Fourteen. Dancing on My Own

FOURTEEN

Dancing on My Own

Maren

As nice as my cabin is, the Wi-Fi there is nonexistent, so I have to check my email at the lodge. Which is why I am there, first thing, during "morning coffee."

Believe me, I would have avoided it if I could.

"Morning coffee" is exactly what it sounds like, except with old men. And listen, I love the older guys. But all of them at once is like a holiday dinner with twelve nosy uncles you haven't seen in a while, all up in your business and every one of them "knows a guy." Need something fixed? They know a guy. Need something looked at? They know a guy. Need someone to knock you up? Oh, they have a nephew once removed who has a very lucrative career as a dentist and you can barely tell his hair is a toupee. He's available!

So I try to avoid the lodge this early in the morning, but I'm also avoiding town ever since the whole Bryce ordeal, plus Simon and Donna have me booked nearly solid with tours, so my free time is limited. The weather has been unseasonably warm and there's been a huge demand for guided fishing trips while the temperatures last.

Every moment I'm not fishing, I'm either making slow but steady progress on the bait-shop-slash-apartment or I'm over at Joe's. The clock is ticking, though, in more ways than one. For instance, my savings won't last forever. The tours help to keep me from spending out of my reserves for the day-to-day living expenses, but the bait shop is a literal pit. I probably should have had the entire thing bulldozed to the ground, but nostalgia (and Joe) prevailed. There's a ton of history within those ugly paneled walls.

It's salvageable, but it's not easy or quick. I'm basically just shuffling shit from one place to another, but I've rented a giant dumpster that will be arriving this weekend, and Joe and his parents have offered to help me fill it. I think having all the old materials cleared away will help.

That's my first task this morning. Check my email. Confirm the enormous dumpster is arriving soon, and then call my best friend. I wish I could FaceTime her from Fost's place, but along with being a money pit, it's also a black hole for technology.

So I've taken dozens of pictures, covering every questionable inch of the apartment and the bait shop, and I've emailed them to Shelby and her husband, Cameron. Because while they play home renovators on TV, they're also the realest of deals. I've scheduled a FaceTime consultation five minutes from now.

I sip from my coffee (just because I'm not interested in being fixed up with any balding nephews doesn't mean I won't partake of the free caffeine) while waiting for my laptop to boot up, and then click on the email icon. I send all the junk mail to the trash folder, making a mental note to go through and unsubscribe from things as soon as I'm back in technology once more. My sleep-addled brain snags on a line of text that reads Internal Job posting: Grand Canyon National Park.

I click immediately, my heart giving a pang. Not a full-blown lurch, and not a racing, thumping beat, but a pang. I love the Grand Canyon. I would have to sell my place and move, of course, but do I really want to stay in Michigan anyway? The posting would be a lateral move, but because the park is bigger, there would be more responsibilities and I would be eligible for a step increase and raise.

The posting is new and will be up for a month, which is a long time and has me thinking they've created the position, rather than trying to replace an existing one. Not to mention we're heading into the holidays. I kind of doubt they'll be looking to fill it until after the new year. I catch my lip between my teeth, skimming the description and details.

It would be a fresh start without losing the progress I've gained in the last decade. I minimize the tab, instead of closing it. I need to think on it a little more. On the surface, it seems meant for me, but lately I've been questioning everything. I'm feeling completely off-kilter, and at my age, I definitely ought to have my shit together.

I feel like I'm basically taking a gap year, trying to find myself, while my friends are having babies and planning weddings, their careers taking off. Weirdly, I've never been jealous of Shelby or Lorelai and their individual fame. They've overcome so much and gone through hellfire to get where they are today. I couldn't be more thrilled for them.

But I am a tiny bit jealous of the look of contentment they both wear these days. It's as though the world could be crumbling to dust around them, and they would still be standing strong, weathering all.

Love. That's what they have, and I don't. It's probably why I stayed with Shane so long, despite my waning feelings. I wanted someone who would weather the storm with me the way Shelby has Cameron and Lorelai has Craig. But not exactly like them because while I adore those men for my best friends, they're not really my type.

Which is why I am leaving the tab open. For now.

Without much thought, or even really knowing why, I find myself idly following the steps to get to my old Musky Maren website. I told Joe the truth back when he asked me about Bryce Callahan. I haven't been back to my site since I stepped away from everything ten years ago. But being here, fishing again and, despite my best efforts, hearing that moniker of "Musky Maren" over and over… well, it has me curious.

