Five. Doll Parts

FIVE

Doll Parts

Maren

There were two reasons why I stopped making videos for my Musky Maren YouTube channel. The first was because I was offered a legitimate entry-level job after graduation with Michigan's Forest Resources Division that paid less but felt like real validation and that was important to me. This was the more digestible reason I called upon whenever I met followers who recognized me from those days, which happened a lot, especially working at a state park.

The lesser-known (read: no one knows aside from Shelby and Lorelai—and presumably Cameron and Craig) but more accurate and far darker reason I quit was because of a man named Bryce Callahan.

I knew Bryce lived in northern Wisconsin, but never his actual town. After all, Wisconsin is a big state and I wasn't a local. I grew up in Michigan and always stayed at an obscure family resort miles outside of civilization whenever I filmed my videos. Therefore, I first met him at a meet-and-greet during a Great Lakes outdoors show that I'd done. Unfortunately, things got uncomfortable real fast. It was clear the guy was delusional, and his favorite delusions revolved around me and had been building for a while. He started to show up at any in-person gig I was a part of. He'd wait in line, ask to take a selfie with me, and brought me gifts. Then he began emailing me through my website. I never responded, but that didn't prevent him from sending me unhinged messages about how much he loved me, wanted to marry me, and spent his nights jacking off to photos of me.

And, listen. It isn't uncommon for strangers to fixate on someone they met on the internet. I know what I look like. I competed in and won pageants for over a decade. I'm not an idiot and I've heard it all. But I was in college when this went down. I didn't have a security detail and I lived in a dorm room, hours from my closest relative. My early roommates were nice enough, but they didn't see the attention as anything to worry about. They either wanted me to share the wealth or they didn't like the way their boyfriends looked at me. By my junior year, I moved off campus into my own studio apartment.

Through it all, Bryce persisted. I started having panic attacks before meet-and-greets, worrying he would be there. I kept up with the channel because the money was good and I enjoyed what I did and the respect I started to get within the fishing community, but the trade-off was being vulnerable to men like Bryce. I should have filed a complaint with the police. Gotten a restraining order. Advocated for myself. But I didn't. I didn't think anyone would care. It scared the shit out of me, but it wasn't like he threatened my life. Sure, he made gross comments, but so did every boyfriend I'd ever had, and he thought he was my boyfriend in his own fucked-up head.

So I didn't do or say anything until I got my job offer after graduation. It was my chance for a clean break, so I deleted my channel, went dark on all my social media accounts, and moved to another state. Since then, I've kept minimal social media and the ones I have are set to private. I have two very famous best friends who live their lives well in the spotlight, but it's been over ten years since I've heard anything from Bryce or anyone else, so I've relaxed.

Turns out, I shouldn't have.

Five days. Five measly days I've been back. Two days since my brother had hit the road finally. I was at the hardware store in town, needing some assistance with drywall, and sure as shit there he was at the counter. He looked very nearly the same but was carrying more weight around the middle and less thatched brown hair on his head.

"Maren?"

Weirdly, for as much time as this man has spent living rent free in my brain, haunting my dreams, and causing me all sorts of anxiety over the years, I didn't recognize him at first. I wish I had. Hell, do I wish I had. I wouldn't have said a word, just run straight out the doors.

But I couldn't place him at first and I'm a naturally friendly person, so I say, "I'm sorry, do I know you?" Before the last words leave my lips, I remember. I remember who he is and a whisper ekes past my lips, "Bryce?"

The way his mouth spreads into a hopeful grin. "You remember me?"

I feel like a robot as I nod, my heart racing and my palms sweating. My brain short-circuits.

"It's so amazing to see you—wow. Musky Maren. In my store. I was just thinking about you"— oh god —"and then you appeared. Like out of a daydream. This is insane." Yeah. In sane. "I'm sorry, I'm rambling. You caught me off guard. Did you need something? Anything? A tool, a husband? Ha. Just kidding. Unless you're not married. Are you married?"

I immediately cover my ring finger and step away from the counter. "S-sorry. I'm… I forgot what I was… My husband! Yes." I plaster a tremulous smile across my lips. "I have a husband. He'll be right back. I'm such a dunce." I hit my forehead lightly and keep walking backward toward the door. "I always forget—bye! See you! Bye!"

I hit the door with a jangle of the bells and spin, practically sprinting to my car and climbing up into the seat where Rogers is on high alert. I shakily reach for my dog, burying my hands in his coarse fur, and he turns his head, giving me small, warm licks along my wrists.

