by J. R. Rogue
“No, not yet,” I say. “I just finalized my divorce, and I’m not sure where I want to land. So, I wanted to come here and clear my head.”
Sera’s eyes darken as she reaches for her hand, and her finger runs over her wedding ring. I see it, but I don’t direct my gaze there.
If you want to find out who your real friends are, end your marriage and watch where the pieces fall. Watch who stands by your side and watch who stands by the convenient side. People are so eager to help you through your grief when it’s something that fits into their neat little lives. And if you really want to see what a shit show looks like, end a marriage in a small town. Lines are drawn, and when you stare across them, you see that everyone you know is someone you see every day of the week. At Walmart, at the local Applebee’s.
It’s an ugly thing to know you’re disposable. And recently being betrayed by my closest friend wasn’t the first time I felt that way in my life.
Maybe I am selfish, like Preston said. Perhaps I did just want blind faith and support, and who can offer that? All I know is I’m standing here, in this strange place, no longer knowing what real friendship is, and maybe family, too. Or, what I want either to mean for me. I’ve seen too many friends and family members come and go to believe I am not—at least at times—the toxic one. To be wholly self-aware and still struggle to change the things you know are dragging down your closest relationships is a deep sinkhole. I need to crawl out of the one I’ve been buried in for a year.
Driving eleven hours, through Nashville—where memories linger of the hurt brought on by three people that’d been close to me—left an ache in my belly. Trying to find myself here in the woods is my way of crawling out.
I’m thirty-six now. One marriage come and gone, with no desire to look for another new last name. I’m already haunted by every last name tied to me.
Sera and I let the moment sit until she finally breaks it. “I’m sure others would benefit from this kind of extended stay. Chace and I have discussed putting an application on the website for a writer residency. Maybe it’s time to do that.” She pulls out her phone and begins typing, perhaps making a note.
I turn away from her, to the windows lining the east wall. “I don’t know how this place can do anything but make someone breathe easier.”
Her voice comes from behind me, closer to me than it’d been moments ago. “I hope it does that for you. We only let groups come in a few times a year. The rest of the time, it’s only open to individuals. We find that groups who already know one another tend to get loud, just want to write a couple of paragraphs and drink down by the bonfire. This is about peace and words, not a cabin in the woods to get wasted at.”
I look over her shoulder, to a sleek countertop against the back wall. My gaze lingers on the wine bottles.
Sera follows my gaze and looks back at me. “Write drunk and edit sober, right? Just not drunk enough to trash the place.” She winks at me.
I like the way her face changes when she smiles. She has a husky voice, and her pale skin is luminous. I’ve read every word she’s ever written. It’s a strange thing to see someone in person you know so well through their words. I look at her and realize I don’t know her. Not really.
Writers are careful with their words. We see what they allow us to see.
Her words are so melancholy, so sad. But I see a certain lightness in her.
I want that for myself.
I plan to find it here.
Kinfolks
Sonnet
I spend the rest of my first day at the cabin in my new home, the room Sera led me to after her tour.
On one side of my bed, there’s a sliding glass door. I open the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains before dark, as well as the sliding door, letting the Tennessee sun in. I’m located at the end of the bottom floor, so no one needs to pass my room to get anywhere. Silence and solitude are mine.
I don’t know who I’ll befriend here, or if I’ll try to befriend anyone. A lot can happen in seven days, but any friend made will be gone after that as the weekly guests filter out, making room for a new batch of writers.
Enjoying the view in front of me, I cross my legs on the bed. Voices above me, where the rest of the writers will be staying, reach me through the large screen, separating me from the fall air. I’m thankful Sera put me in a secluded spot. I can hear the writers arriving, but they don’t know I’m here, allowing me to observe and absorb.
Tennessee’s always been a mixture of regret and heartache for me, but the mountains are not Nashville. The sin and sweetness of that city cannot call to me from here. I’m pretending my father’s betrayals can’t find me. I know this shade of denial will catch up to me, but I can’t help it. My mother and my therapist would both urge me to face these feelings head-on, but their advice and admonishing comments can’t reach me here.
A door opens across the hall from my room, and a deep voice speaks, but no one replies. The guy is likely on the phone.
“I miss you,” he says. “I know. I know, baby girl, but it’ll fly by. I’ll only be here a—”
The door shuts, and his voice is gone. It’s a shame, seeing as I’d enjoyed hearing it. His voice is lovely.
Sadly, it’s been forever since I felt attracted to any part of a man. I miss the hum, the lull of desire. Beautiful hands to pull me in. Sharp jawline. Gentle smile.
I couldn’t date in my hometown after my ex-husband and I separated. It wasn’t worth it, and it wasn’t something I wanted to do yet.
I had stories to tell then. I have stories to tell now.
After a moment, I reach for my phone to check my messages. My mother, the only person resembling a friend in my life, has sent ten messages.
My eyes strain to focus as I read through the texts. How are the mountains? When are you coming to visit me? How do you feel? Did you text you-know-who?