I click on the site via the back door and scroll through my old pictures, squirming a little at how juvenile it feels. Like another era—another person. But, honestly, it's not as terrible as I imagined. Not that I want to repeat history, but I find myself feeling a little proud of baby Maren and her clear drive. I'm also kind of pissed that I allowed people like Bryce to chase me out of the space I created for myself.

I click around the time capsule of my very first and only attempt at my own business and chew my lip, trying to replace baby Maren with almost-thirty-four-year-old grown-up Maren. What would I do differently? Better? Would I want anything to do with YouTube and video content after all this time?

But then I notice a little icon in the corner. Messages. I have a contact form through the website that I never disconnected. I just stopped checking the email. I could access it through here as well, though.

I'd forgotten.

With a deep breath, I hover on the icon and click once.

My screen instantly loads with email addresses. I don't bother reading through them all. I have a pretty good guess from the subject lines what they contain. Most are old. Like close to a decade old, though there are a handful that trickled in over the years in between. My eyes snag on the most recent ones, however, and my stomach sinks to the floor. At least a dozen recent emails are clearly from Bryce. I don't click on the messages, but the subject lines tell enough…

MUSKY MAREN IS BACK

I had this weird dream about you…

Guided Tour Inquiry?

Local Signing at Cole's Landing?

PUT YOUR PICTURE UP…

Are you really married, though?

I immediately click out of everything and slam my laptop shut, my heart racing and a cold flush covering my skin. I swallow back the urge to throw up my breakfast. I can't believe this. Except, actually, yeah, I can. That's the difference between baby Maren and me. I'm aware. I know how men on the internet work. I know the way they think.

After a minute of deep breathing, I open the laptop again.

This is stupid. My reaction is stupid. I'm a grown woman and he's just a small man on the internet. I delete every message unread, log out of the site again, this time for good, and get up to pour myself a fresh cup of coffee.

Ten calm minutes later, my phone finally alerts to a FaceTime call. I tap my phone screen, smiling wide. "Hey, babe!"

"Hello, stranger!" Shelby says, peering close. "Are you even more tan? How are you more tan? It's October. And is your hair different? You look different. All glowy or something?"

I smirk at her theatrics and pop in my AirPods so I can hear her over the din of coffee time. "I spend every afternoon on the water, so despite my liberal sunscreening, my fisherwoman's tan is well developed. As for my hair, I haven't washed it in three days. And I haven't showered yet today. So perhaps the glow is oil? Residual sunscreen?" I shrug.

"Darn," Shelby mutters, her lips quirking mischievously. "I was hoping you were getting some from Hot Bartender Joe."

Despite my earbuds, I whip around to see if anyone heard her. "Shelby!"

"What? Are you denying he's hot?"

God, no. "That's irrelevant," I whisper-hiss. "We've already covered this. He's Liam's best friend."

"Oh, is Liam there?"

I roll my eyes. "Obviously not."

"Then I fail to see the issue. Not to mention, you're not thirteen anymore, beauty queen."

"Just because you're all sexed up on the regular," I whisper, looking around again to make sure no one's listening.

"I am, thank you. The belly has made things interesting, but Cam isn't afraid of being creative."

"Wonderful," I mutter.

"Oh, stop. You're happy for me."

I pretend to pout, but she knows me too well. "I am. So what about the pictures I sent?"

She waves a dismissive hand at the screen. "One minute. Cameron is on his way." She leans in closer. "So for real. What's wrong with Joe? You said he's a single dad. Divorced? Widowed?"

"Divorced," I confirm. "A few years ago. He has two beautiful children who I really, really like. Is that weird? I mean, I love my nieces and nephews of course, but I like Anders and Lucy."

"Not weird. I bet they adore you and Rogers. God, you're like a fairy princess brought to life. They're probably in awe of you."

"Hardly," I scoff. "But they don't seem to mind having me around."

"Okay…" She trails off, her hands spreading in the air in front of her. "I'm not seeing the issue."

"Cameron still not there?"

She pins me with a look, and I sigh.

"Fine. The issue is he's not interested in me like that. I'm basically his little sister. Also, I'm moving as soon as this rebuild is done. Gonna sell the bait shop and apartment as one. Just saw an available job at the Grand Canyon. Thinking of applying."

My best friend stills for a beat, processing. Or maybe the phone has a delay. Either way, I'm left fidgeting on my end, self-conscious under her assessment. Finally, she asks, "Did I miss the part where you said you weren't interested in him?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. "You're obnoxious."

Shelby beams. "That's what I thought. We'll table this for now, in that case." She turns her head to someone off camera and suddenly Cameron's big, burly, bearded face is centered in my screen.

