Chapter 3: The Porch, The Pen, The Promise
The gravel road to Cold Spring had turned to soup somewhere around the second mile marker, the recent rain having carved deep gullies into the shoulder that Anna's sedan navigated with a series of curses and white-knuckled corrections. She'd been driving for seven hours. Her back ached. Her phone had died somewhere outside of Albany, and she'd been navigating by memory and a crumpled gas station map ever since.
But she recognized the turn when she saw it—a narrow gravel drive that branched off the main road and climbed through a dense stand of maples, their leaves just beginning to turn. The cabin appeared at the end of the drive, small and weathered and exactly as he'd described it. One bedroom. A kitchen. A porch that was falling apart.
The porch was where she found him.
He was sitting on the steps, his back against a support post, a bottle of bourbon dangling from his fingers. The bottle was half-empty. Beside him, spread across the railing like drying pelts, were pages and pages of paper—hundreds of them, it seemed, covered in that same cramped handwriting she remembered from the notebook. The wind was trying to take them, lifting the corners, and he wasn't doing anything to stop it.
He looked up when her car door slammed.
"Anna."
"Jordan."
She stood at the bottom of the steps, looking at him. He was thinner than she remembered. His eyes were red-rimmed, and there was a day's worth of stubble on his jaw. He was wearing the same flannel shirt he'd worn in Canada, the one with the missing button, and it hung on him like it belonged to someone else.
"You look like shit," she said.
"Thanks."
She climbed the steps and sat down beside him. The wood groaned under her weight, and she could feel the rot in it, the softness where the planks had given up years ago. The whole porch was a disaster waiting to happen. She didn't care.
"What happened?" she asked.
He handed her a piece of paper. It was a letter, official-looking, with a university seal at the top. She scanned it quickly—something about academic standing, something about withdrawal, something about the deadline for reinstatement.
"You dropped out," she said.
"I withdrew." He took a long pull from the bottle. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Withdrawing implies I made a choice. Dropping out implies I failed."
"Did you?"
He didn't answer. He just looked out at the road, at the trees, at the fading light that was turning everything gold and soft. The air smelled like woodsmoke and damp earth, and somewhere in the distance, a neighbor's dog was barking.
"I finished the book," he said.
She looked at the pages on the railing. There were so many of them. More than she'd expected. More than seemed possible.
"All of it?"
"All of it. Every word." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "It's garbage. It's the worst thing anyone's ever written. But it's finished."
"It's not garbage."
"You haven't read it."
"I read the first chapter. It was good."
"The first chapter was good. The rest is—" He gestured vaguely with the bottle. "I don't know what it is. I wrote it in three weeks. I didn't sleep. I barely ate. I just sat at that desk—" He pointed through the window, at a small wooden desk piled with books and papers. "And I wrote until my hands cramped and my eyes bled and I couldn't see straight."
"Why?"
"Because I had to." He looked at her. "Because if I didn't, I was going to go crazy. Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the lake. I saw the fire. I saw you."
She didn't say anything.
"I couldn't go back to school," he said. "I tried. I went to one class, sat in the back, and listened to the professor talk about watershed management, and I realized I didn't care. I didn't care about any of it. I just wanted to be here. Writing. Figuring this out."
"Figuring what out?"
"Whether I can do this. Whether I can actually make a living as a writer, or whether I'm just fooling myself." He took another drink. "I withdrew from all my classes. I didn't tell anyone. Not my mom. Not my advisor. Not you."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I didn't want you to see me like this." He gestured at himself, at the bottle, at the mess of pages. "I wanted to have it figured out before you got here. I wanted to have good news. I wanted to be someone who had a plan."
"And instead?"
"And instead you showed up to find me drunk on my porch with a rejection letter and a book that nobody's going to read."
She took the bottle from his hand and set it aside. Then she took his face in her hands and turned him toward her.
"I don't care about your plan," she said. "I never cared about your plan. I care about you."
"Anna—"
"Shut up."
She kissed him. It was rough and uncoordinated, the angle wrong, their noses bumping, but she didn't care. She kissed him like she was trying to knock some sense into him, and maybe she was.
He kissed her back. His hands found her waist, her hips, pulling her closer. The pages on the railing fluttered in the wind, and one of them broke free, tumbling off the porch and into the darkness. Neither of them noticed.
