a writer, I need to let go of the shackles on my own ego, allow the voice in my head to shift into something entertaining and exciting.

Something real. I can’t be uneasy with it any longer.

Tammy is right. I need to let go. Dig deep and allow myself to have some kind of authenticity on the page.

It’s the one place I can be myself and no one will be the wiser.

The one place I can unleash the horror and pain and cataclysmic thinking that have come to be my normal.

I see now how trite the story is. Fantasizing a husband’s death when he is caught cheating? Come on. There’s nothing new there. Nothing fresh. I could be the best writer in the world, and without a better concept, I will go nowhere.

That’s my girl. Spiral out.

Tension fills my body, the urge to lash out strong. I take a deep breath. I say the words like an exorcism. “I will not talk down to myself. I will live a wonderful life, full of joy and happiness.”

I feel like an idiot, wandering the path back to the cabin bolstering myself like this, but Brenda’s snide remarks really have me rattled.

The woman isn’t wrong, my demon isn’t wrong, and that is the problem.

There’s no fixing it, either. I need to toss out this story, start fresh.

I began writing it soon after I discovered Tyler’s indiscretion, my fantasy life rushing in to overtake reality.

It was a good exercise, allowed me to take out some frustration, but that’s it.

I need a new story. One worthy of Brockville.

You know the one you want to tell. It would sell a million. Can you imagine—

“Oh, fuck off , won’t you?”

“Excuse me?” a rich baritone of amusement calls from the riverbank. I freeze, searching, but see no one. I thought I was alone on the path, but clearly I’m not. My heart is staggering, it’s beating so hard. I hate being startled. I unclench my fists and heave in a breath.

“Um, sorry? I was talking to myself.”

“I promise you haven’t done enough wrong to warrant that vehemence.”

The man who belongs to the voice comes into view, climbing up the bank. I wouldn’t have tried it in a million years—the bank is steep and muddy; it rained last night—but he comes up as easily as a deer.

He is handsome. Ridiculously handsome. His jaw could cut glass, his dark hair is thick and wavy, and his eyes are the color of the sky after storm clouds depart, a clear, startling deep blue.

He wears a green plaid shirt. He is the sky and the trees and the water.

He belongs in this space as perfectly as the rest of the scene.

He looks just like . . .

My heart thumps hard, once, then again, in familiarity, before I realize of course I’ve never seen him before.

He’s younger. Bigger. And now that I look closer, not an exact replica.

Everyone has a doppelg?nger, isn’t that what they say?

But there’s no question that he lives here.

That he is a part of the Brockville town proper.

I did mention it’s not just a writing retreat.

There’s a whole village here. A self-sustaining village tucked in a mountain valley, full of extremely wealthy pioneers trying to live a sustainable life away from the prying eyes of the world.

The wilderness. The wonderfully helpful wilderness.

“Noah,” he says, pointing at his chest. Grinning. Even teeth, nicely shaped, not too overwhelming, normal. As normal as a beautiful man rising from the depths can be.

“Cat. I’m here for the writing retreat.”

“Nice to meet you. You seem to be in need of a Band-Aid.”

I glance down, and sure enough, blood is soaking through my jeans.

He holds out a string of fish. “Could I interest you in some dinner and a patching-up?”

“You go around catching fish and offering them to strangers regularly?”

He laughs. It is a good laugh, deep and throaty. My stomach clenches—I haven’t made a man laugh in a long time. Haven’t been smiled at like this in a long time, either. That smile, though. God. It’s like he has come back to life and has taken this man’s body for his own.

The man I’ve sworn to never think of again.

But why did you really want to come to Brockville, Cat? Don’t lie ...

Shut the fuck up right now.

“No, I don’t, in general. But as the fish is fresh, it seemed rude not to.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I need to keep going.” I gesture to the path. “My first story just crashed and burned. I have to come up with a better one. I was thinking while I walked. Tripped. I need to change.”

“You must be pretty good if you got into the retreat.” He somehow manages to lean on his fishing pole, crossing his arms and nodding. “Have you published yet?”

“Some poetry, but not anything else. Yet. I’m here to learn how to be a better writer so I can.”

“Well, Cat the writer. If you ever decide you want some trout, I’ll teach you how to make an amandine that will make your friends cry.”

“You’re a chef?”

“I am.”

Things start to click. I know exactly who this is. The youngest Brockton. The outlier.

I soften my voice, make it friendlier. He could be an asset. “I assume I have you to thank for the ridiculously luscious basket of muffins at my door this morning?”

“You do. I mean, not me, my patissier made everything. I’m just the boss. I run the restaurants for Brockville.”

“You’re the farm-to-table guru?”

“That’s my brother. I just cook what he provides. And if you’re not going to join me, I will sadly have to see you along the river path another time.” He shakes the fish, and their scales glisten in the sun. “These guys need to get prepped.”

“It was nice meeting you, Noah.”

He looks so deep into my eyes that I nearly have a panic attack. We’ve talked for less than five minutes, but it’s like he knows my soul, knows my thoughts, and wants me to speak them aloud. And that would be dangerous. For both of us.

“Likewise, Cat.”

With a final heart-melting smile, he’s off, whistling as he saunters back the way I came. I almost turn and run after him, but that won’t do. I need to focus. I have goals, important goals, and getting involved with cute chefs is definitely not part of the program.

I’m impressed, the voice says. He’s just your type, isn’t he? He looks so much like that wonderful young man you used to know. Imagine all the fun we could—

“Stop!” My shriek startles a blue jay, which flaps past my head with a squawk.

Why are you pretending? Why are you lying to yourself?

“Leave. Me. Alone!”

I dive off the main path into a side gravel entrance that leads into woods, swiping at my face, at my eyes, which have traitorously begun to leak in an approximation of crying that is simply my frustration having a laugh. I don’t cry like you do. And I don’t want to think about him. Never again.

I’m making so much noise it takes me a moment to realize someone is following me.

Someone is following me into the forest.