I’m not surprised at her last question. I’m close with my mother. She knows about my little fling from the past—details spared, of course. I debate on texting her back and giving her my thoughts on you-know-who but decide it’s too much.
So, I hop in the shower first, setting up a slow country playlist as I wash.
Just as Sera had mentioned, there’s a grocery store at the bottom of the mountain.
I don’t remember passing it, though I nodded in fake remembrance when she reminded me of it. In truth, I’d driven in a daze the last hour of my trip.
Now, I pull into the parking lot and turn off my car, exhaling. It’s a simple joy, knowing I can shop without running into anyone I know.
Custody of our town? Yeah, I didn’t get it.
I didn’t want it, but it made the final year I lived there as we negotiated the terms of our divorce excruciating. Online shopping became my savior. I ordered with an app, pulled up to the grocery store, waited patiently for the attendant to load my car, and then drove away. I used to frequent the liquor aisle in the gas station near my place quite often in the beginning. Then I decided to abstain from alcohol entirely for a few months. Drinking made me want to text him.
I’m not myself when I get drunk. I think about calling my ex. I think about texting my one-night stand from Nashville—Mr. You-Know-Who. And worst of all, I think about tracking down my father again, despite what happened last time.
I shake my head, pushing thoughts away of the men I let hurt me. I like knowing I’m alone here, far from all of them. Knowing I can fill my heart—and cart—with everything I need to be nourished, without worrying about anyone else.
I start with the produce aisle, throwing bananas in first. My pace is leisurely as I walk through the rest of the store, grabbing granola bars and gummy bears, along with every other comfort writing fuel I know works, because I need the words to come. I need them to flow.
If I can’t write here, amidst the beauty Tennessee has to offer, can I write anywhere?
My phone vibrates in my hand. It’s a text from my mother.
Mom: Are you writing today?<
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I roll my eyes then let her know I’m shopping and will be hitting the keys within an hour, knowing she’ll hold me accountable.
Mom: So how’s Tennessee? You never answered. You seriously didn’t consider stopping by Nashville to see a certain someone play?
I blush, right here in the freezer section. My cheeks are warm but my ass is cold so I get to moving, inching my way toward the register. I know she’s trying to remind me of the good Music City can offer. We never discuss the bad it brought. Not anymore.
Me: No, jackass.
Mom: Sex is healthy and necessary, Sonnet.
I fake gag, though she can’t see me. Jesus, mother. I haven’t slept with anyone since my divorce, but I sure as shit packed my vibrator for the trip. I don’t need the complications of a real person. I don’t need the feelings and heartbreak that come attached to the dick she thinks I need.
Me: He doesn’t live there now. And I don’t have his number anymore.
He. Him. Hunter Hart. One half of the heartbreak that haunts Nashville. The reason I didn’t want to go back for years. Or at least that’s what I told myself. It was easy to blame him for my hatred of the city even if it’d been someone else who tainted the music and the lights.
Mom: Where is he again now? Texas?
Me: Georgia.
I throw my phone in my purse, heading toward the checkout lane.
Over a decade ago, I drove to Nashville with my best friend—correction: ex-best friend—before I married my now ex-husband. All to find a father I never knew. Birth father. Shit father. No father of mine.
The trip was supposed to change my life. I convinced myself it would, anyway. Preston and I had decided to take a break. Well, I decided to, because he couldn’t decide if I was the woman he wanted to marry. And I couldn’t decide if I wanted the kind of family he planned for.
Some of us want carbon copies of the family we grew up with. Some of us want the polar opposite. I never knew which I wanted, if I even wanted either.
I have a mother who loves me but can’t figure out what romantic love means for herself. I have a father who abandoned me when I was three because he couldn’t handle the fact that my mother had moved on from him. He couldn’t face the reality of having to share me with a stepfather, so he gave up when he couldn’t have his way—refusing to compromise, to work out schedules and visitations with my mother.
It all became too hard for him. So he cut out, ran away, with his tail between his legs and Tennessee in his sights. The place his family lived.
Also about ten years ago, against my mother’s advice, I tracked my father down, telling myself I could offer him forgiveness for the years he threw away. And in return, just as my mother predicted, I got my heart broken.
So, that same night, I got shit-faced drunk in downtown Nashville. I wept at a wrought iron table in the summer heat. I broke my phone and wiped my eyes, then walked inside and let Hunter Hart help me forget it all.
Now, he and I are barely friends.
It’s been a while since I messaged him. Since I sent him a meme or a song request. I’m finally free to talk to him openly without fear of hurting someone else, and I can’t do it.
My phone vibrates again, so I pull it out.
Mom: But, for real…did you think of him when you drove through?
Me: Yes. Yes, of course.
Who Am I
Sonnet
The cabin has a caretaker. A twenty-three-year-old girl with long hair and big blue eyes. Her name is Brooklyn, and she reminds me of someone I would be friends with when I was her age; or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. She seems nice, but the people I became friends with so many years ago have proven to me that nice doesn’t save you from knives in backs.