"Shhh, shhhh," I whisper to him, as if he's the one freaking out. "Calm down. Just breathe." Rogers keeps up with his kisses and I tilt my forehead to his, soaking in his comfort. "It's all good."

Eventually, I pull myself together and turn on my car, glancing ahead of me one last time before reversing. And when I do, I see Bryce is still standing behind the counter, his gaze intent, watching me. I'm paralyzed but don't want him to see, so instead I force my body to move and wave before pulling out and driving straight back to my cabin in the woods.

I know my fears are irrational, but it still takes three more days before I stop jumping at every creak and shift in this old cabin. I park my old Bronco in the empty storage shed that used to be a garage but needed to be cleared out. I invite Rogers to sleep in my bed next to me. I'm ruining him. He's crate-trained and has been perfectly okay with his little house in the corner of my bedroom, until now. Now, he's discovered what it's like to sleep spread out on a soft mattress with a down comforter, pressed against me, and he'll never want to go back. RIP my personal space, I guess.

But I can't find it within myself to care. Even when I tell myself it's been over ten years and Bryce is probably married and has moved on and has three kids and a two-story house he built himself. Even when I'm like "Stop being so conceited, he was never obsessed with you, you're just paranoid." Even when I remember no one even knows I'm here or where I'm staying or how to find me. Even when I remind myself that I lied to Bryce and told him I had a husband.

For the tiniest portion of a split second, I second-guess myself turning down Shane, because if I hadn't, I would've had a real fiancé in Michigan and would have been safe from weird guys who fixated on my fishing videos from 2010.

But that goes away as soon as I remember the way Shane told me he didn't think I was serious about the promotion and thought I wouldn't care that he interviewed for it behind my back, because he would provide for me anyway, and after we were married, I'd be busy starting on our family.

"After all, Maren, you're going to be thirty-four by the end of the year."

I don't return to town. When I need to buy more paint, I head south toward Chippewa Falls, which is a ninety-minute drive, and pack a long list with everything I can possibly think of, including paint, more cleaning supplies, more trash bags. I even hit up Walmart and purchase new towels, bathroom products, kitchen utensils and dishes, a new microwave that won't short-circuit, rugs, and curtains. All in an attempt to make my little home cozier, or even just livable, for the coming months before I dive into the big project: the bait shop.

It's not terrible, as long as I plan ahead.

By the time Saturday rolls around and I'm supposed to go to the Coles' house, I'm seriously ready for a real home-cooked meal. Unlike my besties, I actually love to cook and don't suck at it. Back in Michigan, my kitchen was fully stocked, and I loved hosting my friends and coworkers for dinner parties or holidays. Fost's kitchen is more utilitarian, as in it's perfect for a single guy who liked to reheat but definitely not set up for anything that requires basic prep.

So I'm really looking forward to eating something not out of a can.

And I'll admit, I'm lonely. Now that the shock of my breakup is past, and my brother finally got out of my hair, I realize I don't really want to hole up by myself to lick my wounds for an indeterminate amount of time. I miss interacting with strangers, the way I did for my job as a park ranger every day. And I miss being in a relationship.

I don't miss Shane, but I kind of miss having a Shane.

By the time five o'clock rolls around, I'm ready. I've made an effort to look nice, blow-drying my hair and applying makeup. I put on a pair of cuffed olive-green boyfriend-cut jeans and a thin, fitted black turtleneck sweater. I even slip on a pair of black loafers and put thin gold hoops in my ears, which would honestly feel like overkill for a family dinner at the resort, except I've been in holey leggings and paint-spattered tees all week. I've needed this.

It's not a long walk to the resort property from my place, but I don't know how late I'll be, and I don't want to have to come back in the dark. It's not like we have streetlights up here in the woods, and anyway, I've had enough late-night encounters involving bears digging through the trash to know I'd better bring the Bronco. I load up Rogers and a bottle of red wine I picked up in Chippewa Falls in lieu of baking something to share. If I remember, Donna is a wine drinker. I wish I had something for Lucy and Anders, but I figure Rogers is enough.

Turns out I was right on that account.

"Rogers!" Anders calls from the porch of the familiar giant A-frame, and my dog answers with a happy bark.

The little boy is followed by his dad holding his sister on his hip and his grandma and grandpa. I'm startled by the emotion clogging my throat at the sight of them.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I think this means I made the right choice coming over here tonight.