"Cam!" I cry, thrilled to see him and not just because he's great.

"Hey, Mare. How're you?"

"Depends. What do you think after seeing my pics? Am I nuts?"

His grin doesn't change, but he says, "Professional opinion? You should have lit a match the moment they handed you the deed."

I drop my head to the tabletop and thud it once, twice, before lifting it again. "And?"

"And…" He looks at Shelby. "And I'm gonna let my wife give you our personal opinion, but I'll warn you, she's doing that thing where she gets all dreamy. She's usually right, but it's always more work."

"Maren," Shelby gushes, as if we haven't been talking all along, "it's got gobs of character. That antique till? Those built-ins behind the register? That alcove with the wide windowsill that faces the lake? Dreamy, babe. It's perfect. This is so totally worth it. I'm coming up. We both are. Two weeks from now. You said you're gonna clear out all the trash?"

I blink, stunned at this news. "This weekend. I guess I'm not throwing away the till, though."

"Don't you dare. Just the trash. The rusty wire racks, the plastics. But if there's any cool merch that's got a vintage feel, put it aside for me. I want to look through and make sure we can't incorporate it."

"You're really coming?" I check.

"Of course. You didn't think you were going to renovate without us?"

"Well…" I absolutely thought that.

"Maren Lorraine Laughlin, are you kidding?"

"No, but you're more than a little pregnant right now, Shelby. And at any given time you two have three different projects rolling. I just figured you were bus—"

"Not too busy for family," Cameron cuts in with finality in his tone. It's the tone he uses on projects when the deadline is closing in and someone double-booked the tile and cabinet guys. "You're like Shelby's sister. That makes you my sister and we make time for family."

"I know you have a big family already, Mare, but I don't." Shelby's eyes are watery, and my throat reflexively tightens. "You and Lore are it for me. So please let me do this."

Hell. "I would be honored. Besides," I tease, though my watery sniff probably ruins the effect, "I'm desperate."

Shelby claps. "Yay! Two weeks, then. We booked a villa already! I can't wait to check out this resort after hearing so many good things over the years."

I blink at her, shocked. "You booked a villa?"

"Well, Cameron wanted a cabin, but they were booked, and anyway, we'll have a lot of gear. Cam's packing a whole trailer of his tools."

"I have tools," I say with a sniff. Though, to be fair, probably not the quality or even the amount someone like Cameron needs. I took a regular hammer to one of the walls last night, and it did both too much and not enough damage to the bathroom wall.

Cameron grins, self-deprecating. "I like mine. It's nothing personal. A man likes his own tools."

"I can't believe this," I say, still feeling unbalanced. "I'll take you out musky fishing or something. I owe you."

"Family," Cam reminds me. "I'm not much of a fisherman, but I'd love to catch a musky."

"I'll find you one," I vow. "Thanks, you guys. I can't even tell you how much this means to me."

"Send pics after you've cleaned it out," Shelby says. "The apartment, too. I want a clearer picture of what we're dealing with."

"I will."

"Love you, Mare."

I swallow hard. "Love you both, too."

I thought the giant driveway-sized dumpster was going to be overkill. After all, the bait shop is maybe five hundred square feet, and the apartment is barely double that. How much trash could there possibly be? Especially keeping in mind Shelby wanted the final say on anything "vintage" or that "fit the aesthetic," so that all went into an ever-growing pile.

I thought wrong. Old, stained carpeting that reeked of stale cigarette smoke was ripped up, closet doors with long-rusted tracks were yanked out, tiny aluminum sinks with leaky faucets and original cabinetry that held a thick coating of cooking oil and grime all went to the trash. Linoleum flooring that hid even more linoleum flooring underneath, and yeah, paneling. So much paneling.

And that was just in the apartment. Everything from the water-wasting toilets to the sun-faded buffalo-plaid curtains had to go and it took all day long. But I had help. Earlier, Donna and Simon came, and while Donna stalled things a little out of nostalgia (Fost's apartment felt like one of those historical exhibits in museums where they show a living room through the different decades, except it was just the 1980s), Simon was plenty of help when it came to pulling up flooring. In the afternoon, Donna left to watch the lodge and Simon went to take Anders and Lucy out for ice cream before keeping them for the night so Joe could put in a shift at the cabin with me. (Originally the plan was to have the kids at the house with us all day, but that was before we found the magical duo of asbestos and lead paint. We called Joe and told him to keep the kids at home and we masked up.)

Cameron was right. I should have lit a match and called it a day.