Brooklyn attends college online when she isn’t taking care of the cabin. While she’s here, she cleans, helps with arranging and preparing meals, and runs errands for guests who are afraid to traverse the winding roads. She told me all of this when she came down to give me a spare set of sheets. I didn’t ask for her life story, but she gave it to me.
I haven’t ventured out to mingle since my arrival, opting to hide away for the most part. When I do go upstairs, I quietly observe everyone from the fringes.
I can hear Brooklyn outside now, around the bonfire, laughing. It makes me feel even more lonely in my room. I haven’t laughed like that in so long.
But there’s still plenty of time for my laugh to return.
And…maybe my muse
During each calendar month, there are four separate writing retreats for various kinds of artists—songwriters, novelists, poets, and screenwriters. I showed up just as the songwriting week began, so naturally, I feel like an intruder. I don’t know anything about songwriting. I blew off my one chance to learn because I couldn’t write with someone I had feelings for.
Anyway. I’m a novelist. I write of romance and hope—two things I’m not sure I believe in anymore. And I haven’t been able to write a single word since I got here. So I do what I always do before starting a project: I observe. I watch. I listen. And Brooklyn is very talkative, so I can’t help but character-profile her.
What strikes me most is her ability to cut through bullshit while not alienating people. Her humor is self-deprecating, and though she’s going to school for business, she wants to be a stand-up comedian. Some of the jokes she makes around the fire crack me up. I leave my sliding door open when they’re out there, just so I can hear them.
I’m turning into a real creep already, but I want to keep clear of everyone—especially Brooklyn. I don’t need anyone looking into me or through me. I don’t want anyone to ask any hard questions, because I don’t have answers yet. But she seems like the type to ask those questions.
From the looks of the retreating sun and the sound of everyone upstairs, dinner is winding down. I don’t want to join yet—it isn’t required—but I know deep down I need to start socializing with someone. Before I become the Gollum of the cabin, sitting like a weirdo in a corner with my precious notebook.
I hear a knock on my door, but I ignore it. After a moment, as I continue to look out beyond the sliding glass, a voice comes from the hall.
“Hey, I just wanted to let you know dinner is almost gone. Better get it while it’s good! We also have ice cream!” It’s Brooklyn. When did she slip inside, away from the fire? She sounds cheerful, as I am quickly learning she always does.
I don’t want to be an ass so I answer, loud enough for her to hear me. “I’ll be up soon. Thanks.” Shit. Now I have to go up there.
When I make it upstairs, I feel her eyes on me. It’s uncomfortable, but every time I look at her, she isn’t looking at me, so I blame my paranoia. I don’t want to be seen, so I feel I am being seen.
My thoughts wander to the last time I met someone and felt like I’d known them forever. I hated my mom for bringing him up today, for making me acknowledge the fact that I’m currently visiting the state in which we met. The truth is, I miss Hunter’s presence in my life.
Our friendship was shit. It wasn’t real. We both knew that, but the ruse was easier to manage. For a while, anyway. And maybe that’s the truth of why we let it fade into what it is now.
A flash of memories ripples through me as I make my plate. Lost in the past, on autopilot, I find a spot at the end of a table. The whir of voices around me in the room and outside is background music.
As I’m about to take a second bite of my green beans, a plate lands next to mine, and Brooklyn smiles as she sits in front of it.
“Sup.” She clicks her chin up, and I offer a small smile in response. “Are the green beans good?”
“Yes,” I reply, honestly. I’m not that hungry, but I sample each item in front of me so I appear human.
She has a book with her—How to Stay Sexy and Not Get Murdered.
“That’s an interesting title,” I say, nodding at the black and red cover.
“Do you not listen to My Favorite Murder?”
> “Your favorite what?” I ask, before taking a bite of the mashed potatoes. Damn. They’re good too.
“My Favorite Murder. It’s a podcast.” She looks at me like I’m an alien for not knowing what she’s talking about.
“No, never heard of it.” I shrug.
“You’re missing out. It’s two women, Georgia and Karen, and they talk about murder—famous murders, hometown murders, all of it. I love it. They’re muh girls.”
“You don’t strike me as the morbid type.” I look at her light hair and blue eyes. At her chosen dress, with sunflowers on it. A cream cardigan covering her shoulders, protecting her from the chilly October weather. She reminds me of Kitty Foreman from That ‘70s Show. A young Kitty Foreman.
“You gotta have balance. And you gotta have a lot in here that’ll keep you safe.” She points to her head. “Do you know how unsafe it is for a woman in this world? I’m a walking encyclopedia on ways we can die.” She rolls her eyes and laughs at herself.
I look around at the men in the cabin, then back to her. “Lots of dudes killing women, right?”
“Yes.”
“How do you deal with being in a cabin in the woods with a bunch of men?”
She reaches into the front of her dress, pulling out a small knife that was somewhere hidden with her boobs. “I’m always prepared.”
I laugh, and it’s my first time doing so since crossing the state line. I knew it. I knew I’d like her. Damnit.
It’d be so easy to be rude to her; I’m good at that. But, you can’t turn over a new leaf by clinging to old habits.
So when she asks me if I want to go sit by the fire with her while some of the singers play, I say yes.
