One. This Woman’s Work

ONE

This Woman's Work

Maren

Twenty years later

Hallmark is a lying bitch.

According to all those Hallmark movies, the best friend always has a simple, perfect life. Doting husband she met in college, two-point-five kids, white picket fence, thriving career that she rushes off to after hanging up the phone with her chaotic main character bestie, slugging back some fresh-squeezed orange juice without spilling a drop on her pressed white linen pantsuit before kissing the cheeks of her family…

And a dog, I guess. At least I got that part right. I do have a dog. And I also have two chaotic main character besties, though both have found the loves of their lives on top of their thriving careers in television and in Nashville, respectively. They're downright domestic these days.

So Hallmark got it wrong, clearly, because nowhere in their many, many iterations of romance does the put-together best friend unravel in the midst of a very public proposal from her boyfriend of a year after he steals her work promotion out from under her. Nowhere in those movies does the best friend have a humiliating panic attack, where she vomits spectacularly all over her (presumably ex-) boyfriend's bended knee in the middle of a state park in front of both of their families, sprint away three miles down back-country trails, sneak into her car (therefore leaving the presumably ex-boyfriend stranded), speed home, pack her embarrassingly meager belongings and her confused dog, and drive all day and into the night to a shack in the Northwoods her late fishing partner left her in his will.

Thanks, Hallmark.

It's twilight, but the Northwoods are extra dense this time of year, so I dig around for my eyeglasses and slip them on to better spot deer. I adjust uncomfortably on the bench seat of my old beat-up Bronco and crack my neck side to side, grimacing at the loud pops. I've been driving for seven long hours. My butt is half asleep, my brain is fuzzy, and Rogers, my two-year-old wirehaired pointer, is carsick.

"That's what you get for sitting sideways," I say to him, unsympathetic. "I've tried to tell you, but no. You insist on staring out the window mile after mile." I've already stopped three times to allow him to yack up his breakfast, and the last time there wasn't anything to puke.

"You and me, kid," I mutter with a rub behind his soft ears. "A couple of pukers today. Not our finest moments, honestly."

My phone vibrates with another notification. At the first rest stop I had texted my best friends Shelby and Lorelai something along the lines of SHANE PROPOSED. I VOMITED. PEACED OUT TO WISCONSIN. TALK TO YOU SOON. So it's probably one of them following up. Or maybe it's my mom. She was at the ill-fated proposal, along with the rest of my family, includ ing my three older brothers and their families. I doubt she'd be surprised by my running to Wisconsin, though. Everyone knows this is my place. I suppose it could be Shane. Though I would think after twelve months of "falling in love" with me, he would know me well enough to realize how I would react to a surprise public proposal. That said, he didn't know me well enough to figure out how pissed off and hurt I'd be when he applied for my promotion and got it, after a decade of my working my way up the ladder…

So I guess it could be him , Mr. Doesn't Read the Relationship.

Regardless, I don't check.

"I know this all seems very rash and unlike me," I say to my dog, who gives a whiny sigh in response. "Patient, people-pleasing Maren. Happy if you're happy and all that. But that's just like my work persona, you know? Shane should have seen underneath it all and understood that the real me, the everyday me, is more complex."

I turn onto another tree-lined road, familiar in a way that makes my heart catch a little in my chest. Almost there. Almost home. "And heck if I know why he thought after our conversation two nights ago, when I was clearly upset and told him I needed some space and wanted to take a break, he would move forward with a public proposal.

"Actually…" I say, jabbing at the air-conditioning and turning it off. We're close enough that I want the fresh air. I want to inhale the sharp bite of pine and rich soil into my lungs and clear my head. "Actually, I do know why he chose to do it publicly. He thought he could manipulate me into saying yes. He knew I wasn't feeling it after the job thing, and he heard me ask for space and thought the way to get what he wanted was to put me on the spot in front of all those people. He thought I wouldn't be able to say no, and guess what?!"

Rogers opens one eye and his tail thumps against the bench.

"Yeah. I said no. The look on his face…" I trail off, the smile dying on my lips and my breath hitching. The look on his face was shocked, and that hurt more than anything else. He was shocked that I dared to turn him down.

And I almost didn't. Again. The number of times I let him manipulate me into agreeing to things I didn't actually want to do… Going on the all-inclusive luxury cruise to Jamaica that was zero percent my style, wearing those deathtrap high heels out to elegant restaurants with tiny offerings I couldn't pronounce, reading thick political biographies because it made me look smarter, eating keto during the holidays so I didn't gain weight, doing Dry July when all I wanted was a beer and to spend a weekend fishing off the shore…

The thing about Shane is that the gaslighting snuck up on me under the guise of "improvements" that I didn't ask for. Instead of learning who I was, he focused on making me who he wanted me to be, and I went along with it.

I roll down the windows. I don't feel like talking or thinking anymore. Instead, I crank up the old radio and let the music lead me home.

Two days later, I'm not exactly regretting my decision to drop everything and run away to my shack in the Northwoods, but I'm not not regretting it, either. My choice may have been a skosh rash. But I've spent the last forty-eight hours deep cleaning decades of grime and rodent feces from the tiny, questionably livable apartment behind the bait shop I've in herited and to give up now would be a waste. I haven't even gotten out on the flowage yet to fish. Heck, I haven't even left this place except to run to town for coffee and a few grocery staples, followed by McDonald's when I realized there wasn't a clean surface to prepare food on the first night.

But there is an outlet to charge my cell phone, though service is negligible, and an old boombox radio, and lots and lots of opportunities to second-guess every decision I've made since I graduated high school. So I have that going for me.

