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Chapter thirty-nine

Elliot

The road stretched out ahead of us, winding lazily through towering pines, the dappled light of late afternoon flickering through the windshield. It was the kind of drive that made you want to roll down the windows, let the fresh air in, and pretend like there wasn’t a single damn thing waiting for you back in the real world.

And for the first time in a long time, I actually felt like I could do that.

Mike drove with one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around mine, his thumb absently stroking over my knuckles. It was a casual, almost thoughtless touch—which made it even better.

Homer sat sprawled across my lap like some kind of stuffed animal, his tail wagging lazily. Now and then, he let out a huff of contentment, like he was just as happy as we were to be getting away for a few days.

At no point did he attempt to hump any part of me. That was progress.

“All right,” Mike said, giving my hand a squeeze. “Game time.”

I snorted. “Game time?”

He nodded, eyes flicking to me briefly before returning to the road. “We’re playing I Spy.”

I gave him a flat look. “You realize we’re adults, right?”

“Are we?” Mike grinned. “Do gays ever really grow up?”

I opened my mouth—then shut it.

Fair point.

“Fine,” I muttered, shifting slightly in my seat. “You go first.”

Mike hummed, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “All right . . . I spy with my little eye . . . something green.”

I blinked out the window. “The trees.”

Mike sighed. “God, you’re boring.”

“What else would it be? We’re literally in the middle of the woods.”

“Maybe I was thinking of something more specific,” Mike shot back.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Was it that tree?” I pointed vaguely.

“No.”

“What about that tree?”

“Still no.”

“Hmm.” I tapped my chin. “That tree?”

Mike groaned. “Elliot—”

I grinned. “I hate this game.”

Mike let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Your turn.”

I glanced around, pretending to look for something. Then I smirked. “All right. I spy with my little eye . . . something furry.”

Mike barely spared me a glance before deadpanning, “Homer.”

I snapped my fingers. “Wow. You are good at this.”

Mike snorted. “This is the worst game we’ve ever played.”

I tilted my head. “Worse than ‘Guess What’s In My Pocket’?”

“That was a terrible game,” Mike shot back. “There was never anything in your pocket.”

“Yeah.” I grinned. “But you kept falling for it, pawing at it, grabbing something that was definitely not in my pocket.”

Mike groaned, shaking his head, but his hand tightened around mine.

And for a while, we just drove.

The wind was warm, the sun was dipping lower, and now and then, Homer nudged my hand like he needed reassurance that this was real, that we were actually doing this.

The cabin was tucked deep into the woods, set against the edge of a sprawling, still lake that mirrored the sky like a perfect sheet of glass. It was the kind of place you’d see in a postcard—deep cedar walls, wide wraparound porch, wooden rocking chairs lined up like they were waiting for us.

Mike parked, then turned to me. “So?”

I took it all in—the stillness, the peace, the way the air smelled like pine and water and something new.

Then I turned back to him.

“Not bad.”

Mike scoffed. “Not bad? Seriously?”

I shrugged, unbuckling my seat belt. “We’ll see if it’s still standing when we’re done with it. You might decide to cook.”

Mike sighed. “I knew I should’ve gotten a security deposit.”

Homer let out an excited bark, shifting in my lap.

I reached down to scratch behind his ears. “At least one of us is excited.”

Mike shook his head, but his smile lingered.

We got out of the car, moving slower than I would have liked—my damn cast made everything take twice as long, but Mike didn’t rush me, just grabbed our bags from the trunk and followed me up the porch like he belonged there.

Like we belonged there.

Inside, the cabin was simple—wooden beams, a big stone fireplace, a kitchen that looked barely used. We stepped into the single bedroom with a massive bed that Mike eyed like it was the greatest thing he’d ever seen.

“Oh hell yes,” he muttered, tossing his bag down and flopping onto his back.

I raised a brow. “Need a nap?”

“Maybe,” he said, already kicking off his shoes.

Homer, freshly excited about something, bolted past us and onto the bed, where he began scratching and making the covers his own.

Mike sighed. “And now it’s covered in dog hair.”

I shrugged. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

He looked at me then, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I did.”

I swallowed.

Then—before I could overthink it—I turned toward the porch. “Come on, old man. We’re gonna miss the sunset.”

The lake was still, stretching wide beyond the porch, the sky melting into streaks of orange and gold and deepening blue.

Mike stood beside me, his hands braced against the railing, his face lit by the last rays of sun.

I watched him more than I watched the sky.

Everything felt so easy.

So right.

Like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t a man built to be alone.

Mike let out a slow breath. “You ever think about it?”

I glanced at him, mystified by his ability to read my mind. “About what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing to the cabin, the lake, the stillness around us. “Getting away from everything. Making it permanent.”

Making what permanent? I thought. Oh shit, is he going somewhere with this? Was this weekend getaway about more than fresh air and sunsets?

I didn’t answer immediately.

Unsure which question he had asked, I said, “Maybe.”

In truth? I had thought about it, about what it would be like to stay, to have a place like this, to wake up and make coffee while Homer stretched lazily on the porch, to know that this—this quiet , this warmth . . . Mike—wasn’t just temporary.

