Page 59 of Snowed Inn

Tempting, but I don’t want my obituary to read: PR Executive Dies in Poorly Executed Snowmobile Stunt While Chasing Emotional Closure via Kitten.

“No thanks,” I say, taking the map and heading out.

Most of the stone walkways have been shoveled, thank God, so I’m not plunging knee-deep with every step. When I veer off the path toward Jesse’s place, there’s already a narrow trail worn through the snow, pressed down and familiar, like someone’s been pacing it daily. Probably him. Still, the snow crunches under my boots, crisp and satisfying, and the air is so cold it feels like it could shatter.

I notice how quiet it is again.

Not just “library at closing time” quiet. It’s deeper than that—layered. The kind of quiet that only comes when snow hushes the world and even the wind seems to be holding its breath. The trees stand tall and bare around me, their black branches tangled against the dark sky like ink strokes on parchment.

The silence wraps around me—startling, absolute. I don’t think I’ve ever truly heard it before.

In the city, silence isn’t silence, it’s car horns at a distance, sirens two streets over, a neighbor’s music bleeding through the wall. There’s always something.

Out here, there’s nothing. Just the faint creak of trees shifting in the cold and the rhythmic crunch of my own footsteps. It’s eerie and peaceful and oddly beautiful.

I like the space to think. To breathe. I didn’t know how cluttered my brain was until now, when for once, there’s room for it to stretch out. And a silenced cell phone.

I tighten my coat and glance ahead.

Jesse’s got to be home, right? It’s Thursday, which is his night off. I know this because I casually asked Charlotte earlier like I was inquiring about the weather.

Then another thought pops into my head. He may be home, but what if he’s not alone? What if he lied about not having a girlfriend? What if he lives with someone? Is that why he didn’t want to tell me where he lives?

I keep walking. I guess I’m about to find out.

It takes the entire fifteen minutes for me to trudge out past the work barn and to the right. When I finally do, I see exactly what Charlotte described. It’s marked by a little X on her map. But it’s not at all what I expected. It’s not a house. Or even a mobile home. It’s an old Airstream trailer set in a small clearing. Its silvery sides are lit up with strings of brightly colored Christmas lights and there is classical music coming from inside.

The whole thing makes me smile.

It looks homey.

But I have no idea what sort of reception I’m about to get.

I take a deep breath and make my way up to the door. I can hear Jesse in there talking. Who’s he talking to? His girlfriend? The woman he has locked in a cage? I knock and the speaking stops. A few seconds later Jesse’s face appears in the round window at the top of the door.

Oh, shit. He doesn’t look happy.

I straighten my shoulders and clear my throat. I’m going to have to do some serious talking to get him to agree to let me stay even for five minutes. I can feel it.

The door opens and Jesse is standing there wearing his usual long-sleeved thermal undershirt and flannel with jeans. His cap is gone though, and for the first time I notice that his hair is slightly curly. It’s pretty cute. I may imagine myself running my fingers through it.

“What are you doing here, Maria?” His arms are braced on either side of the door, and his face is like a thundercloud.

But I am nothing if not bold at inappropriate times, so I say, “I came to visit Christmas.”

“I told you I would bring her to the inn,” he grumbles.

I plunk my mittens on my hips and give him a tight smile. “Are you gonna bite my head off like the day we met?”

He sighs, lowers his arms, and stands back to let me in. I step inside and my jaw drops. It may not look like much from the outside, but the inside of the trailer has been completely remodeled with a mid-century modern vibe. It’s got medium brown wood paneling on all the walls and the ceiling. The far left is a small kitchen with a stove, a sink, a little refrigerator, and a round booth that looks like it could fit three people. There are custom-built cabinets along the whole length of the middle. Across from the door, there is a dark-blue couch with a guitar hanging above it. There’s a narrow door to what I assume is a tiny bathroom. And there are stacks and stacks of books everywhere.

It’s small but it’s cozy and just so Jesse.

“What a great place,” I say.

He shrugs. He’s rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s not much. There’s no dishwasher.”

I immediately feel a pang of guilt remembering the washing-dishes-in-a-bucket snark I lobbed at him on Christmas Eve. “Yeah, but who needs a dishwasher?” I reply, glancing around to find something—anything—to help me change the subject.