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There was this one time when we were in high school when a bear got into our tent and completely ravaged everything while

we were down at the river fishing. Let me just say that walking back into Jo’s dining room to clean up didn’t not make me think of that memory. It was a mess. But I found myself smiling as I swept and whistling while I wiped down the table.

Wes Hobbes and I had just spent perhaps the most emotionally raw and real few hours together of our entire shared history, and my head felt cluttered by the presence of the various life stages of me all reacting to that development in their own way.

Little Addie with her crush basically since birth was giddy.

Teenaged and in love Addie felt hopeful and optimistic and so at home.

Brokenhearted young-adult Addie was fussing at herself for being so weak and letting him in again.

And of course modern-era Addie was just super confused.

But even in the midst of all the clutter, peace and clarity were most prominent, rising to the top like the smoke in a burning building.

Except the smoke was a good thing. And the peace and clarity and happiness and endorphins were all working together to make me not dwell on the fact that in this analogy, whatever was happening between Wes and me was represented by a house burning down.

I took one last look around the dining room and spotted my shoes against the wall. I slipped them back on and turned my attention

to the kitchen—just a few dirty dishes, much less bear ravaged—and then indulged in another moment by the fire. It felt weird just to sit. It wasn’t like there was a

whole lot to do most days, but usually I still found ways to busy myself. But I’d checked in with Neil that morning, and no

flights were scheduled today so it was unlikely he would need me at Valet Forge. And I wasn’t exactly in a rush to hurry home

and have another confrontation with my dad. And of course I couldn’t have gone anywhere even if I wanted to, I reminded myself,

since Wes had Beulah. There was absolutely nothing better to do than sit here and enjoy the fire and think.

“Don’t you dare go and start thinking on me, Adelaide.”

I sighed indulgently, in the privacy of the empty inn, and stretched out to a fully reclining position on the leather couch.

If I closed my eyes, I could still see his lips curling up as he made a valiant attempt not to laugh at me—not that I would

have cared if he had. It felt safe and comfortable, and from the moment I was in his arms and he was kissing me, I was as

certain about him as I had ever been. I knew him, and he knew me. Not as well as Joel had known me, of course...

Joel.

My eyes opened again, and the light peeking through the window cleared away the silky, gauzy, hazy warmth that accompanied

thoughts of being in Wes’s arms and replaced it with the cold and isolated feeling of not being in Joel’s. Of never being

in Joel’s arms again. I had just barely begun the process of truly accepting the isolation. Of adapting to it. Of coming to

terms with never feeling warm or silky again, and certainly having no desire to, since I’d yet to master the spell or discover

the magic words or build the time machine that would bring Joel back to me.

I felt the silent question well up in my chest— Should I feel guilty? —and then chuckled as the answer reverberated through my heart, undoubtedly in Joel’s voice:

For this? No way. We’ll talk later about you forgetting to water my lady’s slipper orchid after I died.

I allowed my eyes to float closed and thought of Wes again. This was good. This was safe. There were things each of us was

hiding from every other person in the world, but not from each other.

He doesn’t know you’re an alcoholic, but other than that...

I squeezed my eyes tighter and told the nagging voice to shut up. That voice didn’t belong to Joel; it belonged to party-pooper

Addie, and she wasn’t welcome. Not yet. Besides, it wasn’t like I was hiding my alcoholism from him. It just hadn’t come up.

And yes, I knew it would need to. Soon. Probably really soon. I had no idea what he and I were flirting with here, but I’d meant what I said: whatever it was didn’t feel like something

that could only survive inside the bubble. And if we were going to even consider making a go of it, he would need to know

what he was signing on for right off the bat.

Nine days out of ten—no, more than that... ninety-nine days out of a hundred—I didn’t even think about alcohol. I understood

what my addiction had cost me: my career, my reputation, quite a few friends, and certainly any hope of finding a way to carry

on in DC after Joel died. The thought of going through any version of any of that ever again was reprehensible to me, and

I genuinely felt no desire to drink. Not on the bad days and not on the good days. I figured that probably made me one of

the lucky ones, and I’d committed to never taking that for granted. On ninety-nine of the days, I didn’t think about alcohol,

but I thought about addiction on all one hundred of them.

