Page 61 of Sweet Doe
I accept the coffee gratefully, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic. The morning air has a bite to it, even in what passes for summer this far north, and I'm dressed in layers—thermal underwear beneath hiking pants and a fleece jacket, with a down vest over everything. My red hair is longer too, braided back to keep it out of my face during the day. It’s easier to manage at the end of the day.
Six months ago, I would have felt severely underdressed without makeup and styled hair. Now, I can't remember the last time I looked in a mirror for longer than it takes to braid my hair or check for ticks after a hike through the forest.
"How are you feeling about today?" Asher asks, settling beside me on the rocky water’s edge.
Today is the day we finally reach the property he’s been talking about, the place that will become our permanent home. After six months of camping and hiking and living a nomadic lifestyle through the Canadian wilderness, we're finally going to see the cabin that will house the next chapter of our lives.
"Nervous," I admit, taking a sip of hot coffee that tastes like heaven after another night sleeping in a tent. "Excited. Terrified that it won't live up to the way you've described it."
"It will." His confidence is high, the way it always is when he talks about our future. "You’re going to love it, and you’ve got all the time in the world to make your changes until it’s absolutely perfect."
"Tell me again," I say, settling against his shoulder as we watch the morning sunlight dance across the water. "About the cabin, the lake, all of it."
He’s described it to me hundreds of times by now, but I never get tired of it. Maybe because each time he adds new details,or maybe because I love the way his voice gets soft and dreamy when he talks about our future home.
"Solar panels for electricity, but backup generators for the really dark months. A well for fresh water, but the lake is clean enough to drink from too. Root cellar for food storage, workshop for repairs and projects." His arm tightens around me, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "Garden space for vegetables, greenhouse for year-round growing. Enough firewood stockpiled to last three winters."
"And no neighbors for how far?"
This is my favorite part.
"Two hundred miles in any direction. Maybe more." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "The nearest town is a fly-in community of maybe fifty people, and they're used to folks who value their privacy."
Privacy. Such a polite word for complete isolation from law enforcement, missing person investigations, and anyone who might recognize us from the photos that probably still circulate on social media and true crime forums.
Sarah and David Mitchell, the couple who crossed into Canada six months ago, have been living off cash and wilderness survival skills ever since.
"Do you miss it?" I ask the question that's been on my mind more frequently as we get closer to permanent settlement. "The ability to just walk into a store, or eat at a restaurant, or have a conversation with another human being?"
"Do you?" he counters, which is his way of avoiding the question.
"Sometimes." I'm learning to be honest about these things, to not pretend that this life doesn't come with costs. "I miss Cara. I miss being able to call my parents. I miss the silly things… ice cream whenever I want it, hot showers that last longer than three minutes, and sleeping in a real bed."
"The cabin has a real bed." His voice carries a hint of amusement. "King size, memory foam mattress, cotton sheets. Solar-heated water for showers that can last as long as you want."
"Luxury accommodations for our self-imposed exile."
"The best exile money can buy," he agrees cheerfully.
"I found something yesterday," I say, pulling a small object from my jacket pocket. "While you were setting up camp."
It's a piece of sea glass, frosted blue-green and worn smooth by years of tumbling in the lake's gentle currents. I hold it up to catch the morning light, watching it glow like a tiny stained glass window.
"It's beautiful," Asher says, but he's looking at me instead of the glass.
We sit in comfortable silence, watching the sun climb higher above the mountains. Soon we'll need to break camp, pack our gear, and hike the final eight miles to his property. Toourproperty. To the place where Sarah and David Mitchell will put down roots and build a life that has nothing to do with the people we used to be.
"Are you ready?" I ask, though I'm not sure if I'm talking about the hike ahead or the larger question of ourverypermanent isolation.
"I've been ready for this my entire life," he says simply. "The question is whether you're ready."
Am I ready?
Am I ready to commit to a life with no backup plans, no escape routes, no connection to the outside world? And am I ready to become someone who exists only in relation to him, whose entire universe consists of whatever we can build together in the wilderness?
And most of all, am I ready to let Sloan Hayes die completely, buried so deep that even I forget she ever existed?
The engagement ring on my finger catches the morning light, a simple band of platinum with a small diamond that he somehow acquired during our weeks down south. He proposed beside a glacier, dropping to one knee in the snow while northern lights danced overhead. There’s never been anything more romantic than that.