She broke the kiss and looked at him.
"You're an idiot," she said.
"I know."
"You dropped out of school without telling anyone."
"I know."
"You're going to be a writer, and it's going to be hard, and you're probably going to fail, and you're going to do it anyway."
"I know."
"And you want me to move in with you."
"I want you to move in with me." He met her eyes. "I want you to stay. I want us to figure this out together. I want—" He stopped, his voice catching. "I want to not be alone anymore."
She looked at him for a long moment. The porch creaked. The wind blew. The neighbor's porch light flicked on, a small beacon in the gathering dark.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She stood up and pulled him to his feet. He swayed slightly, the bourbon catching up with him, and she steadied him with a hand on his chest.
"Come on," she said. "Let's go inside."
"Anna—"
"Inside. Now."
She led him through the door, into the cabin. It was small and cluttered and smelled like coffee and old wood. There was a bed in the corner, unmade, with clothes piled on top of it. A kitchenette with dishes in the sink. A desk covered in papers and books and empty coffee cups.
"Jesus," she said. "You live like this?"
"I've been busy."
She pushed him toward the bed, and he sat down on the edge of it, looking up at her with an expression that was half confusion, half desire. She straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips, and looked down at his face.
"You're going to write me into every book you ever publish," she said.
"What?"
"Every book. Every story. Every essay. Every piece of shit blog post you ever write." She grabbed the front of his shirt. "I want to be in all of it. I want to be the thing that keeps showing up. I want readers to know my name."
"Anna—"
"Promise me."
He stared at her. Then he laughed—a real laugh, the first one she'd heard from him since she arrived. It was shaky and surprised, but it was real.
"I promise," he said.
"Say it."
"I promise to write you into every book I ever publish."
"Good."
She kissed him again, deeper this time, and his hands came up to tangle in her hair. She could taste the bourbon on his tongue, sharp and warm, and underneath it, something else. Something that was just him.
She pulled back and yanked his shirt over his head. He was thinner than she remembered, the muscles of his chest and stomach sharper, more defined, but the scratches she'd left on his back were still there—faded now, pale lines against his skin.
"You still have them," she said.
"Of course I do."
She traced them with her fingertips, following the path they'd carved through the forest, through the trees, through everything that had happened since. He shivered under her touch.
"You scratched me pretty good," he said.
"I told you I would."
"You didn't tell me anything. You just did it."
"Same thing."
She pushed him back onto the bed, and he went willingly, his head hitting the pillow with a soft thud. She worked at the button of his jeans, pulling them down his hips, his thighs, his ankles. His cock was already hard, straining against his boxers, and she palmed it through the fabric, feeling him twitch under her hand.
"Fuck," he breathed.
"That's the plan."
She pulled his boxers down and took him in her hand, stroking slowly, watching his face as she did it. His eyes fluttered closed. His mouth fell open. He looked like a man who had been waiting for this for a very long time.
She lowered her head and took him into her mouth.
He groaned, his hips bucking up, and she had to press a hand to his stomach to hold him down. She worked him slowly, her tongue tracing the length of him, her lips tight around his shaft. She could taste the salt of his skin, the faint bitterness of bourbon, and underneath it, the clean, musky scent of him.
"Anna," he said. "Anna, stop."
She pulled back, looking up at him. "Why?"
"I want to be inside you."
"You will be. But first—" She took him deep again, all the way to the base, and he made a sound that was somewhere between a moan and a sob.
She worked him for a few more minutes, until his hands were fisted in the sheets and his breath was coming in short, desperate gasps. Then she pulled back and stood up, shimmying out of her own jeans and underwear.
"Come here," he said.
"Patience."
She climbed onto the bed, straddling him again, her knees on either side of his hips. His cock was slick with her saliva, glistening in the dim light, and she reached down to guide him to her entrance.
"Ready?" she asked.
"I've been ready since the moment I saw you."
She sank down onto him.
The feeling of him filling her, stretching her, was almost too much. She had to pause halfway, her breath catching, her hands braced on his chest. He was looking up at her with an expression of pure, uncomplicated want.
"Okay?" he asked.
"More than okay."
She started to move, slow at first, finding the rhythm. The bed creaked beneath them, the old frame groaning with every shift of her hips. She leaned forward, her hands on his shoulders, and rode him deep.
