Page 44 of When the Smoke Clears

Fields of stubble roll past under a bruised sky. My fingers tighten around the steering wheel until my knuckles pale. The gravel’s rattle sounds like bones clattering beneath the tires.

After fifteen minutes, we turn onto a dirt road, and the car bounces over loose stones. Through the windshield, I spot the weathered cabin framed by pines. It stands silent like a secret keeper, holding the life we might’ve had inside its ribs. I slowly emerge from my car. My heart stumbles at the sight.

This place is where Luke built his life when I disappeared. My mind races with thoughts. What if I’d never left? Would this—this cabin, this land—be our life together? The question echoes as I park to the right of Luke’s cruiser in a patch of dirt and step out.

Luke studies my face. “What’s on your mind?”

My gaze stays fixed on the cabin. “It just feels strange being here.”

He shrugs. “Nothing about the last few days makes sense. Wildhaven has been quiet for decades—now suddenly, people are getting run down in the streets. I barely recognize this place.”

“This all started not long after Gabe came home.” I joke, attempting to tear the scowl from his face. “What’s his alibi?”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought about that.” It’s a joke, but he still huffs it out.

We climb the warped wooden steps, passing two rocking chairs whose white paint has blistered and curled into riverbeds of chips. I can almost see Luke perched in one, tapping his boot on the deck, listening to wind whistle through trees. He’s always craved the outdoors; at least that hasn’t changed.

He pushes open the front door, and I stop at the threshold. The scent hits me first. Cedar, smoke, and something undeniably him.

He glances back. “What?”

“You don’t lock your door?”

“In Wildhaven? Who’d bother? No one ever had a reason to.”

That’s what he thinks.

“I’m going to use the bathroom, then we’ll unload.” He slips down the hallway, leaving me alone.

I wander into the entryway, trailing fingertips along the wall as it steadies my steps. It leads me to the ample open space, with the kitchen to the right and the living space and hallway to the left.

The kitchen gleams with honey-toned pine cabinets and marble countertops, their veins swirling with gray like storm clouds. The polished range and humming fridge suggest a man who cooks. Back in our teens, Luke barely managed grilled cheese.

Heat panels echo in my chest as I imagine another woman kneading dough here, stirring sauces, leaving traces of herself on these counters.

I shake the thought away and wander into the living room, where long floor-to-ceiling windows frame nothing but towering firs and dappled sunlight. A leather sofa sits low to the ground, its cushions pressed in gentle arcs where bodies have lounged. It feels like a suspended treehouse, the world beyond softened and green.

A short hallway leads to two smaller rooms. An office: an oak desk strewn with files and an open, dark laptop. I picture Luke here at 2 AM, mind racing, eyes too bright for bedtime.

Next, a guest room: a queen bed draped in a soft blue-gray quilt, two nightstands bearing matching lamps, a dresser polished to a shine. Cozy but impersonal, like a paused welcome.

My heart drums as I approach the master bedroom. I shouldn’t go in there. I have no right to invade his personal space. I stutter-step at the doorway, but my legs carry me inside anyway, looking for more of a glimpse into the life he created without me.

The room bathes in soft light through sliding glass doors that open onto the wraparound deck. One Adirondack chair waits outside, its white paint cracked like old porcelain. I swallow hard. As much as the thought of him with someone else stings, his loneliness gnaws at me more.

Did I drive him into solitude?

His king-sized bed dominates the room, two plump pillows fluffed on the left side. He sleeps left. So do I. That small domestic symmetry feels intimate, like muscle memory built without me.

I press my palm to the mattress, savoring its give. I’d fight him for that spot any day. I smile at the thought.

The room’s palette is muted, with charcoal walls and ash-wood nightstands—practical and masculine, unmistakably Luke’s.

I let out a breath and slip into the master bath. Luke has clearly renovated this space as well. A glass-enclosed shower boasts a rainfall head and twin jets; tiles the color of sea glass shimmer under recessed lights.

But it’s the clawfoot tub that steals my breath—its white enamel gleaming, polished brass feet curled like a ram’s horns. Positioned before a frosted window, it offers the views without the exposure.

My thoughts betray me: me straddling Luke, hands steady on my hips, water lapping over porcelain edges. My cheeks burn.