Page 58 of Checking Mr. Wrong
“I would usually work in the sugarhouse, where we store the syrup. Part of my job was to make sure the taps on the tanks were secure, and one morning I forgot. When my mother camein to check on me, she asked about the taps and was irritated when I told her I forgot. I pulled out the ladder to climb up and check on them, but she insisted that she do it.”
I stop, take a breath, and continue. “She lost her balance and fell, and that resulted in multiple fractures of her hips and pelvis. There were complications as she healed. Sadly, it all led to my graceful momma being in a wheelchair long term.”
Mabel stops walking, her hand brushing against my arm. “Asher. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It’s not yours either.”
“I just told you how it happened, so it’s kind of obvious, right?”
“No,” she says. “You were just a kid.”
I laugh bitterly, shaking my head. “Try telling that to her career. She went from center stage to watching rehearsals from the sidelines.”
We find a tree, its sprawling branches offering shade, and sit beneath it. I lean back against the rough bark, the weight of the confession heavier than I expected. Mabel sits beside me, her hand slipping into mine. Her touch is warm, steady, and exactly what I need.
“You can’t carry that forever,” she says softly. “It’ll break you.”
“Why do you think I have OCD?” I stare straight ahead, a rush of cold water flushing through me like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I don’t know what’s come over me that my dam has burst open for Mabel, but now that the water is flowing, I can’t stop it.
“Is that when it was triggered?” she asks quietly, her voice but a whisper.
I look at her, the sincerity in her eyes disarming. “Yeah. After that day, nothing was the same again. Ever.”
We sit in silence, her fingers laced with mine. The parkbuzzes with life, but under the tree, it’s just us—and for once, that feels like enough.
“You know, I’ve been working on my OCD for a long time. Therapy with professionals, meditation, a lot of deep breathing. It’s like trying to wrestle a tornado into a jar most days. I’d get there, sometimes, for a while. Other times, not so much.” I trace my thumb over the back of her hand, the motion grounding me. “I used to feel like my brain was this overworked referee, calling fouls on every single thing I did, every thought I had. It can get exhausting.”
Mabel stays quiet, her expression open, no trace of pity, just curiosity and care.
“And for years, I thought that’s just how it would always be. Like, sure, I’d get better at managing it, but the storm would never really quiet down. Then I came here.” My voice drops, and I glance at her, the words feeling too raw, too vulnerable. “To Maple Falls. And at first, it was rocky. Everything felt charged; I had to really work hard on the inside to get settled. But the noise died down quickly. I thought maybe it was just the change of scenery, you know? Slower pace, less noise, fewer reminders of the chaos.”
I pause, gathering my thoughts before looking directly at her. “But these last few weeks…” I stop again, my chest tightening. Not with anxiety this time, but something I can’t quite name. “It’s different now. The storm isn’t gone, but it’s quieter. Like the ref’s taking a break. And I don’t know if it’s Maple Falls, or the fresh air, or…”
I don’t finish the sentence, because saying it out loud would make it too real, too risky. But she tilts her head, studying me with that sharp, knowing look she always gives me when she’s piecing together a story.
“Whatever ‘it’ is, it sounds like something worth holding on to,” she says softly.
I feel my face heat, a laugh slipping out, shaky and unsure. “Maybe. I mean, probably, right? It’s just, well, I’ve done thework, put in the time. But yet…” I stop myself again, letting the word hang in the air. How do I sayI think it’s youwithout sounding absolutely insane?
Her fingers squeeze mine, enough to let me know she’s not going anywhere. “Maybe it’s both,” she says. Her smile is small, tentative, but it feels like sunshine breaking through the clouds.
“Maybe,” I say, the word barely audible. And for the first time in a long time,maybedoesn’t feel like a question.
CHAPTER 20
MABEL
I’m staringat my laptop, the blinking cursor mocking me as I try to make sense of the swirling chaos in my brain. It’s not like me to sit idle, especially with a deadline breathing down my neck, but for once, I can’t focus. My thoughts keep veering off course, straight to Asher.
Asher. The man with the crooked smile and the unflappable confidence, the one who’s been barging into my life and turning my world upside down. The one who makes me laugh when I’m determined to stay grumpy, who listens when I’m ranting about nothing and everything. The one whose kisses taste like the sweetest escape from…
Oh, no. No, no, no.
I push back from the kitchen table, nearly toppling my coffee mug in the process. When did this happen? When did he stop being just a subject for a story and start becoming more? I thought I was immune to this kind of thing. My job—my life—has always been about staying detached, staying objective. But now? I’m a walking cliché.
My phone buzzes, jolting me out of my spiraling thoughts. I glance at the screen and see Frank’s name. Great. Just what Ineed right now. I pick up, trying to sound more together than I feel.