And that scared the hell out of me.

“I love the mountains. The idea of living up here is so, I don’t know, romantic . . . but not in a romance novel sort of way. It’s the thought of being unplugged, disconnected, part of the world yet separate from it. Everything back home gets so twisted and crazy, but up here, it’s all quiet and peaceful and serene.”

Oh, he had been talking about the cabin. For some reason, my chest deflated.

Mike hummed.

Then, almost casually, he reached out—his fingers barely brushing mine against the railing.

I exhaled and let myself hold on.

The moment the sun’s last rays vanished, Mike turned toward the cabin. “Time to find something to eat. I’m starving.”

On cue, my stomach growled.

Mike laughed. “Come on, big boy, let’s feed you, too.”

I gave him a sheepish grin and let him lead me through the cabin to the car.

We drove up and down and around one mountain, then another. I’d begun wondering if we were crossing state lines for this meal when a small town—a village, really—opened up before us.

By the time we made it into town proper—and I was using that word loosely—I was beginning to question whether we had taken a wrong turn and accidentally ended up in some kind of time loop.

“Town” consisted of exactly four buildings clustered around a rusted old monument of a guy on a horse, the name on the plaque so weathered I had no idea who he was or what he had done. Judging by the peeling paint and the distinct lack of any other people, I suspected that nothing much had changed here in about seventy-five years.

Mike parked the car in front of what was, allegedly, the best restaurant in town. I wondered if it was the only restaurant the place had to offer. It was a squat little diner that looked like it had been built sometime around the fall of Rome and not updated since.

“Jesus,” I muttered, staring at the flickering neon EATS sign in the window. “Is this thing structurally sound?”

Mike shrugged. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

The second we stepped over the threshold, it was like entering a different dimension.

The air smelled of grease, butter, and something distinctly fried, which was already a good sign. The booths were covered in old red vinyl cushions, the kind that always stuck to the back of your legs in the summer. The only lighting was a buzzing fluorescent fixture overhead. The floors had that faint stickiness that only came from a long history of good food and questionable health codes.

And then—

“Well, well, well!”

The voice came before the person, loud and commanding, as a woman emerged from behind the counter like she had been summoned through some sort of ritual involving salt, lines drawn in blood, and ancient words.

She was tall and imposing, her bleach-blond hair piled high on her head in an elaborate updo that defied gravity. Her uniform—a pink waitress dress straight out of the 1950s—was covered in various pins, including one that said, “HOTTER THAN YOUR WIFE,” and another that said, “YES, THEY’RE REAL (MY NAILS, OBVIOUSLY).” Her name tag, a faded pink plastic thing with white lettering, read, “Gina.”

It was absolutely impossible to guess her age—and frankly, I was afraid to try.

The woman put both hands on her hips and gave us a slow once-over, eyes sharp and knowing.

“Well, ain’t you two a sight,” she said, smacking her gum and eyeing me like I was a steak she meant to serve. “City boys lost in the woods? Or just looking for trouble?”

Mike and I shared a look.

I opened my mouth, but she cut me off by slapping a couple of laminated menus onto the counter with a thwack.

“Never mind, don’t answer that. I can already tell you’re both a little too pretty for your own damn good.”

Mike choked.

I blinked.

Gina arched a brow. “What, cat got your tongue? Thought I’d get at least one flirty comeback before you sat down. You gay boys don’t usually wilt so fast.”

Mike cleared his throat, his ears turning pink. “We, uh . . . just came for some food.”

“Oh, honey.” She snorted. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that from a man, I’d own the whole damn county . . . and I’d have at least a dozen fewer kids runnin’ around.”

I had no idea what that meant, but I wasn’t about to ask.

She turned on her heel. “Sit wherever. Just not in booth three, that one’s haunted.”

Mike’s eyes widened slightly. “Haunted?”

She gave him a flat look. “No, but you believed me for a second, didn’t you?”

I burst out laughing as she strutted off toward the kitchen, yelling something at a cook we hadn’t seen yet.

Mike exhaled. “What the hell just happened?”

“I think we just met a force of nature,” I said, still grinning. “Does Mrs. H have a sister or a long-lost cousin?”

Mike shrugged.

We slid into a booth— not number three—and barely had time to glance at the menu before Gina was back, flipping open her notepad like she was already tired of us.

“All right, let’s get this over with,” she said. “I’m Gina, I own this place, I run this place, and if you’re rude to me, I will spit in your food, maybe blow a little snot for good measure. What’ll it be?”

Mike opened his mouth, then hesitated. “What’s good?”

She laughed. “Sweetheart, everything is good. Pick something deep-fried and I promise you’ll leave here a changed man.”

I closed the menu. “I’ll take whatever you think is best.”

Mike shot me a look like I’d just signed a deal with the devil.

“Aren’t you a slab o’ burnin’ lovin’ beef?” Gina winked. “That, my hunky friend, is the right answer.”

She turned to Mike. “And you, precious?”

I snorted and muttered, “Precious,” earning a sharp look from across the table.

Gina giggled.

Mike cleared his throat. “I’ll, uh . . . I’ll do the same. No fish, though.”

