Total pages in book: 42
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 40951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 205(@200wpm)___ 164(@250wpm)___ 137(@300wpm)
I could ask her to make it work.
Ask her to try splitting herself between here and there, between a career she’s bled for and a man who barely knows how to say I need you without choking on the words.
But I won’t.
I know what it’s like to lose yourself in something bigger than you. To give all you have and have it still not be enough. I won’t be the one who asks her to start dividing up pieces of herself just so I can feel less alone at the top of a mountain.
The last sponsor ride goes smoothly. Two reps from the city, cheeks red, clutching their branded travel mugs. They love the bells, the view, the “historic authenticity.” They talk about expansion, about packages, about coming back next year and bringing more people.
“That’s up to the mayor,” I say, because decisions that big don’t belong to me.
But the path I’m about to take?
That does.
I check on the horses, and give them an extra handful of treats. My mind is somewhere else. On the loft. On the couch. On Ivy’s head on my chest and her hand over my heart and the words I’ve started to want that feel too big for a man who still wakes up sometimes to sounds that aren’t there.
At eight on the dot, she comes.
She’s in that red coat again, the one that makes her look like she stepped out of every Christmas movie ever made. Hat pulled down over her ears, curls escaping, cheeks flushed. She’s bouncing on her toes a little, like she’s trying to contain a storm.
“Hey,” she says, breathless. “You ready?”
No.
“Yeah,” I say.
I help her into the sleigh. No sponsors this time. No blankets except the old quilt Mrs. Hadley insisted I take “for when you’re not working.” No noise but the faint echo of music from the square.
I climb up, take the reins, and click my tongue softly. Donner and Comet start forward, bells chiming in a slower, gentler rhythm than the one I’ve been running all day.
We don’t go far. Just the birch lane. The lower meadow. Enough distance that the town sounds fade and it’s just snow and breath and the two of us.
She watches me for a while, letting the silence stretch, trusting me to fill it.
That hurts more than anything.
“So.” She tucks her hands into her pockets, then pulls one back out and rests it lightly on my arm. “Big day.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Heard about your promotion.”
Her eyes light up. “Creative Director. I—I still can’t believe it. It’s everything I wanted. Bigger budget, bigger campaigns, more say in the direction of the department. I’ll be leading all the holiday accounts next year. Can you imagine? We could make the Chimney Gorge campaign an annual thing. Follow up. Summer. Fall. Holiday.”
I picture her in some glass building, windows full of city instead of pines, stacked with storyboards and calendars and clients all wanting a piece of her. I picture her phone buzzing nonstop, her laptop always open.
I picture her up in my cabin trying to answer emails on a spotty connection while I check fences and pretend I don’t hear the frustration in her voice when a file won’t send.
“Congratulations,” I say again.
She searches my face. “It’s a lot,” she admits. “Longer hours. More travel. I’ll have to be in the office more days. But—” She breathes out, a little laugh. “I felt like my dad was there today. Cheering me on. I don’t know. It feels right.”
“It is right,” I say.
And that’s the problem.
“You don’t sound happy,” she says quietly.
I keep my eyes on the road. On the way the runners hiss over the snow. On the birches, their white trunks glowing in the moonlight. “I am.”
“You’re lying,” she says.
She’s not wrong.
I pull the horses to a slow stop in the middle of the lane. The world narrows to white and shadow and the soft exhale of two patient animals.
“Ivy,” I say, feeling the words like stones in my mouth. “I need to say something.”
Her hand tightens on my arm. “Okay.”
I let the reins rest, my fingers curling around the worn leather for something to hold onto. My heartbeat is too loud. My chest feels too tight.
It would be so easy to say the opposite of what I’m about to say. To tell her I’ll drive down every weekend. That she can come up whenever her schedule allows. That we’ll figure it out. That love—whatever we’re growing toward—conquers logistics.
But I know better.
“I was…wrong,” I say.
I feel her go still beside me. “About what?”
“About starting something with you,” I say, each word scraping. “About thinking I could make a future work with someone whose life looks like yours.”
Silence.
Cold.
“You mean…because of work?” she asks slowly.
“Because of everything,” I say. “You’re going to be in offices and airports and meetings. You’re going to be running teams and chasing campaigns and living in a world that…doesn’t look anything like this.”