Page 110 of You Met Me There

Upstairs once more, I finish packing everything I left, including anything that Luke left, and take my filled suitcase and bags to the car. When everything is put away, I go back in one final time.

After grabbing my camera from the bedroom, my bare feet carry me quietly across the cabin’s wooden floors. With the strap around my neck and the viewfinder to my eye, I start in the kitchen, snapping photos and committing to memory all the moments I spent here over the past three months.

The sun is starting its descent behind the trees now, but it will be several hours until the light fades. I flip through different shutter speeds to see what looks best, and I zoom in on some shots to capture the homey details around the kitchen, like the butcher-block island counter and the view out the window from the table in the breakfast nook. Sunlight casts lines from the blinds on the floor, and I capture the image, hoping a renter will appreciate the warmth of the room in the afternoon.

I take photos of the bedrooms and bathrooms—standing in the corners or doorframes to get a wide image of the spaces—then the living room where the fireplace sits cold and empty. The only thing that could be better than the angle of the sunlight would be if a fire was roaring in the hearth. In every room, I make sure to take photos of the newly framed images on the walls—they truly tie the whole room together, pulling the viewer into the space and into the heart of Maple Lake. Through these new listing photos, a potential renter will be able to get a taste of the town before ever stepping foot in it because Maple Lake has been brought inside the cabin.

Walking in and out of these rooms, I’m hit with nostalgia. Although I’ll never be in my childhood house again and I’ve never been in this cabin until this summer, it all feels so much like the Maple Lake I knew as a kid, but one hundred times better. And it’s not just the trees surrounding the cabin or the scent of fresh rain on dirt outside that makes me feel at home.

It’s the knowledge that I’m welcome back here anytime that truly makes me feel this is where my heart is—my home. I hope the people who rent this cabin over the next months and years will feel like they’ve come home, too, because that’s what I want them to experience when they see the photos on the walls. Maple Lake is a safe place to fall and a soft place to land. It’s home to me, and I hope it’s home to anyone who needs it, even for just a summer. There’s healing in its bones and love in its people.

My eyes sting as I lock the front door. The sound of my sneakers hitting the gravel driveway and the gentle tapping of a woodpecker on a nearby tree remind me I haven’t had a panic attack in weeks. My pulse remains steady, and my emotions no longer control me the way they once did.

When I start up the car and reverse down the driveway, I no longer feel like I’m running away. Instead, I’ve finally learned to balance the most important parts of my life. I found I can be me in two places without compromising who I was and who I’ve become. My family loves me. Luke loves me. And I have two homes that welcome me with open arms.

Running away was never the answer. The threads that tie me to Luke are stronger paired with the threads that hold me here, and for the first time I’m finally myself, accepting the loops and knots and bows, and all the more happy for their existence.

So I ask myself again, are we doomed to always run and run and run in an endless loop until we eventually die?

I would have said yes three months ago. But now my answer is no.

We pave our own paths—new ones. I might get cut and acquire a few bruises along the way, but I’m not on an endless loop—not anymore. And I’ll be damned if I ever jump on that hamster wheel again.

Epilogue

Luke

Four years later…

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Mikey. Happy birthday to you.” Friends and family erupt into cheers at the end of the song, and the two-year-old in the high chair claps his tiny hands in excitement.

“Happy birthday, my baby boy,” Nat says, kissing his cheek. She places a mini homemade chocolate cake in front of our son, and his eyes grow at the sight, promising that a massacre of yellow cake will follow.

His chubby little hands grab for it instantly. The chocolate meets his tongue in a flurry of messy fingers and falling crumbs, while Nat’s parents and mine, along with all her siblings and nephews laugh and clap at the cuteness.

But I can’t help beaming at my son, with his bright blue eyes and blond hair. He’s the spitting image of me at two years old, but his eyes are the shade of blue that comes from Natalie.

As the group of our closest people gathers around us, I smile at my wife, who stands beside Mikey’s high chair, one hand reaching for his wavy blond curls while the other rests on her growing stomach.

We’re due with our second child in only a few weeks. A girl this time.

Natalie and I stayed in therapy following my accident. We had separate therapists, and sometimes joined one another in our sessions to talk through things together. Both of our therapists taught us how to connect before things got too big to handle, how to listen to one another’s quiet needs, and how to live a life of balance. Nat doesn’t have nightmares anymore, and I think reconnecting with her family is a big part of that. The darkness that filled her nights no longer follows her, and she smiles more than ever, filled with light from the inside out.

My leg healed perfectly within eight months, just like the doctor said it would. Physical therapy was hard, sometimes painful, and at times I wanted to give up. But I never did, because my family needed me to be one hundred percent whole. I wanted Natalie and myself to move forward, to grow the life we have now, but we never would have if I’d let the accident hold me back. Everything we’ve done for each other—and for ourselves over the last four years—has made our marriage bloom in amazing ways.

Cam claps a strong hand on my shoulder. “Congratulations, man. I’m really happy for you guys.” He extends a bottle of beer toward me, and I take it.

“Thanks. We’re the happiest we’ve ever been.” And it’s true. We’ve never laughed or smiled or cried tears of joy as much as we have in these past few years.

I follow his gaze as it lands on Jules and Nat, both wiping up the mess left by the birthday boy. Mikey’s bubbling laughter fills the room, and a smile spreads over my face, stretching from ear to ear. Emma’s here, too, with Ceecee. Ceecee’s not a baby anymore, having just turned six, and she dotes on Mikey like she’s a big sister. Emma’s dating someone new, and I hope with all my heart it works out for her and her daughter. She deserves to be happy, like we are.

Natalie lifts Mikey from his high chair, wiping his face with a towel. She approaches me, and I put my arms out to take Mikey from her arms.

“He’s getting a little restless,” she says.

“Probably from all the sugar.” I rest Mikey on my hip and lean down to kiss my wife.

“Want to take the party down to the lake?” she asks. “The fireworks are about to start.”