"So I know you're wrapped up in Fost's mess, but have you gotten out on the water yet?" Simon Cole asks after practically licking his plate clean of his wife Donna's peach pie à la mode. I hide my smile as Donna wordlessly dishes him out another piece.

"Not yet," I admit. "To be honest, I might've underestimated how bad Fost let things get toward the end. It's taken me all week just to make it clean enough that I'm no longer thinking I'd be better off in a tent. I don't know how he managed it. If I'd known, I would have intervened."

Joe shifts his position at the table, his arm around his daughter's chair while she watches something on a tablet, her ears covered in soundproof headphones. "Don't beat yourself up over it. He hadn't been living there for years."

I raise my eyes to his, surprised. "He wasn't?"

Donna shakes her head. "No, hon. He was living at the resort. In cabin fourteen."

I blink. Cabin fourteen was nice. Like, really nice. The Coles had a massive resort with twenty cabins, six villas, a full-service lodge, and multiple trailer parks. Cabins one through ten were original to the resort. Super basic, cozy, and nostalgic. One or two bedrooms, tiny kitchenette, tiny bathroom with a stall shower, and a cute picnic table out front for outside dining. They provided zero extras like air-conditioning, television, microwaves. But about ten years ago, the Coles had built ten more cabins, all along the water, and rented them for a premium. They had modern amenities and as far as I knew, they always had a waiting list to rent.

"How'd he manage that?"

Simon chuckled low and sipped the rest of his beer. "He didn't, but we owed him. That man brought us a lot of business over the years with his guided tours and bait shop. It was the least we could do."

"Somehow I can't see Fost accepting that very easily."

"Which is why I went over with decades of figures that proved our point and convinced him to take me out weekly and show me his best spots," Joe says. "Told him I would barter the cabin rental for his priceless wisdom."

"Smart," I tell him with a smile. "But you know there's no way he showed you his best spots."

Joe grins in return, his tone good-natured. "I suspected. Why share his secrets with me when he was saving them for his favorite girl?"

I ignore the pang in my heart at his words. I miss my old friend more than I can say. "I'm guessing your ‘decades of figures' were bullshi—baloney as well?"

Joe shrugs.

"Well," I say, settling back in my seat, lifting my glass of wine, and putting it to my lips. "That explains the condition of things, then. I was wondering how he lived there, but I guess he didn't."

"He didn't. He tried to visit often enough to check on things and keep it clean, but toward the end, he didn't have the energy."

"If we'd known he was leaving it to you, we would have kept better tabs on things, Mare," Donna says, apology clear in her expression.

"Oh, no. That's okay. I didn't know, either, obviously. He wasn't exactly sentimental."

"You know," Simon begins in a singsong tone, and I can't help but notice the eye twinkle Joe warned me about.

"Here we go," Joe says, getting up to clear the table. "Why don't we move to the porch, Dad. I want to be able to keep an eye on Anders while you meddle in Jig's business."

I stand and pick up my plate and reach for the empty water glasses. "That's a good idea. Rogers is well trained, but I don't want him to go after wildlife and get lost in the woods as the sun goes down."

I'm adding dishes to the pile by the sink as Joe automatically fills the dishwasher. "Hear him out, Jig. I don't know what he's planning, but I can guess, knowing him. They love Maggie and Hudson," he says, speaking of my parents, "and they think of you as one of their own."

"Of course I'll listen to him," I say, affronted.

Joe raises an eyebrow.

"What? I'm not rude. I love your parents."

"I know you aren't rude. But you are stubborn and clearly going through something—"

"Right," I cut him off. "Joe. I turned you down for dinner. That's all. I was up to my eyeballs in fixing that shithole"—my voice lowered to a whisper on the cuss—"to make it habitable and you were being patronizing about me, a grown woman, locking the door. It was one conversation. I'm not an unreasonable person as a rule."

Joe's eyes search mine and after a pause, his shoulders slump. "I'm sorry."

"You are?"

"You're right. I won't bring it up again. I might be sensitive to women holding grudges."

I press my lips together, rolling them in. "Kiley?" I ask finally.

He just nods, placing the last dishes and then pouring soap in the dishwasher, starting it up right away. Which, it should be noted, I've never seen a man do ever. Nevertheless, I try not to stare.

He doesn't seem to want to say anything more about his ex and honestly, who am I to pry? I've known Josiah Cole since I was a baby, but I don't really know anything about him. Five years' age difference isn't a lot as adults, but growing up, it was a canyon.

