“It’s not okay,” she says. She’s crying now. Actually crying. “It’s not okay because I love you and I don’t want to go back to Austin and I don’t want to lose you, and what you’re doing right now—this silence, this withdrawal—is making it impossiblefor me to know whether you’re here or whether you’re already gone.”
I don’t answer. I sand the wood. The motion is rhythmic. It’s something my hands know how to do without my brain involved. It’s safe.
“Jace,” she says. “Please.”
But I don’t have anything left to say. The fear is too big. The silence is too comfortable. The walls are too high.
She leaves quietly.
She waits for about thirty seconds to see if I’m going to stop her, to see if I’m going to turn around and say something that would change this moment. I don’t. I listen to her footsteps retreating. I listen to the workshop door closing. I listen to the sound of her absence replacing the sound of her presence.
Then I keep sanding.
Friday morning comes and Morris is still blocking Marco’s rental car.
I don’t actually know how he’s managed this. I don’t know if he’s slept. I don’t know if he needs to eat or if he’s made a decision about this vehicle and he’s committed to it. The point is that the car is not going anywhere and Marco cannot leave without dealing with Morris, which is funny because Marco is the kind of man who has no experience with moose.
Ryder is in the parking lot at seven-thirty AM, ostensibly to check on the situation but actually to make sure Morris is okay, which means the whole town is coordinated on the Morris situation. This is what small towns do. They rally around the right side and they do it without saying it out loud.
I hear about this because Piper texts me. Piper is my information broker and I’m realizing now that she’s been trying to help me the entire time. She’s telling me where Gabby is. She’s telling me what Marco’s doing. She’s trying to give me the information I need to fix this, except I don’t know how to fix it because the fix requires me to use my voice and I’ve let the silence win.
Friday afternoon, Jasper finds me in the workshop. He’s been spending nights with Gabby, or at least I assume he has because I haven’t been tracking his movements carefully. He’s got that look in his eyes like he’s disappointed in me. Dogs are good at expressing disapproval.
“I know,” I tell him. “I’m being a coward. I’m just trying to do the right thing here.” This is what I say to a dog. This is the level of emotional articulation I’ve achieved after thirty-one years: I’m confessing my cowardice to an animal who once ate an entire boot and showed no remorse.
Jasper nudges his nose against my hand. He doesn’t leave. He stays there like he’s keeping watch, like he’s not going to let me disappear completely into the silence.
By Saturday, Marco is eating lunch at Dotty’s café, and Dotty is absolutely not serving him. She’s standing behind the counter with her arms crossed and she’s saying, very calmly, to everyone in the café, that the kitchen is having equipment issues and they’re not serving food until further notice.
The kitchen has no equipment issues.
What the kitchen has is a proprietor who’s decided that Marco is a problem and she’s going to solve it by making his stay in Ashwood Falls as uncomfortable as possible.
He goes to the bakery to find Gabby.
I don’t see this directly, but Birdie texts Piper who texts me. Marco is there. He’s brought flowers. He’s brought the brand ofcharm that works in cities, on people who don’t know him. He’s trying to convince her.
And Gabby is doing what Gabby does when she’s overwhelmed and scared—she’s talking. She’s telling him that she’s building something here. She’s telling him about the bakery, about the community, about the man who builds furniture. She’s telling him everything except the part where she doesn’t want to go back to Austin or to him because she’s finally found a place where staying makes sense.
That’s what Birdie reports.
And then Birdie told Piper who told me—and this is the part that makes my chest tight for reasons that have nothing to do with fear and everything to do with knowing I deserve this—Jasper walks into the bakery and he growls at Marco.
Jasper has never growled at anyone. Jasper greets everyone with the enthusiasm of a dog who believes the world is good and people are great. Except Marco. Jasper takes one look at him and he growls like he’s protecting something precious and he’s decided he’s a threat.
Gabby kneels down next to the dog and she looks at Marco over Jasper’s head and she says, very calmly, “I think you should go.”
“Is it the furniture maker?” Marco says. He’s still being charming. He’s still not understanding that charm doesn’t work in a place where silence speaks louder than words and actions matter more than intentions. “Is that why you don’t want to come back to Austin? Because of some mountain guy in Alaska?”
“It’s not about Jace,” Gabby says. But her voice says otherwise. Her voice says: it’s exactly about Jace, and also about me, and also about what I’ve built here, and also about the fact that you never made me feel the way he does.
“I can make you happy,” Marco continues.
“You already didn’t,” she says. “You cheated on me with my best friend. You stole my business. You made me feel worthless. That’s why I came to Alaska. That’s why I’m staying.”
According to Birdie who told Piper who told me, she says it like it’s decided. Like the decision has been made and she’s announcing it. She says it while holding a dog who’s growling like he’s never growled before. She says it like she’s not waiting to see if I’m going to come back from the silence and fight for her.
Because I’m not. I’m in my workshop, avoiding the very man she told to leave. I’m sanding wood like it’s going to fix anything. I’m choosing safety over presence and I’m calling it protection when it’s abandonment.