Just because I felt no desire to drink, I knew I wasn’t out of the woods.

I would never be out of the woods. If I was going to fall off the wagon, it wasn’t going to be because I wanted a drink.

It would be because I thought I’d be able to handle having a drink.

After all, I’d been a high-functioning alcoholic who genuinely believed I didn’t have a problem for nearly twenty years before I truly lost control the first time.

Maybe I’d be able to control it again for a while, but maybe not.

Regardless, even one sip would mean I’d have to start counting days all over again, and I’d worked too hard for that cumulative number.

So I never stopped thinking about numbers of days.

I never downplayed my dependency in my own mind.

And if Wes was going to be in my life.. .

My eyes flew open, and I found myself staring at the ceiling. Was I seriously contemplating a relationship with him? What

could that even look like? Okay, so maybe he wasn’t running for president. Great. What was he going to do? Would he want to

finish out his Senate term? We hadn’t even talked about that, had we? Or maybe he’d said something. I couldn’t even remember.

I was so tired from the past couple of days. Oh, who was I kidding? I was so tired from the past couple of years. And I’d

been listening to the words coming out of Wes’s mouth with very different ears on Friday, when he was in the back of the Bronco,

than I had on Saturday. One day in which I had gone from strategically trying to avoid him to being mildly moved by (if also

very leery of) his idiotic hot chocolate gesture to talking with him in his room like old friends to hugging him at the end

of an evening during which I couldn’t help but remember how good it had felt to be loved by him.

And now, Sunday. Fueled by revertive rebellion at being told what to do and the sight of a truly exquisite bare torso, what

had I become?

I mean... a woman , I guess. Hadn’t really felt like one of those—in certain ways, anyway—for a while. In fact, I hadn’t expected to ever again.

Give yourself a little more credit than that, Addie.

It wasn’t really about the torso at all. Although, seriously ! What had it been? Sixty seconds? How were all those muscles burned into my brain like I’d been staring at the sun too long?

But no. More than abs, it was about Joel.

Wes had been so gentle with the information.

So compassionate. And yeah, at first I hadn’t wanted to trust a word coming out of his mouth.

Even after all the events of Saturday. No unbuttoned shirt could ever be enough to make me treat any of that as any less important than it was.

In 718 days, no one had mentioned Venezuela or Operation VE Ladder to me outside of a clinical, controlled environment in which they had all the control and I had none.

And I really did suspect at first, for just a moment, that Wes had dug up dirt to try to get close to me.

That was what I repeated to myself over and over in those first few seconds when he began talking: What’s the angle?

But then I’d looked into his eyes, and all I could see was the person I had to believe—who I couldn’t help but believe—had once loved me. And all he wanted was to let me know he was willing to be there since no one else could be.

“Um... excuse me. Do you work here?”

I am not a girl who startles easily, but I’m pretty sure I jumped about a foot straight into the air before standing up and

walking toward the front door. “I am so sorry. I didn’t even hear the door open.”

An older man in a nice suit smiled at me. “No apology needed. I apologize if I spooked you. I’m just wanting to see about

getting a room for the night.”

In the old days, Jo ran her reservations and occupancy details out of a black-and-white composition notebook. I was pretty

sure if that were still the case, I would have been able to figure out her system and get the man a key. But I’d heard that

Sebastian had convinced her to modernize, and a computer log-in screen requiring a password was staring at me from the check-in

desk.

“I wish I could help. The owner is out right now.” I glanced at my watch. It was right about lunchtime, and if she’d spent

the morning holding court at the Bean Franklin, as she was known to do, I could imagine Jo would be making her way back to

the inn soon. “I can tell you with absolute certainty, however, that there are rooms available. If you wanted to head to town

to grab some lunch or a cup of coffee, you’re more than welcome to leave your bags here.” I looked down at the single bulging

briefcase on the floor by his feet. “Or your bag, rather. Unless you have more in your vehicle? I’m happy to help you bring

things in.”

“That’s very kind of you, but this is all I’ve got. And I don’t have a vehicle.”