onto Bridge Street. I drive over the trestle bridge and turn right, heading toward the beautiful Mohawk Trail which undulates through the hills of northern Massachusetts all the way to New York State. It's a stunning drive, the original way west before the Massachusetts Turnpike was built, and one of my favorite drives.
I put on good music, turn off my phone, and sink down into my seat. Take the curves, admire the greenery, and think. The road rises and falls, until it climbs the Whitcomb Summit. I pull over and park. It's taken me nearly an hour to drive out here. A large statue of a regal moose stands somewhat incongruously to one side, along with an abandoned motel and a large, bustling building. I don't pay any attention to the people who have driven up here to admire the view, and instead step away, find a quiet spot, and stare out over the land.
The view is stunning. I can see into southern Vermont and New Hampshire. The woods seem to roll out forever below me. A cold wind is blowing, and I hug myself. The sun is sinking rapidly toward the horizon. My drive has given me a sense of peace. But what do I want?
I don't know. I'm perfectly balanced between the two options. Dean and Drake on one side, fulfilling a part of me that I've denied for years. A yearning for love, for acceptance, for a sense of completion. With them I know my life will be rich, amazing, and filled with passion. On the other hand I have my art, and the pure, unadulterated joy I derive from creation. Harrowgate will open doors behind my imagining. Will allow me to travel the world and share my art with thousands.
The wind blows colder, and I hug myself tight. Taking a deep breath, I realize I need to talk this over with Drake and Dean. I can't make this decision alone. The last time I did, I spent six years running in the wrong direction. I need to trust them and their love for me, and be honest about what I'm going through.
That feels right. That feels good. So I get back in my car, do a 180-degree turn, and head back toward Honeycomb Falls. I turn on my phone and dial Dean's number.
"Hey!" He sounds almost startled. "Where are you?"
"Whitcomb Summit," I say. "Or I was. I'm driving away from it as we speak."
"Whitcomb Summit?" I can hear him chew that over. "I thought you were working on your art today."
"I was. I did."
"And? How did it go?"
"Good. Amazing. And that's part of the problem."
A pause. "Problem? What problem?" I can hear the wariness in his voice. Despite last night, he still doesn't trust me to not hurt him again. I don't blame him.
"We need to talk. The three of us. Can you meet me at my studio in an hour or so?"
"What's going on, Kiera?" His voice has grown hard.
"Nothing. I promise. I haven't made any decisions. I want to talk something over with you both. I need your help in making a decision."
Again there's a silence, and then, "All right. I'll tell Drake. We'll be there in an hour or so."
"Thank you, Dean." I want to say more. I want to tell him how intensely I feel for him, how that very emotion is making it impossible for me to think straight. But he hangs up, and a moment later I lower the phone into my lap.
I recognize Drake's truck in the Conway Studios parking lot as I pull into an empty space beside it. Dusk has fallen, and a few lights are still on in the mill. People working late. With artists, there's no such thing as office hours. I lock my car and enter, then make my way to my studio.
My studio? Drake's.
The door's unlocked, and I know they're waiting for me inside. I slip in and see them standing in front of Phoenix I. Drake's arms are crossed and Dean has his hands in his back pockets. They both start and turn toward me. Drake's big, sexy body seems to tower in the shadows, and Dean's muscled frame is just begging for me to wrap my arms around him.
"Hi," I say. I can barely breathe.
"This is... amazing," says Drake. "Did you make this today?"
I nod, suddenly shy. Other than Julia, they're the
I put on good music, turn off my phone, and sink down into my seat. Take the curves, admire the greenery, and think. The road rises and falls, until it climbs the Whitcomb Summit. I pull over and park. It's taken me nearly an hour to drive out here. A large statue of a regal moose stands somewhat incongruously to one side, along with an abandoned motel and a large, bustling building. I don't pay any attention to the people who have driven up here to admire the view, and instead step away, find a quiet spot, and stare out over the land.
The view is stunning. I can see into southern Vermont and New Hampshire. The woods seem to roll out forever below me. A cold wind is blowing, and I hug myself. The sun is sinking rapidly toward the horizon. My drive has given me a sense of peace. But what do I want?
I don't know. I'm perfectly balanced between the two options. Dean and Drake on one side, fulfilling a part of me that I've denied for years. A yearning for love, for acceptance, for a sense of completion. With them I know my life will be rich, amazing, and filled with passion. On the other hand I have my art, and the pure, unadulterated joy I derive from creation. Harrowgate will open doors behind my imagining. Will allow me to travel the world and share my art with thousands.
The wind blows colder, and I hug myself tight. Taking a deep breath, I realize I need to talk this over with Drake and Dean. I can't make this decision alone. The last time I did, I spent six years running in the wrong direction. I need to trust them and their love for me, and be honest about what I'm going through.
That feels right. That feels good. So I get back in my car, do a 180-degree turn, and head back toward Honeycomb Falls. I turn on my phone and dial Dean's number.
"Hey!" He sounds almost startled. "Where are you?"
"Whitcomb Summit," I say. "Or I was. I'm driving away from it as we speak."
"Whitcomb Summit?" I can hear him chew that over. "I thought you were working on your art today."
"I was. I did."
"And? How did it go?"
"Good. Amazing. And that's part of the problem."
A pause. "Problem? What problem?" I can hear the wariness in his voice. Despite last night, he still doesn't trust me to not hurt him again. I don't blame him.
"We need to talk. The three of us. Can you meet me at my studio in an hour or so?"
"What's going on, Kiera?" His voice has grown hard.
"Nothing. I promise. I haven't made any decisions. I want to talk something over with you both. I need your help in making a decision."
Again there's a silence, and then, "All right. I'll tell Drake. We'll be there in an hour or so."
"Thank you, Dean." I want to say more. I want to tell him how intensely I feel for him, how that very emotion is making it impossible for me to think straight. But he hangs up, and a moment later I lower the phone into my lap.
I recognize Drake's truck in the Conway Studios parking lot as I pull into an empty space beside it. Dusk has fallen, and a few lights are still on in the mill. People working late. With artists, there's no such thing as office hours. I lock my car and enter, then make my way to my studio.
My studio? Drake's.
The door's unlocked, and I know they're waiting for me inside. I slip in and see them standing in front of Phoenix I. Drake's arms are crossed and Dean has his hands in his back pockets. They both start and turn toward me. Drake's big, sexy body seems to tower in the shadows, and Dean's muscled frame is just begging for me to wrap my arms around him.
"Hi," I say. I can barely breathe.
"This is... amazing," says Drake. "Did you make this today?"
I nod, suddenly shy. Other than Julia, they're the
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