Page 66 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Outside, the truck’s engine fades.

The gravel sound disappears into the trees.

She’s gone.

My heart squeezes again, harder this time, like it’s trying to convince me to chase her.

I press down, tracing the next petal deeper, letting the burn bite into the grain.

Because this is what I do instead of begging.

This is what I do instead of calling out.

I burn my feelings into wood and pretend it’s art—not confession.

The shape grows under my hand, line by line, petal by petal.

And even before it’s finished, I already know what it will be.

Not a willow.

Not a sunset.

Something brighter.

Something that turns toward the light even when it’s surrounded by shadows.

I keep working until the outline is unmistakable, until the wood holds the shape like it was always meant to.

I pause, breath loud inside the mask, and stare down at what I’ve done.

A new signature.

A new problem.

Because I didn’t start something different today by accident.

I started it because of her.

And no matter how fast I shove her off my mountain, she’s already lodged herself somewhere under my skin—rooted deep, stubborn as winter.

“Fuck,” I growl.

It’s right there—stark and raw and impossibly bright against the pale grain—spreading across the entire three-foot surface of the table like a confession I never meant to make.

The petals flare outward, bold and unashamed.

The center is dark and dense, burned deep, the lines tight as if I tried to control it and failed.

And the damn thing looks like it’s staring back at me.

I pace the length of the workshop, boots thudding on the plank floor, hands flexing like I can shake the feeling out.

Like I can outrun it.

I can’t.

Because it’s too late to change it now.