Coming Home

We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. I stared at my phone to keep from looking out the window, now that we were past the stretch where the guard rails ended and the private road started. Ben hummed as he drove, at ease and confident as he whipped our little Honda around curves that made my stomach turn. He learned to drive on this road, I reminded myself for the thousandth time. He knows this mountain really really well.

“Almost there, baby,” he said, taking his hand off the stick shift to give my thigh a quick squeeze.

“You could slow down,” I muttered, squinting at my crossword puzzle app. “It’s not a race.”

“I know,” he said, shifting gears and sprinting up a blessedly straight stretch of hill. “But ever since the time with the moose, I’m a little nervous until we get to the top.”

“The time with the what?” I asked, my voice rising to a nervous squeak, mentally adding rogue road moose to the list of Things Likely To Murder Us 20 Miles From Civilization At Ben’s Family’s Cabin.

“It was raining, and my uncle Bill was on his way up. Moose don’t really dart out in the road, but he couldn’t see far enough in front of him to notice the one standing in the middle of the street.”

“Jesus,” I muttered.

“I mean, the moose was fine. Bill nearly totaled his truck and the damn thing just walked away like he had somewhere else to be.

I snapped my head up and looked out the windshield, suddenly on alert for woodland intrusions that might destroy us in pursuit of lunch. Luckily, we were approaching the birch tree with the red sign declaring, “FRIEDMAN’S FOLLY” that marked the edge of Ben’s family’s property. Ben pulled off into a small clearing where a muddy truck was already parked at the edge of the road. Ben pulled in next to it and parked, leaning his head back against the back of the seat and closing his eyes.

I reached over and took his hand, threading my fingers through his. Three years in, and he still got nervous every time we came up.

“You need anything, love?” I asked. Ben shook his head, opened his eyes and turned around to grab his snow boots out of the back seat. I followed suit, having ruined at least two pairs of dress shoes in this exact situation in previous years. Much as I appreciated the chance to go shopping at the tractor supply store in town, (the only place one could buy shoes, or any other clothing) I wasn’t going to spend a third Thanksgiving getting teased by Ben’s sisters for being a city boy.

We pulled on our boots and got out of the car, grabbed our bags and started the last quarter-mile walk to the cabin. We passed his older sisters’ cars, his mom’s red truck, his aunt’s Jeep, and his uncle’s beat-up sedan. I could hear the classic rock his mother liked to blast from the kitchen while she was cooking, singing along to Queen as she roasted yams and made pies. As we came up the front steps, I grabbed Ben’s hand. He paused and turned back to me.

“What’s up, Nick?”

I swallowed. “You ready for this?”

Ben relaxed and smiled at me. “What? You getting cold feet now?”

“Not in these toasty boots I’m not.”

“Then what?”

“We don’t have to do this now. We can wait until Christmas.”

Ben bent down and kissed me softly. “I’m not waiting another second. You’d better be ready to start wedding planning with Sarah by dinner.”

I grinned and squeezed his hand. “Okay. Let’s go.”

The front door was unlocked. The house smelled like cinnamon and rosemary and roasting meat. I looked around at the well-worn furniture, the family quilts, the photos lining the walls and pulled off my jacket. Ben took my hand and led me into the kitchen, raising our interlocked fingers to show off our brand-new rings.