Roaring Fork Rooker, page 12
As she walked away, I took in the familiar space. The exposed brick walls, the photographs of Crested Butte’s mining days, the old wooden floors that creaked in all the same places. Victor and Mary had transformed this place from a run-down saloon into something warm and welcoming decades ago. After they sold it to the Rice family, it had maintained that same character through the years. Now that Victor had bought it back and his daughter, Keltie, was running it, she’d added her own touches—fresh flowers on every table, local artwork on the walls, a sense of community that made everyone feel at home.
But underneath all those layers of renovation and care, I could still see it as it had been during those magical months when JW and I worked here together. When closing time meant the beginning of our real day, not the end.
My wine arrived, and I took a sip, letting the memories I’d spent so long suppressing surface at last.
After the last customer left and the kitchen was clean, after Victor had counted the till and Mary had finished her inventory, after the other servers had said their good nights, JW would lock the front door and flip the sign to closed. Then he’d walk to the old jukebox in the corner and feed it quarters, scrolling through the selections until he found something perfect.
Usually, it was country music. George Strait or Garth Brooks or some of the oldies like Patsy Cline. Songs that spoke of love and heartbreak and dreams, melodies that seemed to understand the bittersweet nature of small-town life.
“Dance with me,” he’d say, extending his hand with that smile that made my stomach flip.
And I would. Every time.
The creaky wood plank floors had been perfect for dancing, smooth from decades of wear, but with just enough grip that we wouldn’t slip. JW would pull me into his arms, and we’d two-step across the empty restaurant, spinning between tables and chairs, laughing when one of us missed a beat or stepped on the other’s feet.
He had an amazing singing voice that, back then, he swore only I’d ever heard. His breath would be warm against my ear when he pulled me close during the slower songs. Sometimes, he’d change the lyrics, making them silly or personal, until I was laughing so hard I could barely keep dancing.
But when a truly slow song came on—something soft and romantic—the laughter would fade. He’d hold me closer, one hand pressed against the small of my back and the other cradling my fingers against his chest. I could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady beneath my palm.
Those were the moments when he’d kiss me. Soft at first, tentative, like he was afraid I might pull away. Then deeper when I responded, my arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer. The restaurant would disappear around us, the world narrowing to just the two of us and the certainty that this was where we belonged.
I took another sip, the memory so vivid I could almost hear the music, almost feel his arms around me.
The first time we made love had been after one of those dancing sessions. A slow Tuesday night in early winter, snow falling outside the windows, the restaurant warm and intimate in the glow of the Edison bulbs. We’d been dancing to something soft and sweet, maybe “Tennessee Waltz,” when the music ended, and we didn’t step apart.
“Maya,” he’d whispered, my name like a prayer on his lips.
I’d known what he was asking without words. Had known what my answer would be before he even looked at me with those questioning eyes. We’d been building toward this moment for weeks, the attraction between us growing stronger every day, held in check only by his obvious respect for my inexperience and our working relationship.
“Yes,” I’d whispered back.
He’d taken my hand and led me to his small cabin on the outskirts of town, a cozy place with a stone fireplace and windows that looked out at the mountains. We’d made love slowly, tenderly, with a reverence that made me feel precious in ways I’d never imagined possible. Afterward, I’d lain in his arms, feeling safe and cherished.
“I want this forever,” I’d told him in the darkness, my face pressed against his chest.
“Forever,” he’d agreed, his arms tightening around me. “You and me, Maya.”
Forever had lasted three more months.
Then, without warning or explanation, he was gone. Not just from the restaurant, not just from my life, but from Crested Butte entirely. As if he’d never existed at all.
I forced myself back to the present, blinking away the sting of tears. My wine tasted bitter now, the memories too sharp, too real. This was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid. Every shadow in this place held ghosts, every creak whispered of what we’d lost.
A flash of movement near the bar caught my attention, and I looked up to see JW emerging from the kitchen, tying an apron around his waist. My breath stuttered. I’d been so lost in the past that I hadn’t even noticed him come in.
He moved behind the bar with the same easy confidence I remembered, pulling beer taps and mixing drinks like he’d never left. Keltie’s earlier expression of being overwhelmed shifted to relief as the two laughed and joked in the midst of the chaos.
I should leave. Finish my drink and walk out before he noticed me sitting here. But I couldn’t stop watching him work, the ways he’d changed, and the ways he’d stayed the same.
He was still strikingly attractive, though silver now threaded through the dark hair I remembered running my fingers through. His body looked strong and capable, the kind of fitness that came from physical work rather than gyms. When he reached for bottles on the top shelf, his shirt pulled tight across shoulders that seemed broader than I remembered.
The years had been kind to him. Whatever life he’d built after leaving here had agreed with him, and I wondered about the details I’d never know. Where he’d gone, what he’d done, whether he’d found someone else to dance with in empty restaurants.
He looked up from the beer he was pouring, and for a moment, our eyes met across the crowded room. I averted my gaze quickly, warmth flooding my face, but not before I saw recognition flicker in his expression.