"I don't remember ever seeing Fost smoke," Joe says, rubbing his forehead with the sleeve of his flannel and making his hair stand up with sweat.

He does not look good sweaty. He doesn't .

I peel another nail from the paneling with the back of my hammer. It comes out of the particle board with a satisfying squeak, and I move to another.

"He didn't around us, but your mom said she remembered both him and his wife smoking like chimneys before she died of lung cancer. I'm thinking he stopped after that, but by that point, it didn't matter. At least to his walls."

"Basically have to take this down to the studs," he grunts.

I sigh. "Cameron's professional opinion was to burn it down."

Joe raises a brow over his face mask that clearly communicates his agreement.

"Shelby's an idealist, though. She said the bones are too good to set on fire. But she couldn't smell through the pictures. She may have felt differently if she stood where we are now."

"She's not wrong. The bones are solidly built, and the foundation is like new."

I grimace. "Maybe so, but I'm gonna have to wash everything in bleach water."

"We'll help," he offers, and while I want to argue, I can't. Not because I need the help (though I do), but because I'm quickly learning that they would ignore me anyway.

"You guys have enough going on with the resort and Lucy and Anders… I don't want you to feel like this is necessary. I'm the dummy who is trying to make something out of nothing."

"And we're the ones who knew this place was rotting away after we moved Fost out and completely neglected it for years."

I don't respond. I just glare at him, which he pointedly ignores and carries another armful of toxic ceiling tiles out the door.

When he returns, he rocks his head from side to side, cracking his neck. "Let's wrap on this room and come back in the morning. It's getting dark and we need to eat."

I stand, pressing my hands into the small of my back and arching my spine. "Only a few panels left. I'll remove the nails and you cart them out. I'd offer to order a pizza, but I don't think we should eat here."

"How about you finish this, then I'll drop you off at home, you order a pizza, I'll shower at my place, and then come to yours to help you eat it. Dad and Mom have the kids for the night, but my fridge is empty."

"Works for me," I say, trying not to sound too happy that I'm not done seeing Joe today. I also don't bother thinking too hard about why that makes me happy. I'm dead on my feet. All I want to do is strip off these toxically dusty clothes, stand under a steaming-hot shower, and crawl into bed.

And yet, I'm not ready to say good night to this man.

It takes another thirty minutes to finish pulling out the rest of the paneling and for Joe to muscle it out the front door. By then, it's full dark and my hands are raw, my fingernails are obliterated, and my shoulders are on fire. I doubt I'll be able to get out of the bed in the morning without a lever and pulley operated by my dog.

Joe moves room to room, shutting off lights and double-checking windows. Because after all this work, I'll be damned if I let this house burn down now. I follow him out the front door and lock it behind us, then we head to his car. I walked over here this morning, but I'm grateful to not have to do so now. At this point, if I saw a bear, I might let him take me.

I've never been in Joe's truck before. I've always felt like you can tell a lot about a person from the inside of their vehicle. It's like a microcosm of their life. Joe's Ford is no-fuss. Nothing modified or upgraded, but tidy and comfortable. It smells like him… clean laundry detergent and man. There aren't any fast-food wrappers, but there are multiple reusable water bottles of varying shapes and a car seat for Lucy in the back. The radio automatically hooks up to the Bluetooth on his phone and plays country music that I only recognize because Lorelai Jones is my best friend and, because of that, I pay attention.

Somehow, knowing he listens to edgy, obscure country music makes him even hotter. Which believe me, he did not need, where I am concerned.

We pull up to my cabin in no time and I stifle my groan as I drop down onto the gravel that leads to my temporary porch.

"You'll order pizza?"

"Yep. To be delivered. I'm gonna order after my shower, though. I have a feeling I'm gonna be a minute. If you're ready before me, let yourself in."

His frown is illuminated in the streetlight. "I don't like the idea of you showering without the door locked. Just text me."

"Joe. Okay, fine, I'll lock it. Rogers is in there, so he'll bark when you knock, and it will be fine. I won't drown, I'm just fucking tired."

"Should we skip tonight?"

"No!" I say too quickly and am glad the dark hides my pink face. "It's fine. I'm hungry. Go and come back."

Joe watches me unlock the door to my place and let Rogers out to pee. He does his business quickly and runs back to join me inside. After we're inside, I lock my door, muttering under my breath, and march straight to my bedroom, stripping off as I go. I might not burn down the apartment or bait shop, but I really want to burn these clothes.

Then I hustle into the shower, turning it to near scalding, and let it fall on my muscles, loosening me up from head to toe.