"Can I top you off?" Joe asks, raising the wine bottle, and I pass him my glass.

"I'm not unreasonable, but I have a feeling this is gonna go down better with a second glass."

I was right. We move to the porch, and Simon and Donna make a cozy pair, sitting side by side on the porch swing. Donna's petite form means her feet don't hit the floor, so Simon rocks them back and forth. Seeing them reminds me to call home again. No doubt my mom and dad are worried about me leaving the way I did, even if they did send Liam in their stead.

Anders is tossing a neon tennis ball over and over for Rogers, who shoots out after it with the same amount of enthusiasm time and again. Joe's sitting on the top step of the porch, his back to the railing and his long legs crossed at the ankles across the stair, his beer resting in his lap.

I'm in a double-seater rocker next to Lucy as she plays with my phone. She's letting me rock us gently as she settles against my side, not quite intentionally. Her little brow is furrowed as she concentrates on a game that requires you to pop bubbles on the screen. It's not complicated, but I've always found it soothing after a long day. I figure she probably likes the bright colors and the soft pop-pop-pop s emitting from the speakers.

Because of this, I'm forced to hear out Simon's meddling start to finish, Joe shaking his head and smirking into his beer bottle the entire time.

I've been played by the Coles, and all it took was a super-cute four-year-old blond. I said I was reasonable, and I am. I love the Coles as much as my own flesh and blood, but that doesn't mean I'm comfortable with what they are suggesting.

"I can't stay at the resort for free, Simon," I finally respond, my voice soft but firm.

He doesn't even stop his rocking. "It wouldn't be for free. Johnson's staying in Green Bay for the winter to recover from open-heart surgery and Casper's splitting his time with his charter business in the Florida Keys. I need someone to take out tours until the water freezes over. We have cabin bookings through Thanksgiving, and the villas and cabins eleven to nineteen are booked even further because of snowmobilers. And that's without me advertising that Musky Maren is back in town."

The hair on the back of my neck stands up at the old moniker. "If you're booked solid, why would you offer me a cabin? I don't want to cut into your profits."

"We're booked, but we leave cabin twenty open year-round for visiting family and close friends. You never know when one will show up and want to stay."

"And they won't need a place this winter?"

"Not as much as you."

I inwardly cringe, still shaken from my encounter in town. "What if the lake ices over early?"

"Then you can bartend for us at the lodge. Either way, it's a trade. Though anything over rent you keep, obviously. And full gratuity, no matter what."

"I still need to work on Fost's place in my spare time."

"Of course."

"And as soon as it's habitable, I'll move back."

"Suit yourself. We can work that out later."

I swallow past the anxiety crawling up my throat and Lucy turns to look at my face, reminding me I've stopped stroking her soft, fine hair. I start again. "Because I have so much to do, I don't think I want to advertise anything about, um, Musky Maren. I deleted the channel a long time ago. I'll fill in and help out with what's already in the books, and if someone calls to schedule a tour, it's obviously fine to let them know I'm not Johnson or Casper. But I'd rather not market it or anything."

I can feel Joe's eyes on me, but I'm intent on his parents in the swing. Donna seems to be reading something in my face that likely only moms can see, but Simon doesn't hesitate to agree. "Of course, if that's what you want."

I don't want. Not really. Though I do I miss giving tours. There was a time in my life when I really thought it was all I would do. Live up here, do guided fishing tours by day and raise a small family by night. Simple and sweet.

But life got complicated, and as much as I want to work for the Coles, I don't want to draw the wrong kind of attention.

"It's for the best, I think. I'm on a leave of absence from the park service, but I haven't made it permanent yet." Not that I imagine they'll hold my position forever or even as long as the winter, but I'm not a complete flake. I've put in a lot of years to the parks. My entire career. Just because my promotion went to my ex-boyfriend, which, to be clear, sucked, doesn't mean I couldn't start over at another park someplace new. God. I'm thirty-three. Am I seriously considering starting over?

I take my time and rock back and forth with Lucy's warm weight pressing against me. The sun is setting quickly, but it's still mild after the warm early autumn day. The sky takes on a sepia glow and the water beyond the docks sparkles, absorbing the lush colors of twilight and refracting them in a magical way. Bats swoop and swirl in the sky, darting between the extra-tall pines. Frogs sing and fish splash. Anders laughs and Rogers pants and still I rock back and forth.

Eventually, I decide. "Okay," I say softly and swallow hard. "Thank you."