“Got it.” She made like she was writing an essay on her pad while muttering, “Gays don’t do fish.”

I had to cover my mouth. Mike looked like he wanted to crawl under the table.

“Y’all want sweet tea?”

Mike nodded, but I hesitated. “What kind of sweet tea?”

Gina’s entire soul left her body.

She put both hands on the table and leaned in, her expression almost as deep as the cleft of her sagging, very visible boobs. “What kind of sweet tea?”

I frowned. “Like . . . how sweet is it? Southern sweet or normal sweet?”

The gasp that left her was so dramatic that the cook in the back poked his head out, looking concerned.

Gina straightened, pointed at me, and glared. “You listen to me, young man. This is a proper Southern establishment. Our sweet tea is so sweet it’ll make ya want to slap ya mama. If ya ain’t prepared for that, I suggest ya can get the fuck out now.”

I held up my hands in surrender. “I’ll take the tea.”

She gave a satisfied nod and strutted off again.

Mike leaned across the table, voice low. “I think she just hexed you.”

I laughed and shook my head.

The diner wasn’t exactly bustling with business. If anything, it felt like the kind of place that never had more than a handful of diners at a time—just enough to keep the lights on, but never enough to be considered busy.

At a corner booth, a man who looked like he’d been carved out of the North Georgia mountains himself was hunched over a plate of catfish, methodically forking pieces into his mouth. His beard was impressive, a wiry, silver-gray thing that covered most of his face, and his faded flannel shirt looked like it had seen more than its fair share of hard work. He chewed slow, his eyes trained on a newspaper—an actual newspaper—spread out in front of him, his finger tracing the print like he was searching for each next word.

Near the front counter, a pair of older women sat in a booth, their heads close together, whispering in the way that only Southern women could—just loud enough to ensure everyone knew they were talking about someone, but not so loud that you could make out who. One of them, a petite woman with tight gray curls, kept glancing our way with undisguised interest, her lips pursed like she was cataloging details for later gossip. Her friend, a slightly taller woman with badly dyed auburn hair whose roots bordered on a shade of baby poop green, seemed equally intrigued, though she pretended to be more interested in her bowl of peach cobbler.

At the counter, a kid—he couldn’t have been more than seventeen—sat hunched over a milkshake, scrolling on his phone. His work uniform, a navy polo with a stitched logo that read, “Harrison’s Auto Repair,” was slightly wrinkled, like he’d thrown it on in a hurry. He barely looked up, too absorbed in whatever was on his screen, occasionally sipping at the milkshake with all the energy of someone who had been forced to labor in a North Korean work camp.

And in the farthest booth, pressed against the wall like he wanted to be anywhere else, was a guy who had definitely not been born and raised around here. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his tie loosened, his hair slicked back like he had tried to make himself look presentable and then gave up halfway through. His laptop was open in front of him, the glow of the screen reflecting off his glasses, and beside it was a half-eaten burger and a sweating glass of sweet tea. Every few minutes, he pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache, then typed something aggressively, muttering under his breath.

They all seemed completely unaffected by Gina’s theatrics, which meant they were either used to her, or they had simply learned to survive her.

Either way, aside from the gossips, they barely spared us a second glance.

Which, considering how off balance Gina had already knocked us, was probably for the best.

The food arrived about fifteen minutes later, and when I say I saw God, I mean I saw God.

The plates were overflowing. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, biscuits the size of my fist, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, cornbread—everything.

And Gina?

Gina slammed our plates down with an air of triumph.

“There,” she said, smug. “Now eat, before I have to sit down and show you how it’s done.”

Mike and I exchanged a look.

Then we dug in.

And holy shit.

I had never eaten anything so good in my life.

Mike let out an obscene groan at his first bite of fried chicken. I was this close to proposing to whoever made the biscuits.

At some point, Gina walked by and smirked. “Looks like you are city boys. Poor things, shoveling it in like you’ve never had real food before.”

I didn’t even look up. “I’m in love with this meal. Seriously, I want to take it out back and make love to it right this minute.”

“I’m flattered,” she said. “But you’re not my type. I like my men with fewer broken bones.”

Mike choked.

“I was . . . I meant . . . oh, fuck me. Never mind.”

Gina howled, clapping all the way back into the kitchen.

By the time we finished, I was stuffed, barely able to move.

“Time for cobbler,” Gina announced, dropping two bowls larger than the endless salad bowl from Olive Garden onto the table.

“Sweet Jesus,” Mike muttered. “How are we supposed to eat all that?”

Gina dropped two spoons on the table like they’d personally offended her sensibilities. “One bite at a time. Now, get to it.”

I didn’t have room for cobbler, but one bite in, I knew I’d die fat and happy. There was no way I was leaving a single crumb in that bowl, no matter if it was the size of an Olympic stadium.

Mike ate without speaking. He occasionally groaned—or moaned—or sounded like he’d shot in his jeans for the third time. But he didn’t stop shoving fruity goodness into his mouth long enough to utter actual words until it was gone and the bowl was scraped clean.

Gina came back with the check and a knowing smile. “So. Y’all coming back before you leave town?”

Mike and I exchanged a glance.

I grinned.

“Oh, absolutely.”