Page 85 of Letting Go

"Thanks," I say, but I'm too distracted and shove it in my jacket pocket.

"Open it now." It's a directive.

"Okay," I say, still distracted.

"Now. It's not from the elf," he says. "It's treasure from Bryce."

This gets my attention. "What did you say?"

"Here," Cory says impatiently, grabbing the bottle out of my hand. He twists the lid off.

There, inside the glass, is a coiled slip of paper. I pull it out and unfurl the small scrap.

Meet me at the cabin.

I'm going to kill him, I decide. Slowly. Death by multiple orgasms seems about right. How dare he scare me like that.

I hadn’t been out to the quarry or the cabin in months. When we were kids, we used to ice skate on the surface of the quarry when it froze over. Now the idea horrifies me. I can't believe we did that. So dangerous.

I had to put on my boots to trudge along the damp, muddy trail. Coming up around the corner, the island looks almost unrecognizable from last season. Snow still sits along the northern edges of rocks and tree trunks and anywhere else the sun has a hard time reaching. Birds flit, mostly chickadees and juncos, but there's a big old blue jay that thinks I have something delicious in my pocket. The red streaks have almost faded to gray and stars are starting to wink into existence. When I reach the cabin, there's enough light to see the transformation.

A red, metallic, standing-seam roof makes the place look adorable. The granite steps flagging up to a new porch offer a sense of permanency. New windows and casings sparkle, with the orange glow of lamplight filling each rectangle.

The earth in the front has been moved and scraped for a garden this spring. I walk up the granite steps to a new leaded glass front door. But it's not just a new door to let light in—it's a glass design of the island in the foreground with the sun setting and the view of The Inn and the clinic. A spot of white and a spot of green in a sea of blue.

The door opens and Bryce stands there. He's dressed in dark blue jeans, heavy wool socks, a long-sleeved, green cotton zippered sweater that stretches tight across his chest. Light from inside catches the definition underneath that shirt and the wonderful, muscled "V" that comes down and disappears behind the waistband of his jeans. A heavy leather belt hugs him tight.

He's washed, and I smell musk and lime. His hair is thick, curling, brushed back.

"What? What did you do?" I say, waving at the cabin, almost unable to make a sentence.

He just grins and steps inside. I follow. Everything I've done is still there: freshly painted walls and cupboards, the new tile backsplash I put in while he recovered, and there are flowers on the kitchen table. Then I glance down. The floors. Those filthy tamarack floors are glowing red-brown, sanded and freshly polyurethaned.

"Shoes off," he says and kisses me before I bend down.

"What have you done," I say realizing this question could get old. I shuck off boots and shrug out of my coat and he takes it and puts it over the back of a new armchair.

"I bought it he says. "I cashed in some of my earnings as a partner."

"You? Bought this?"

"I figured it's yours—let me finish. It's yours, and you can pay me back

over time."

I swallow. "It's going to be a lot of time."

"I know."

The enormity of this kicks in.

"Wait. Wait. So, I just pay you back?"

He cracks his neck in both directions. "Claire said this might be a problem. All your sibs are into it." He takes both my arms in his hands and stares me down. "This. Is. Not. A. Problem."

He steers me toward the armchair and pushes me down.

"Let me do this for you. I've never in my life been able to help anyone like this. Give me this." He kneels and strokes my face. "Just say yes. Don’t overthink it."