The Single Dad Next Door Loves Me

The cabin looked like it belonged on a postcard.

That's the first thought that came to my mind when I saw it. 

Snow clung to the roof in thick layers. Icicles hung from the gutters like teeth. The porch light glowed weakly through a frosted glass shade, making the steps look softer than they were.

I parked my rented SUV in the narrow clearing and sat there a second, hands still on the wheel, listening to the engine tick down while I continued to look at the cabin. 

Silence reigned as I did so. It was not the city kind of silence. Not the Boston kind where sirens and shouting exist even when you swear the street is asleep. 

This was a silence that pressed against the windows like a living thing. And I liked it. 

Scratch that, I love it. 

“Okay,” I whispered. “Okay, Mia. This is what you wanted.”

My phone buzzed just then as if it was retaliating against what I had said. I sighed and looked at the screen. 

‘SOPHIA HALE’ was flashing across the screen and I rolled my eyes. 

Of course, I thought as I rolled my eyes again. 

Of course, it was my boss calling me. Apparently, she couldn't live without me.

I stared at the screen until it dimmed, then answered anyway because my body moved before my brain could stop it.

“Mia,” Sophia said and somehow she made my name sound like a problem she had to solve. “Tell me you got the revised deck out.”

“I’m… driving,” I lied even as I rubbed my hand. Something in me has told me to expect this from her. 

“You said you were taking two weeks,” she said. “You also said you would keep an eye on the campaign metrics.”

My jaw tightened and I glanced at the dashboard clock. Four forty-three. 

I had promised myself no work today. No emails, no spreadsheets, no panic-checking numbers like they were my pulse.

Oh goodness…

“I’m in Vermont,” I said amidst gritted teeth. “In the mountains. I told you this.”

“Yes,” she responded as if she was indulging a child. “And I told you the holiday timing is unfortunate. You’re the only one who understands the account.”

A laugh climbed up my throat and it sounded wrong, like something sharp trying to be soft.

“That’s not true,” I said. “You have an entire team.”

“Mia,” she warned.

I stared at the cabin again. The porch had a wooden bench. A little wreath hung on the door and upon closer look, I saw it was red ribbon stiff from cold. 

A small sign by the steps said WELCOME in chipped paint.

Welcome to what, I wondered. 

Two weeks of pretending your life isn’t on fire, obviously.

“I am off,” I said and my voice shook, which annoyed me more than anything. “I am using my vacation days. I’m not doing this right now.”

There was a pause just then. I could almost see her blinking, slow and deliberate, like she was deciding what version of herself to use on me.

“You sound emotional right now,” she said. “Get settled. Send the deck tonight. Just the deck. I’m not asking for much.”

I felt heat prickle behind my eyes just then. 

You are asking for my ribs, I wanted to say. You are asking for my sleep. You are asking for my lungs. That is what you are fucking asking.

“I’ll see,” I said instead because I still had that reflex…I still had hat obedient little bend in my spine.

“That’s all I need,” she said with a satisfied tone and hung up.

I stared at the dark phone screen. My reflection from the screen looked tired. Not just tired. Hollowed out.

“Two weeks,” I told myself. “You’re allowed two weeks.”

I shoved the phone into my coat pocket like it had teeth and climbed out.

The cold hit hard immediately. It wasn’t the playful kind. It punched straight through my scarf and lodged in my throat. I had to inhale deeply in response.

The air smelled clean and sharp, like pine needles crushed under boots. My breath came out in thick clouds.

I popped the trunk and started dragging my suitcase out, the wheels catching on frozen gravel.

A gust of wind swept through the trees and shook the branches. Snow dust fell in a fine spray, landing on my hair, my eyelashes, the collar of my coat.

My stomach tightened as I thought about how the weather app had promised “light snow.”  

Obviously, the forecast had smiled at me like a liar.

“Don’t be dramatic,” I muttered. “You’ve lived through Boston winters.” But then, Boston winters did not live in the middle of nowhere with nothing but a few thin lines of road and too many trees.