I forced myself to focus on my drink, on the conversation at the table next to mine, on anything except the way my heartbeat had changed when our eyes connected. This was what I’d told him I couldn’t do. I couldn’t pretend his presence didn’t affect me, couldn’t act like seeing him didn’t bring back emotions I’d worked so hard to forget.
But, God, help me, I couldn’t stop stealing looks in his direction. Every few minutes, I’d risk another peek.
As I stared out the window, my mind drifted again. Remembering how it felt when his naked body pressed against mine. Heat that had nothing to do with the alcohol coursed through me.
I’d loved making love with him. Loved the way he touched me like I was precious, the way he’d learned my body with patient exploration until he knew how to make me gasp and arch beneath him. We’d been so good together, so perfectly matched in desire and tenderness.
My eyes opened wide, and I reached for the glass of ice water that had materialized on my table when I wasn’t paying attention. I had to stop this. Whatever we’d had was in the past, buried so deep it should stay dead.
A server appeared at my elbow with another glass, and I looked up in surprise.
“From the gentleman at the bar,” she said with a smile. “He said it’s on the house.”
I glanced toward the bar, and my eyes met JW’s. Without thinking, I smiled—just a small curve of my lips, nothing more than courtesy. But his whole face seemed to brighten in response, and warmth spread through my chest that I could not afford to feel.
I looked away quickly, focusing on the new drink as if it held the secrets of the universe. This was dangerous territory, this easy slide back into the connection that had once felt as natural as breathing. He’d bought me a drink. I’d smiled. Such seemingly simple gestures, but they were anything but.
When I looked up again, he was walking toward the door, his apron left behind. Disappointment settled in my chest like a stone, which made no sense at all. I’d told him I couldn’t do this, that seeing him was too painful. He was respecting my wishes, giving me the space I’d demanded.
So why did I feel bereft as I watched him leave without saying goodbye?
Through the window, I watched him climb into a truck parked across the street. The engine started, the headlights cut through the evening dusk, and then he was gone. Only then did I realize I’d been holding my breath.
I finished my wine with more haste than wisdom and gathered my purse. The restaurant had emptied considerably, but the bar was still full.
I waved at Keltie as I made my way to the same door JW had left through.
Her smile was warm when she came around to say hello. “Echo! I didn’t even see you come in. How was your evening?”
I gave her a quick hug. “I knew you were busy. How are you? How’s Luna?”
“The happiest little girl in the world.” She hugged me once more. Tighter. We’d been through a lot together as her daughter fought against leukemia. Her continued remission was something I still prayed for every day.
“Tell her Miss Echo said hello.” I waved behind me and stepped out into the cool mountain air. My house was only two blocks away, past other Victorian cottages with their welcoming porch lights and the community gardens where neighbors grew vegetables and flowers side by side. Normal sights in a normal town where I’d built a normal life.
But nothing felt normal anymore.
My house sat on a quiet street, a small craftsman bungalow with a garden I’d spent years perfecting. Inside, the familiar surroundings that usually brought me peace—books stacked on the coffee table, a mug in the sink from my morning coffee, the cozy accumulation of a life lived alone but not lonely—felt hollow tonight. The silence oppressive.
I poured a glass of water and sat at my kitchen table, forcing myself to think clearly through the alcohol and the emotional chaos of the day. Even if I wanted to spend time with JW—which I absolutely did not—it was impossible. Too much had happened after he left, too many decisions made and consequences lived with. If I told him what my life had been like then, the choices I’d been forced to make, whatever fragile connection we might rebuild would crumble into nothing.
It wasn’t about protecting myself. It never had been. It had always been about protecting everyone else.
When I finally crawled into bed, sleep eluded me. My mind replayed the day’s events in an endless loop. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw JW’s face in the crowd during the parade, the shock of recognition that had shaken us both. The way he’d spoken my name, gentle and hesitant. The hurt in his eyes when I’d fled from him at the river.
Dreams came in fragments when I finally dozed—dancing as strong arms held me close, whispered promises of forever that turned into dust.
By six, I’d given up on rest. I showered and dressed, needing the comfort of familiar habits. Whatever emotional chaos JW’s return had triggered, I couldn’t let it affect my work. The children and families who depended on Miracles of Hope deserved better than a director distracted by her past.
I walked to the coffee shop as I did every day, the mountain air crisp with birdsong mixing with the distant hum of early traffic. The bell chimed as I entered, and my steps faltered.
JW sat at a table near the window, reading what looked like the local newspaper, a steaming mug beside his elbow. The sound of the bell made him look up, and our eyes met briefly. He’d dressed casually in jeans and a button-down shirt that brought out the green in his eyes. I saw him hesitate, as if debating whether to acknowledge me.
I looked away quickly, my hands unsteady as I approached the counter. The barista called out my usual order before I’d even asked, saving me from having to speak. My fingers fumbled with my wallet as I paid, hyperaware of JW’s presence across the room.
“Thank you,” I managed.
