Page 113 of The Only Thing That's Real

Mushrooms are disgusting.

“Take a left at the fork.”

“You’re driving me out to the middle of nowhere to murder me, aren’t you?” Knox kids, taking the turn as instructed.

“Trust me, it will be worth it.”

We got to Goose Hollow around midnight last night, sleeping in until close to eleven this morning. Knox was understandably physically andemotionally drained from the last two weeks. We had a late breakfast at Gracie’s Crooked River Cafe and then went to his family’s store. McKinnon’s Hardware is a lot more than tools and lumber, and they had everything we needed for the afternoon I have planned for us.

We bought two lawn chairs, a cooler, ice, snacks, and sodas at the store. The blanket, towels, and Bluetooth speaker in the backseat I brought from his place.

Knox keeps referring to his secluded two-bedroom dream home by the lake as ours, but I’m having a hard time adjusting to that. Yes, I said I would move here with him, and I do want a life with him.

But the cabin is his.

He built it, paid for it, and decorated it. Well, he hasn’t done much in the way of decorating. The walls are pretty bare, except for the family portrait hanging on the entry wall. It’s a huge black-and-white picture taken before Knox’s dad, Aiden, passed away. There’s snow on the ground as the family poses in front of the barn emblazoned with the McKinnon Ranch logo. Of course, Bernadette, the highland cow, is in the shot. It’s a beautiful portrait, but other than that there are no gold records, awards, or photos with celebrities to be found.

I didn’t miss the way Knox kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with the folks in town. Something tells me he feels uncomfortable in Goose Hollow for a different reason than his fame. He’s uncomfortable in his own skin walking around his hometown, and it breaks my heart.

He says he wants to put roots down here, but when he’s home, he goes to the lake, the ranch, his brother’s bar, or the family store. Today I’m expanding his horizons. Introducinghim to the spot I loved to spend summer days as a teen and maybe a new hideaway for him.

Our bodies sway back and forth as the truck treks over the old logging road that leads to my happy place. The county keeps the road up, but it’s still a rough ride.

“Oh! Right there!” I point toward the even smaller dirt road that leads to a handful of campsites that butt up to a stream. “You can pull in right there and then back into that spot in the middle.”

Before the truck is in park, my feet hit the ground. Wasting no time, I walk toward the stream, inhaling the scent of pine trees and wet earth. The sound of water trickling over slick, algae-covered rocks plays like a soundtrack over memories of happy days here with my friends.

Knox comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders. “So, this is your spot, huh?”

“Yep. My happiest summer memories happened right here.” He kisses the top of my head. “Once me and my friends could drive, we stumbled upon our own little piece of paradise. It hid us from everything and everyone. We felt free.”

“I know what you mean. In a small town where everyone knows each other, you need to find your own secret hideaway, otherwise you’ll suffocate.”

I’m surprised to hear he felt this way. He was beloved in this town. As was his family. I was hiding from my parents, but what was Knox hiding from? What was suffocating him? There’s always been something that has kept him away. I hope he’ll tell me why when he’s ready.

“Exactly.”

“So, show me your spot.”

“With pleasure,” I say, slipping from his embrace to open the tailgate of the truck. “You grab the cooler and I’ll get the chairs and speaker.”

He follows me to the water where we both slip off our flip-flops, leaving them next to the towels. Seeing the usually leather and denim clad rocker in shorts, a T-shirt, and flip-flops is new, but I like it. The stream is only two or three inches deep and maybe ten feet wide. I find a level spot to set the cooler and then place a chair on either side of it. I plop down in one of the chairs, pull two sodas out of the cooler, and place one in the cupholder of each chair. Knox stands in front of me like I’m a crazy person.

“Sit.”

He sits, stretches his legs out in front of him and takes a sip of his drink.

Neither of us speak for the longest time. We let the water tickle our toes, as the trees shade us from the blistering summer sun, while the sounds of the forest wash away all the stress and tension of being on tour.

Knox is the first to break the silence. “This is fucking perfect.”

“Right?” I agree.

“It’s like being at a damn spa. Only strangers aren’t touching you, and it’s a hell of a lot cheaper and more enjoyable.”

“As a person in my thirties, I have to agree. But as a teenager, it was a lot louder. We infiltrated the tranquil space with loud music and idiot behavior.”

“I like it better like this.” His head rests on the back of his chair, his eyes closed as he relishes in the fresh air and freedom.

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