Page 106 of Snowed Inn

I run my finger around the rim of my wineglass. Another excuse pops to mind. “He lives way out on Long Island. I live in the city.”

Luca shrugs. “So . . . how far is that?”

“Two and a half hours,” I moan.

“Oh, come on, Maria. That’s hardly an insurmountable distance.”

“It wouldn’t work.” My voice doesn’t sound convinced, even to my own ears.

Luca is quiet for a long moment, studying me with eyes far too knowing for someone who still occasionally puts salt in the sugar bowl when he wants to mess with people.

“You know,” he says finally, “I remember when you were in middle school. You used to come home crying because the cool girls made fun of your clothes. Do you remember what you did?”

I swallow. “When I was old enough, I got two jobs . . . and bought my own clothes.”

“Two jobs.” He nods. “At sixteen. So you could buy the kind of clothes they wore. You worked your ass off to fit into their world.” He pauses. “But the thing is, Maria—they still didn’t accept you. Not really.” Another pause. “Because it was never about the clothes.”

I look away, my eyes burning unexpectedly. This is sounding a whole lot like something Jesse said to me. Something that I thought was lovely at the time and still do.

“You’ve been trying to fit yourself into other people’s worlds your whole life,” Luca continues, his voice gentler now. “Maybe it’s time to build your own.”

I don’t answer. I can’t.

“For what it’s worth,” he adds, “you seem different. Since the blizzard, I mean. You’re on your phone way less. You seem less . . . artificial.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“That’s a compliment.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “I like this Maria better. She seems more like the kid who used to beat me at Monopoly and then gloat for days.”

Despite myself, I smile.

Inside, I hear my niece Sofia calling for me. Something about wanting to show me her new dance routine. I take a deep breath, pushing away from the railing.

“I should go in.”

Luca nods, but as I turn to leave, he catches my arm. “Look. I don’t know this Jesse guy. But I know you. And I know you’re miserable right now, even though you’re trying to pretend like you’re not.” His eyes are serious. “Don’t let fear—or pride—make your decisions for you, okay?”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and head inside.

I don’t sleep well that night.

My childhood bedroom is exactly as I left it—posters of bands I barely remember liking on the walls, an old cheerleading trophy on the dresser, the ruffled purple bedspread that was the height of fashion circa 2008. It should be comforting, this time capsule of my youth.

Instead, I feel restless. Out of place, somehow.

At three a.m., I finally give up on sleep and slip out of bed, padding over to the window seat where I used to sit and dream about escaping to somewhere bigger, brighter, more important . . . with way fewer people I knew when I was young. New York. That’s why I took the job in New York. I was able to reinvent myself. Now I’m starting to wonder why I ever wanted to.

I pull my knees to my chest and check my phone. No messages. Not that I’m surprised. I may have given Jesse my number that day we visited the Mockingbird space, but what would he even say to me after how we left things?

I open Instagram and hesitate for a second before typing his username into the search bar.

His personal profile is there, untouched since the last time I looked at it—mostly pictures of cider with the occasional blurry Pumpkin appearance. And there’s Christmas, the cat, in at least a half-dozen pictures, enjoying herself like the little turncoat she is.

One post in particular catches my eye. I click on it.

It’s a shot of the food barn from the outside, all gussied up for New Year’s Eve. It looks magical in the snow, Christmas lights glowing against the white landscape. My throat tightens. I can still hear the orchestra playing, feel Jesse’s arms around me as we danced.

I keep scrolling. Most of his pictures are of cider or the bar or the orchard, but occasionally there’s one of him—usually looking like he’d rather be anywhere but in front of a camera. In every photo, he’s wearing that damn ball cap. At least the kitten seems ball cap–free for the time being.