The cabin door stuck when I tried the handle.

“Seriously?” I hissed.

I shoved again. The latch gave with a small snap, and the door opened into dim warmth.

Warmth, at least at first.

The cabin was smaller than the pictures, but in a way that felt intentional. Cozy, actually. It was the kind of place people came to and laughed and kissed under blankets. A couch sat in front of a stone fireplace. A small table held a bowl of pinecones. There was a little kitchen with hanging mugs and a window that looked out into a snow-covered clearing.

A string of small lights ran along the mantle in a softly glowing manner. Someone had left a scented pine and cinnamon candle on the table and the air held that faint sweet smell like a promise.

I dropped my suitcase by the door and relaxed my forehead against the wood.

“Hi,” I whispered to the room. “It’s just me.”

I shrugged off my coat and walked further in, boots thudding on the wooden floor. A plaid blanket lay folded over the couch arm. A stack of board games sat on a shelf. The place looked loved, not staged.

I crossed to the thermostat.

It was sixty-eight.

Good, I thought.

I turned to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and found the welcome items the listing had mentioned. 

A carton of eggs. A stick of butter. A small bottle of maple syrup. 

Then a note on the counter which says,

WELCOME, MIA.

HOPE YOU ENJOY A PEACEFUL STAY.

CALL IF YOU NEED ANYTHING.

MRS. DALTON.

NUMBER: (…)

The handwriting had loops and careful spacing. It made me feel like someone’s grandmother had tucked me into a guest room.

I smiled in a small and tired manner. 

“I will,” I told the note. “I will enjoy it. I deserve it.”

My phone buzzed again like it heard me.

I held it up and noted with a frown. There was no service. One lonely bar flickered just then and vanished.

“Are you kidding me,” I said aloud.

I walked to the window and held the phone higher. Nothing. No service at all. 

I walked to the other side of the cabin, held it up again. 

Still fucking nothing.

I sighed and paced back to the counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over it.

I glanced at the kitchen window. Snow had thickened. The flakes looked heavier now, falling faster, blown sideways by the wind. The trees beyond swayed, branches bowed.

My chest tightened.

“It’s fine,” I told myself. “You have a landline.”

The listing had mentioned one.

I scanned the walls then the small shelf beside the couch.

There was no phone.

I pulled open drawers. One held utensils. One held batteries, a lighter, matches a first aid kit and a flashlight.

But no landline.

The wind slammed against the cabin.

The windows rattled and gave a dry shiver through the glass.

I paused just then when the lights flickered.

Once. Twice.

The string lights on the mantle blinked like a heartbeat trying to keep up.

My stomach dropped.

“No,” I said quietly with panic. “No, no, no.”

The overhead light above the kitchen blinked, went dim, blinked again.

I stood there, frozen as if my stillness could keep it alive.

Suddenly, the lights died.

The cabin went silent in a new way like it held its breath. And the hum of the heater stopped.

The little glow from the mantle lights vanished.

Only gray daylight filtered through the windows now. I stared at the dark room.

A second passed.

Two.

Then three seconds before my brain finally caught up with my body.

“Oh my God,” I breathed. “No.”

I rushed to the thermostat. The screen was blank. The heater was dead.

My breath started coming faster in greater panic. 

The air felt different almost immediately, like the warmth had only been a thin layer and now it was peeling away.

Oh God, no. 

I grabbed the flashlight from the drawer and clicked it on. The beam cut through the dim.

“You’re fine,” I told myself. “You’re fine. You have a fireplace. So you are fine.”

I rushed to the fireplace and knelt, hands shaking as I opened the screen. There were logs stacked beside it that were dry-looking, and kindling in a basket.

I fumbled for the matches.

My fingers didn’t want to behave at first and I swore out loud.

After it seemed years had passed, I struck a match.

It flared brightly

Then it died.

I struck another.

The flame caught again and I lit the kindling in a careful and desperate manner. 

