Seven. Alaska

SEVEN

Alaska

Maren

Two days later, I'm thinking this is probably a huge mistake. After all, he told me not to come over early in the morning. But also, I'm already up, thanks to Rogers McBaby-Bladder, and if we're up, we might as well stop by and offer assistance. And anyway, I made blueberry muffins with a crunchy, sugary topping and I can't eat them all myself.

(That's a lie. I absolutely could and have, just not today.)

Also, I live four minutes away. Joe is practically my big brother and if my actual big brothers lived a four-minute walk down the road and were trying to raise two kids on their own, I would be doing exactly this.

I knock on the front door, but, although there's lots of noise inside, no one comes to answer. So I knock again, feeling stupid. If it was my brother, I'd just walk in, of course. But I don't know how Joe would feel about that, so I wait, one hand gripping Rogers's leash, the other a Tupperware of warm muffins.

Still no answer, though Lucy's crying gets louder. I bite my lip, considering. Worst case, Joe feels like this is a massive intrusion and yells at me. That would suck, but it's worth the risk. I shift the loop from the leash further up my forearm and open the screen door, ducking in. Then I test the front door. It's unlocked, so I knock again and poke only my head in before giving a whisper-shouted, "Hello?"

"Maren!" Anders looks up from where he's sitting at a tall breakfast bar, eating a bowl of marshmallow cereal and watching something on his dad's phone.

"Hey, bud, I brought someone to visit you, but now I wonder if this is a bad time."

"Rogers?!"

"Yeah," I say, putting my auntie hat all the way on and making a snap decision. "I'm gonna leave him tethered on the porch for a second. You're welcome to come visit him, but first let's make sure you're set for school. Then, you can love on Rogers if we have time before the bus arrives. That cool? I'll help. It'll go faster if we work together."

"Deal!" Anders scarfs the last of his cereal, drinking the milk directly from the bowl and placing it in the sink. I plop a muffin on a plate and direct him to sit back down. He blinks up at me. "You baked?"

"I did and it's still warm, so you'll want to eat it now. Do you want butter?"

He nods eagerly, taking an enthusiastic bite from the top and smiling. "This is delicious," he says. Or at least that's what I've managed to translate around his full mouth. I help myself to the fridge, noticing the dazzling artwork covering nearly every square inch. Brilliant coloring, abstract shapes, minute detailing… it's clear they were made by a child, but only because of the materials used: crayons, watercolor, and construction paper.

I pass Anders the butter before digging out a knife from the drawer and passing that along as well. "Did you create these?" I ask, gesturing to the artwork.

He shakes his head, taking another bite.

I turn to take in the designs again. "Lucy did these?"

He swallows. "Pretty good, aren't they?"

"More like incredible," I agree. "Do you have a lunch made?"

He shakes his head before picking up the knife and digging into the butter. "Dad usually has me do hot lunch when Luce wakes up on the wrong side of the bed."

I can't help the gooey feeling in my chest at his description of his sister. It's both gracious and accurate. Lucy's crying hasn't completely stopped, but she's calmed to a hiccuping whimper. From the kitchen, I can hear Joe's deep, soothing murmur. Since I don't have a ton of experience with morning meltdowns, I figure I would be most helpful sticking with Anders. I'm not trying to be in the way.

"What kind of sandwich do you like, kid? I'll make your lunch for you while you finish the muffin. What else do you need to do get ready?" Anders shrugs and looks so much like his dad when he was younger, I barely keep from laughing. "Okay. Let's see. Did you brush your teeth? Comb your hair? Is your backpack packed up? Any, um… permission slips?"

The kid has mercy on me and grins, peeling the paper wrapper away from his breakfast. "No permission slips or anything to sign. Dad takes care of that before bed. I'll brush my teeth after I'm done eating. And I like SunButter-and-jelly sandwiches."

I get to work, pulling ingredients out and making sure to fill both sides of the bread with a generous amount of SunBut ter and strawberry jam. I tuck that away and throw in a small lunch-size bag of chips, apple slices, and another muffin to go. "For a snack," I tell him. "That will leave one more for your dad and your sister."

I zip up his lunch container and hold it out, but instead of taking it, Anders surprises me with a hug around my middle that makes me say, "Oof."

"Thanks, Maren."