“Have a good day, Maya.” I heard as I approached the door. It was a simple courtesy, but spoken in JW’s voice, it felt like more.
“You too,” I said, hurrying out in the direction of my office, coffee sloshing in my cup.
Would every encounter feel this charged? This was a small town—now that we’d come face-to-face, recognized each other, we were bound to meet up again. I needed to develop better coping mechanisms than unsteady hands and shallow breathing.
The weekend brought no respite. Saturday’s farmer’s market proved my concerns were justified. I was selecting peaches from a stand when I spotted JW examining tomatoes two stalls down.
I paid for my fruit and rushed toward my car, but not before catching his eye across the market. He lifted his hand in a small wave, and despite myself, I returned the gesture. Just politeness between old acquaintances who happened to live in the same small town. But tension coiled in my stomach as I drove home.
The encounters continued through the week, each one seeming coincidental but leaving me rattled—JW at the grocery store, outside the post office, walking down the opposite side of Elk Avenue.
Wednesday brought the most challenging test yet. I was meeting Misty and Dr. Cressman at the Goat to discuss the hospital’s partnership with our foundation when I spotted JW having lunch alone at the table near the back where I’d been sitting the night of the fourth.
He didn’t approach our table, didn’t interrupt our conversation. Just ate his meal quietly, nodded politely when our eyes met, and left before we did. But I was distracted the entire time, catching myself stealing looks in his direction.
“You seem jumpy,” Misty observed as we walked to our cars. “Is work overwhelming you?”
“Just the usual summer chaos,” I deflected, forcing a smile. “Too many cases, not enough hours in the day.”
She didn’t look convinced but let it go. What could I tell her? That seeing my former lover—if that inadequate term even applied to what we’d been—was slowly dismantling the equilibrium I’d built my life around?
The week wore on with increasing strain. I began changing my routines, taking different routes to avoid potential encounters. The coffee shop became off-limits. I shopped for groceries at odd hours, but I couldn’t avoid the bank, and on Friday morning, we met up again. He’d walked in right before me and was already in line. He turned when the door chimed, and his face brightened.
“Maya…er…Echo.” He stepped aside, gesturing for me to go ahead of him in line. “Please.”
“That’s not necessary,” I protested, but he was already moving to let me pass.
“I insist. I’m not in any hurry.”
The casual kindness undid me more than dramatic gestures might have. This was the JW I remembered—considerate without fanfare, thoughtful in small ways that mattered.
“Have a good weekend,” he said as I passed him on my way out.
That afternoon, I drove to the Slate River, seeking the solitude and clarity that mountain water had always provided. Most people were still at work, so the trail was empty. I settled on the boulder where I’d sat after the parade, letting the sound of rushing water calm my racing thoughts.
I was so lost in meditation that I didn’t notice him approaching until I heard him speak. “I hoped I might find you here.”
When I opened my eyes, JW was standing at the edge of the clearing, with his hands in his pockets.
“This used to be our place,” I said, the words escaping before I could stop them.
“It could still be.” He moved closer, but remained a couple of feet away, respecting the invisible boundary I’d drawn around myself. “If you’d let it.”
“JW—” I started, then stopped. What could I say? That seeing him kept rattling me? That I thought about him more than I should, remembered things I’d sworn to forget?
“I heard what you said the other day.” His voice was gentle. “But I can’t stop hoping your feelings might change.”
“Why?” The question burst out of me, raw with weeks of confusion. “You left. Why are you here now? What do you want from me?”
“Because I never stopped thinking about you.” The admission hung between us, stark and honest. “Not for a single day in all these years.”
“You know nothing about me,” I whispered. “We’re different people now.”
He took a step closer. “Let me get to know you again.”
The request terrified me more than anger or demands might have. He wasn’t pushing, wasn’t trying to force his way back into my life. He was just asking to know me.
“I can’t.” The words came out broken, heavy with what I couldn’t explain.
“Why not?”
Because there were things I could never share. Because letting him back in would mean risking what I’d built on the foundation of his absence.
When I shook my head, he studied me.
“Please, Maya. It doesn’t have to be complicated. We would meet for coffee sometime. Maybe have a conversation that lasts longer than thirty seconds.”
“I need time,” I said.
“I’ll wait. As long as you need.”
He started to walk away, then paused. “I’m sorry for leaving the way I did, for not explaining. I’m sorrier than you’ll ever know.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the sound of rushing water and the terrible knowledge that my defenses were deteriorating. Every encounter, every polite exchange, every moment of casual kindness was wearing away at the barriers I’d built around my heart.
What scared me wasn’t that he might give up and leave again. More, it was that I was weakening, that I might not be strong enough to withstand the pull of what we’d once been.
If I gave in, I’d have to tell him all the things I knew I never could.
15
JW
When I walked in several days later, the Goat felt different than it had on the Fourth of July—quieter, with the lunch rush long past and only a few scattered patrons nursing drinks at the bar. Victor was behind the register, counting receipts. When he looked up and saw me enter, his weathered face creased into a smile.