The wood crackled and then finally caught.

Heat began to bloom in a slow and weak manner but it was something.

I sat back on my heels, staring into the small flames like they were my lord and personal saviour.

The wind hit again. Harder this time. 

The cabin creaked. Something outside thudded, like a branch slamming into the side.

My heart jumped.

I stood and moved to the window. I gasped when I did so 

The world had turned completely white.

Snow came down in thick sheets now, blown in wild angles. The trees moved like they were wrestling something bigger than them.

My phone buzzed again.

No.

It didn’t actually buzz.

That was my imagination.

My pocket had gone cold and heavy like it held a stone.

I pulled the phone out anyway and watched it struggle.

One bar.

Then none.

The screen showed the time. Four fifty-eight.

Less than twenty minutes and my dream retreat had become a survival situation.

I pressed my palm to my forehead.

“Okay,” I told myself in a bid to calm down. “Okay. Okay. You’re not helpless.”

The words sounded too sharp and hollow in my own ears as I spoke. 

Because I had spent years proving I wasn’t helpless.

I had rebuilt myself after Derek. After the cheating, the gaslighting, the way he smiled and said, You’re overreacting, Mia, when I found the messages on his phone.

I had thrown myself into work after that. Late nights. Early mornings. Spreadsheets becoming like armor. Meetings acting like shields.

I had become the person who always handled it. 

So why did this feel like I was six again, standing in a dark hallway, calling for my mom?

Why did I feel fucking helpless?

I swallowed hard and walked to the door.

I put my hand on the knob and paused.

Outside, the wind howled like something angry.

A sane person would stay inside and wait for help.

A sane person would remember that this was a rental. That someone was responsible. That the power would come back.

But my phone didn’t work.

The landline didn’t exist.

The nearest neighbor, if there was one, was invisible behind a wall of snow.

And the heater was off.

The cold was already creeping into my fingers even with the fire going.

No, there was no way I was going to be inside. No fucking way.

So I pulled on my coat even as my hands were jerky. I wrapped my scarf tighter. I shoved my gloves on, then grabbed the flashlight again.

“Just check,” I whispered to myself. “Just look outside. See if there’s another cabin. See if there’s someone.”

My voice cracked on the last word.

I hated that.

I opened the door.

The storm punched me in the face.

Snow slapped my cheeks. The wind stole my breath and the cold bit through my clothes like it had been waiting for this since forever. 

I stumbled onto the porch, boots sliding on the step as I did so. 

The world was a blur of white and shadow. The trees loomed, dark shapes swaying. The path I had driven on was already disappearing under snow.

“Hello?” I shouted and the wind snatched the word away.

I stepped down, gripping the flashlight with both hands, sweeping the beam across the trees.

The light cut through the snow in a thin cone and then vanished into the swirling white.

My heart hammered erratically in my chest. 

“Okay,” I told myself with a louder voice like volume could make me brave. “Okay. This is fine.”

I moved forward, one careful step, then another, my boots sinking into powder as I walked. The snow was already past my ankles and so it swallowed sound.

I turned back to the cabin. It stood behind me, dark and quiet, like it had gone to sleep.

The porch light was gone. The windows were gray.

No friendly glow at all. 

Just a black shape in a white world.

My throat tightened and I forced myself to turn and look ahead.

Then I saw it.

It was a faint glow. 

Not close but not far enough to be hopeless, either. It was a warm dot in the distance looking steady and golden against the storm.

Thank God.

I stared at it like it might disappear if I blinked.

“Someone’s there,” I whispered to myself as relief gushed through me. 

The wind shrieked again, and the trees groaned like they were warning me.

My body trembled with cold, fear and adrenaline all at once. 

I tightened my grip on the flashlight and started walking toward the light, one step at a time.

The snow rose higher. The wind pushed at my shoulders like hands.

But I kept my eyes on that glow.

Because it was the only thing in the world that looked like safety.

Even as I had no idea who waited behind it.