I don't know if he's talking about the muffins or my dog or just being around to keep him company for breakfast, but I wrap my arms around him, smoothing his blond hair. "You're welcome, kid." I look up and realize it's quiet and we have an audience.

"Maren?"

"Heyyyy," I say to Joe. "I made muffins. And, let myself in. I hope it's okay."

"She made my lunch, Dad. With extra SunButter. I'm gonna go brush my teeth, and then she said I can play with Rogers until the bus comes."

"Only if that's okay with you," I assure Joe. "I didn't mean to intrude… much."

Joe raises his eyebrow but it's Lucy who cries out, "Muffin!"

I instantly move toward the island, avoiding Joe's eyes. "Would you like a muffin? I can cut one up…"

"I got it," Joe says. His voice is strange, but not mad, or even annoyed, so I decide not to overthink it.

"All right. There's one for you, too," I tell him. "I gave Anders the last in his lunch as a snack."

"Along with extra SunButter, I hear. Thank you," he says. "Really."

Joe sets Lucy down on a chair and turns on a cartoon with dogs that for some reason speak with Australian accents, then hands her a muffin, whole, after removing the paper.

Then he fills a cup of water from the tap and plops a heavy-duty straw in the top.

"Learned this one the hard way. She gets so into her show, she doesn't want to lower her eyes to drink from her cup. I'll challenge her at dinnertime or when we're eating without the screens, but I don't have it in me to fight it in the mornings."

I nod my head, thinking I already heard plenty of fights for one morning. I don't blame him one bit for taking the easy out. I don't want to say something I know nothing about, though, so instead I say, "No judgment here. If anything, I feel her pain. When I'm on a tear, bingeing past seasons of The Great British Baking Show , I barely remember to breathe during the showstopper round. Drinking would be a disaster. My best friend Shelby bought me a bib two Christmases back. It said, DOES THIS BIB MAKE ME LOOK BALD? "

Joe stops what he's doing, his entire muffin halfway to his mouth, and blinks, and then Anders shouts, "All packed and ready! Can we play with Rogers now?"

Thank god. Get me out of here. I don't even know what I am saying. "Of course! As long as it's okay with your dad."

Joe seems to come back to himself after my awkward word vomit and nods, chewing. He swallows, opening his arms for a hug. "Have a good day at school, bud. Love you."

"Love you, too, Dad!"

I follow Anders out the door and immediately unleash Rogers, who's been taking advantage of a sunbeam warming the porch. I hold out my hand for Anders's backpack and settle on the top step to watch boy and dog play in the dewy grass.

A moment later, the door behind me opens and it's Joe. He passes me a steaming mug of coffee.

"Wasn't sure how you took it, but we only have almond milk anyway."

I take a sip and it's delicious. Rich and warm and all I need. "It's perfect." He hesitates, seeming as though he wants to say something more, but he doesn't. Anders shrieks and Rogers barks and we are quiet, but like the other night, it's not uncomfortable. We wait, side by side, me sitting, him standing; me sipping and Joe watching, before he turns and, with a low, "Thanks for this morning, Maren," goes back inside.

I smile into my coffee and whisper, "You're welcome, Joe."

I knew better than to assume Shane wouldn't fight for us. Up to even a few months ago, I swore I was in love with him and he was in love with me. The sex was pretty good, we had lots to talk about, both working as park rangers, and I liked how secure he was. It'd been my experience that men either were intimidated by my face or took one look at me and assumed I was vapid. Shane hadn't been like that. He listened and made me laugh and respected my opinion.

Mostly.

So I figured it was only a matter of time before he made the trip. It's a quiet Tuesday afternoon and we're in the lodge because Shane wasn't familiar enough with the resort to find my cabin. I gave him the address to put in his GPS and then spent the fifteen-minute walk over calming down and reminding myself of the litany of ways we aren't compatible as a couple. Building up my defenses, brick by brick.

Shane is a good-looking man who knows how to use what the Lord gave him, and I don't need that temptation. I want a clean break.

Turns out it was the right choice.

"Babe, come home. I talked to Evan and Jerry. They said they could only hold on to your job for another week. Tops."

"Aren't you my boss now?" I work to keep the peevishness from my voice and channel my inner-Zen Maren.

He sighs, and I can literally feel the patronization wafting off him. "Mare. Seriously? You need to get over that. We both applied. They chose the best candidate."