I've managed to clear out the clutter and trash and wipe down and disinfect every surface in the last two days, as well as scare off three mice and adopt the fourth on the sun porch after Rogers and I both failed to intimidate it into leaving. I've named it Lady Gaga because, like its namesake, bitch is fearless. The fridge is stocked and the stove seems safe enough, though ancient. Fost wasn't a messy guy, per se, but he was definitely a hermit. His wife died of cancer before I knew him and they were never able to have children of their own. His life was his bait shop, his old aluminum Lund fishing boat, and the flowage. And me , I think with a pang of grief. Regardless, he didn't much care about keeping a tidy house. The shop was marginally better, but two years of dust and total neglect took a toll.

Still, I might be able to make something of it all. I've nearly convinced myself to make my leave of absence with the Michigan Forestry service permanent and spend the next few months here, turning this into something Fost and I could both be proud of. I'm not completely ignorant of home repair, after all. I grew up with three older brothers who all went into various trades and one of my best friends stars in a reality TV home-renovation program. Not only that, I spent a summer fixing up my cute little rental back in Michigan with my landlord's permission and a hefty discount. I might not be ready for anything that requires a building permit, but I do all right with surface-level fixes. The structure at Fost's place is sound. I just need to make it look viable again, and then, maybe in the spring, I'll sell it and move on. Real estate goes for a premium up here. Vacation homes and resorts pepper every shoreline. It would be a solid investment of my leftover YouTube nest egg from back in my college Musky Maren fishing channel days.

It would also be a nice long break from Michigan and Shane and my family and the mess I left behind. I called Shane back from town the first night and made the break official (in case regurgitating my lunch all over his Merrells wasn't clear enough). Since we didn't actually live together (I couldn't leave Rogers, and Shane thought my place was too small for our combined belongings), and we weren't engaged and therefore had no wedding plans to dismantle, it really was as easy as walking away. The year we spent together, making love, playing at love, planning for our future, was just that: a year. And now it was over.

I'm not as sad as I think I should be. My mom, whom I called after Shane, believes I'm in denial. She figures I'll have a delayed reaction, and then the regrets will come. Maybe. Or maybe Lorelai was right when she said, "I don't know, babe. Maybe you weren't as into it as you wanted to be."

When I stop being indignant at the man's goddang nerve of a public proposal, perhaps I'll be able to see through to the depth of my feelings.

Regardless of who's right, I am digging into this project with gusto. What happens next is future Maren's problem.

Rogers whines at the door to be let out, but from the barely suppressed energy vibrating off him, he needs something more than the paltry bathroom walks I've allowed him so far. Pointers are fantastic working dogs. They love hunting, swimming, running, and have all the endurance in the world. I could strap his leash to my bike and ride fifteen miles with Rogers alongside of me and he wouldn't so much as pant.

But after two restless nights followed by two long days of manual labor, I'm not feeling much like a bike ride. Instead, I grab Rogers's inflatable dummy and a Gatorade and head out back toward the water.

Fost's cabin/bait shop sits on a grassy-turned-sandy point that juts out into Bryant Lake roughly thirty meters or so. It's not a vast property, but the location cannot be beat. It's private and cozy while still offering a view that stretches for miles in every direction. Boats will pass through on occasion, but there's a wider passage on the other side of the island that most prefer. It's dinnertime, though, and September. Families are back to work and school and the evening fishermen won't be venturing out for another hour or two.

Which is all to say I feel comfortable standing at the end of Fost's rickety wooden dock and tossing the dummy out over the depths for Rogers.

Again and again, I throw and Rogers retrieves, paddling back and dropping the sopping-wet toy at my feet before I throw it again and he jumps right off the dock after it. At least the water tires him out more quickly than the land. The resistance seems to slow him down the tiniest bit and eventually he flops down at my feet, tongue lolling and chest rising and falling happily.

I take my cue from him and sit down, removing my shoes and socks and dangling my toes in the water. It's not cold yet, but it's not exactly warm, either. After a sharp inhale, I begin to relax, and the cool water feels good on my tired, aching feet. I sit back on my hands and stare out over the lake. The water is smooth as glass, reflecting the early evening sun. Above us, puffy cotton-candy clouds break up the blue and a couple of loons coo back and forth. I let my eyelids fall closed and take in several deep breaths, pulling the clean pine-scented air into my lungs and imagining it filtering into my bloodstream and clearing all the recent bullshit out of my system. A shriek echoes in the silence, but it doesn't sound scared, so I don't even open my eyes at first. It's more like a laugh. I feel Rogers perk up next to me, but he doesn't move, so I figure I'm right about the laughing.

It's confirmed a minute later when I hear a man's growl followed by even more childish shrieking. Peeling my eyelids open and squinting at the disorienting brightness, I search the shoreline and locate the source. A tall and very attractive blond man, built big, is chasing after two smaller blond kids. One, possibly a boy, looks to be about eight or nine, if my many nieces and nephews are anything to go by, and the other is younger. Maybe four or five? The man's long, tanned arms are raised like he's some kind of bear or monster and the oldest slips behind a tree, cackling, hurriedly beginning to climb the low-lying limbs. The younger one tucks herself behind her brother, less sure. He reaches behind himself and tugs her along with him on a small limb reaching out almost horizontally toward the shoreline.

"Maren?" I hear my name called from somewhere behind me and it shakes me out of my nosy musing. I recognize the deep, booming voice of my oldest brother, Liam, though it takes me a beat to realize he's actually here , and not in Michigan where he lives with his wife, Jessica, and their two kids. I scramble to my feet just as Rogers takes off like a rocket in the direction of his call.

"Liam?"