Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Wait. What?
The entire cabin is dark. I flick the light switch as if it might magically fix it.
Nothing.
No lights. No hum of electricity. No coffee.
A cold pit forms in my stomach as I tally up the rest of what I’m lacking, again.
No car. No signal. No power. Middle of nowhere. And me, caffeine-dependent, staring down a deadline.
For a second, I wonder if I’ve made a catastrophic error. But then, adrenaline hits.
Okay, alright, maybe this is good. No electricity, no car, no distractions. No excuses.
I ransack the cabinets and there it is, way in the back—a French press. My heart actually lifts. French press coffee is romance in a mug. Back when Jake and I first got married, it was all we drank, until he decided it was “too bitter” and “took too long.” Whatever, asshole.
I pull out the press and, miracle of miracles, there’s an unopened bag of coffee grounds. The good kind—coarse, deep brown, smelling like heaven. Thankfully, the stove is gas and lights immediately.
As the kettle heats, I lean in and breathe deep—rich, earthy, alive. The smell alone makes me feel more human.
Minutes later, I’m sitting with a mug of dark, steaming French press coffee and a delectable lemon-filled pastry from the fridge. I try not to calculate how many meals I can stretch out without resupply.
With a blanket wrapped tight around me, coffee in hand, and laptop open, I look like a stock photo of a “writer at work.”
Type. Delete.
Type. Delete.
Type. Delete.
Sob.
An hour passes, my chin in my hand, as I mentally tally the mistakes that landed me here.
Number one: marrying that loser.
Number two: trusting him.
Number three: believing a cabin in the woods could fix my shattered heart instead of turning into a slow-motion spiral of my own personal prison.
My phone pings—miracle! A message from Grace:
Grace
How’s the book going?
Why do people ask writers that? No writer in the history of ever has wanted to answer that question truthfully. I type back, absolutely killing it, a pure, undiluted lie, and watch as the message fails. Signal gone.
I toss the phone onto the couch like it betrayed me. Coffee refill time.
Outside, the sky shifts from quaint winter postcard to ominous snow globe. Fat flakes swirl sideways, and the wind moans around the cabin.
Maybe what I need is a different kind of change. Maybe I should be writing thrillers. Murder in a Cabin in the Woods—I could crank that out right now, easy. I’d name the victim Jake.
I turn away from the window, then glance back, my pulse spiking.
Are those tracks in the snow… or is my imagination just going feral?
I peer into the woods and realize, first of all, there’s not nearly enough snow for there to be any actual tracks. And second… if there were tracks, where would they even be coming from? The sky? Unless we’ve had an alien invasion overnight, I think I’m good.
Maybe it’s just a squirrel looking for his lost nut. I snicker into my coffee. Lost nut? God, I’m twelve. Jake would just fix me with that withering stare, the one that could curdle milk, and mutter that I needed to grow up.
Well fuck him and his stupid pink-pantied mistress.
“Maybe you need to grow the fuck up,” I mutter under my breath to absolutely no one because, of course, I’m alone in this fucking cabin. Alone because only cowards cheat on their wives.
God, even saying that out loud sounds pathetic.
I shake my head, pour my second cup of coffee, and lean back against the counter, wrapping my hands around the mug like it’s something alive and warm that might comfort me back into being human.
It feels like a hug in a mug. I’m halfway into a smile when something flickers in my peripheral vision.
I turn my head toward the little entryway. I guess you could call it a porch, though “porch” feels too generous for the scrap of wood planks only big enough to hold one chair. In the summer, I’d probably drag a blanket out there and curl up on that rocking chair with a book. It’s adorable.
But right now?
Right now, I’m staring at a stack of firewood that I swear wasn’t there last night. Piled all the way to the roof. Was I just not paying attention?
Wouldn’t I have noticed that?
My phone buzzes… again. God, why does Jake decide now’s the time to actually pay attention to me?
I ignore the persistent buzzing and stare back at the woodpile.
And if someone brought it, wouldn’t I have heard them stacking it?
Interesting.
I didn’t put that wood there. Because if it had just been sitting around, it would be damp from all the snow they’ve been getting for weeks… right?
“Cool, cool,” I mutter under my breath. “Not creepy at all.”
Right. Definitely just the wind. The wind that stacked my wood. Or maybe it’s my very particular landlord, the same one who stocked my fridge, deciding I needed fuel for the fireplace.