He's right, which is even more irritating. "I know that, but… in all the times we talked about work and how I was going to apply for the position, you never said a word. Shane, you proofread my résumé. You get how shitty that is, right?"

"I figured you would be surprised."

Surprised? That's a bold take. "I'm not really a fan of surprises," I tell him.

"I noticed," he returns dryly.

Something gross slithers in my stomach and then freezes in my veins. "Hold on a minute—it didn't even cross your mind that I could have won the position, did it?"

"Babe," is all he says, but his eyes are amused, and the entire situation ticks me off.

"Listen, Shane. I'm not upset you applied for the job, and I'm not even upset that you won it over me. I'm angry that you lied to my face about it, for months , and I'm hurt that apparently, you didn't ever believe I was good enough. You patronized me and appeased me and because of that, you embarrassed me."

It's like the words don't even hit before he's opening his mouth again. "So we'll find you a new park. I get it, Mare. It would be weird to be your boss and probably unethical besides. We can file for a transfer."

"That would fix the problem of working together, sure, but it wouldn't fix the problem of our relationship. I don't trust you."

Shane presses forward in his chair and leans on the table, making it wobble. A lock of his stupid, shiny hair falls in his face, and I have the insane urge to stalk over to the bar and beg for a pair of scissors so I can chop it off. Which I figure is a bad sign. "Christ, Mare," he says, placating tone still in place. "Don't you think you're being a little overdramatic?" I snap out of my hair-cutting musings and tip my head to the side, narrowing my eyes.

"What part of your actions in the last several months were in any way indicative that I should trust you?"

"I asked you to marry me!" he practically shouts, and I can feel eyes on us from the direction of the bar.

"That doesn't indicate I should trust you, Shane. That tells me you had zero read of the way things were between us."

Shane sinks back in his seat, and I think maybe finally, finally , he is hearing me. "So now what, then?"

"I'm sorry. Really. But things have run their course between us. Honestly, this is a good thing. You deserve someone who says yes when you ask them to join their life with yours and I deserve someone who knows never to propose to me in public. We both get a do-over."

"I don't want a do-over," he says. "I've invested nearly a year into us, and you ended it over a measly proposal." He scrubs his hand through his perfect hair. "Forget the proposal, okay? Let's pretend that never happened."

"Even if I could, it wasn't just the proposal. That was the impetus for me leaving, but I've come to realize there were so many signs prior to that. Why did you apply for that promotion, Shane?"

He blinks, startled at the change of subject. "Because I wanted a job to support us."

I'm already shaking my head. "No, I mean, what are your goals? Long term?"

"To be a politician and eventually work in state government."

I hold out a hand between us, palm up. "Yes. You want the promotion as a step up to your next position. You're climbing the ladder. You want a career in politics."

"That's the best way to implement change—"

I wave him off. "I know. You're absolutely right. But, Shane, I don't want to be a politician's wife. I don't want to wear pearls and do black-tie fundraiser events. I don't want to watch my caloric intake and have regular overpriced haircuts. I like to be outdoors. I like the Northwoods. I am passionate about nature and fishing."

"But you're so good at those fundraisers and events…"

I shrug. "Must be the pageants, I guess. But I don't enjoy it, and I definitely don't want to spend the rest of my life doing them."

"So that's it? You're absolutely positive?"

I don't have to think about it, or rather, I've been thinking about it. I'm done thinking about it. It wasn't just the job thing or the proposal, though admittedly those were what really solidified my answer. Rather, the longer we were together, the less I loved him, not more.

I stand up, reaching my hand for his, and he takes it, getting to his feet. I lean in, give him one final hug, closing my eyes at the sensation of his strong arms around me one last time, though I note I don't feel like melting into him and wonder if I ever did. That seems like something I should have noticed before now.

"I'm sure. Absolutely positive," I whisper in his ear, and I press my mouth to his cheek in a dry kiss. "Take care of yourself, Shane. Congrats on your promotion and best of luck in all your endeavors."

He holds me tight for a long moment and I think to myself that it's nice, but not nice in the way that means I want to make up, accept his ill-timed proposal, and drive back to Michigan where I can start making babies and decorating his home and hosting cocktail parties.

Not nice like that . But usually my breakups are a shit show. So maybe I'm grateful he asked me to marry him. I didn't know the answer until he was on his knee in front of me.