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“Oh, God, not that name,” he cringed. “Jules was a menace for that one.”

“Is that not the name on your ID?” I teased. “It’s a good one. Strong, old-fashioned.”

“I’m surprised you still remember,” he said, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel.

“She still uses it when she talks about you sometimes,” I said breezily.

Nate closed his eyes for a few seconds, then sighed. “Of course she does. I don’t even want to know the things she’s said.”

“She’s left out quite a bit,” I said, trying to strain the wistfulness from my voice. My gaze darted to his hands on the wheel, noting the empty ring finger. “She doesn’t speak of you that often, in all seriousness. Just enough to let me know that you were doing okay for yourself over the years.”

“You asked?”

“Of course I asked.”

A muscle ticked at his jaw, but he kept his eyes on the road. I wrung my hands together in my lap, trying to rub feeling back into my fingers and also debating with myself whether to ask the question I’d been dying to ask since we got in the truck.

“But she never goes into detail. I had no idea you worked for Cornerstone, or whether you had a family of your own yet.” Here goes nothing. “So, are you married?”

“No.”

Oof.

It was a curt, short, no-nonsense answer that made it very clear he didn’t want to elaborate any further. He also kept his focus on the road now, not bothering to return the question. Which clearly meant he didn’t care at all about my love life.

I got the message loud and clear, but damn, it still stung.

My ego was too bruised to do more than make very meager small talk after that, and we were approaching the town boundary anyway. I took out my phone, hoping to catch a signal from here. The thick canopy of forest finally thinned out, giving way to a rusted sign that read “Welcome to Blackwood Valley”. The gravel surface of the road and untamed nature gave way to old, cracked asphalt and weathered little stores, still shrouded in mist.

I was about to comment on it, when the constant, mocking No Service icon on my phone screen suddenly flashed and blinked out, replaced by two fragile bars of reception. I gasped and a split second later, my phone went off like a pinball machine, vibrating violently against my palm with a barrage of delayed alerts.

Nate looked over and raised his eyebrows. “Someone’s popular.”

I laughed, my mood instantly lifted. “It’s a burner. And there’s only one contact on it.”

*

“Why did you never tell me that your brother outgrew his scrawny geek phase, Jules?”

She burst out laughing on the other end of the line. I was whisper-shouting into the phone, hiding out in one of the never-ending aisles of the Valley General store. For such a tiny establishment on the outside, the inside was disproportionately big. It smelled heavily of stale coffee, smoked meats, and floor wax, and the narrow aisles were packed to the ceiling with everything from canned beans to chainsaw oil.

Nate was on his own path, giving me some privacy to talk to his sister. And hearing her laugh again after everything that had happened so far was truly the highlight of my week.

“I didn’t exactly think it was something worth sharing, Ava,” she said, sounding amused. “Not even something I noticed, really. He’s still a geek to me, just less scrawny.”

“Of course he is,” I grumbled, looking around to make sure Nate was out of earshot. “It just… it caught me off guard.”

“Very few things manage to catch you off guard,” she pointed out. “Sounds rather suspicious to me. But just a heads up—Nate swore off dating years ago.”

I started stammering out half-formed excuses and denials.

“Oh, come on, Ava. I know exactly why you brought him up. I’m just saving you the trouble. My brother is jaded as hell. I wouldn’t waste my time,” she said. “His crew on the other hand…”

“You’re insane, Jules.”

“Insane gets things done.”

We spent a few more minutes talking, much less time than I wanted, but we had to leave soon to get back to the cabin. I collected my groceries and met up with Nate again at the cash register. The person manning it was a friendly, older woman in her late fifties who was called “Barb”. At least according to the nametag adorned with pine tree stickers.