"You feel so good," she said.
"You too. God, you too."
She picked up the pace, her hips rocking back and forth, her thighs burning with the effort. He reached up and cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and she gasped, her rhythm faltering for a moment.
"Keep going," he said. "Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping."
The bed was moving now, sliding across the floor with every thrust. The headboard was banging against the wall, a steady, rhythmic thump that seemed to echo through the entire cabin.
"Jordan," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Your neighbors."
"Fuck the neighbors."
She laughed, breathless, and kept going. The pleasure was building now, a tight coil in her belly that was winding tighter and tighter with every thrust. She could feel him hitting something deep inside her, something that made her toes curl and her vision blur.
"I'm close," she said.
"Me too."
She leaned down and kissed him, her tongue sliding against his, and that was it. The coil snapped, and she was coming, her body clenching around him, her moans muffled by his mouth.
He followed a moment later, his hips bucking up, his hands gripping her ass so hard she knew there would be bruises. He came with a groan that vibrated through her entire body, and then he was still, his chest heaving, his eyes closed.
She collapsed on top of him, her face buried in his neck. The bed was still, the room was quiet, and outside, one by one, the neighbors' porch lights were flicking on.
"Someone definitely heard us," she said.
"I don't care."
"You will tomorrow."
"Tomorrow is tomorrow." He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. "Right now, I just want to stay here."
She lifted her head and looked at him. His face was relaxed for the first time since she'd arrived. The tension was gone. The pain was gone. He just looked like himself.
"Okay," she said. "We'll stay here."
They lay together for a long time, tangled up in each other, the sweat cooling on their skin. Eventually, Anna got up to pee, and when she came back, she found Jordan sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at the pages that were still scattered across the floor.
"Your book," she said.
"What about it?"
"Is it any good?"
He considered the question. Then he bent down and picked up a page, scanning it quickly.
"I don't know," he said. "Some of it might be."
"Read me something."
"Now?"
"Now."
He looked at her, standing there in his flannel shirt, her hair a mess, her legs bare. He smiled—a real smile, not the hollow, tired one from before.
"Okay," he said. And he began to read.
She sat down on the floor and listened, her back against the bed, as he read about their lake, their fire, the stranger who couldn't start it. She closed her eyes and let the words wash over her, and for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.
When the night had gone fully dark and the words had run out, she traced the scratches on his back again, the pale lines that were still healing. She pressed her lips to them, one by one, and felt him shiver under her touch.
"I'll stay through the winter," she said.
"What?"
"I'll stay through the winter. But only if you promise to write me into every book you ever publish."
"I already promised."
"Promise again."
He turned and looked at her, his eyes dark in the shadows.
"I promise," he said. "Every book. Every story. Every word."
"Good."
She lay back on the bed and pulled him down beside her. Outside, the wind rattled the windows and the trees whispered in the dark. Inside, the cabin was warm and still, and two bodies curled together in the center of it, holding on, holding tight.
The cabin settled into its own rhythm over the next few days, a rhythm measured by the clatter of Jordan's keyboard and the scratch of Anna's pencil. She claimed the kitchen table as her studio, spreading out her sketchbook and her pens and her jars of water, while he hunched over the desk in the corner, muttering to himself as he revised.
They worked in silence mostly, the kind of silence that didn't need filling.
But at night, when the light faded and the cold crept in through the gaps in the walls, they found each other. Sometimes it was slow and tender, her legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth on her neck. Sometimes it was rough and desperate, her bent over the kitchen counter, his hand fisted in her hair, the dishes rattling with every thrust.
Tonight, it was the latter.
"Harder," she said, her palms flat on the counter, her hips pushed back against him.
He gave her harder. His hips slapped against her ass, the sound sharp and wet in the small kitchen, and she moaned low in her throat.
"You like that?" he asked.
"You know I do."
"Say it."
"I like it. I like your cock. I like the way you fuck me."
He grabbed her hips and pulled her back onto him, burying himself to the base. She gasped, her fingers curling against the counter, and he held there for a moment, just feeling her around him.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Don't stop."
"I'm not stopping."
He started moving again, a steady, punishing rhythm that made the counter creak and the jars of water rattle. She reached back and grabbed his thigh, her nails digging in, and he felt the sting of it, the sharp little pain that pushed him closer to the edge.
"I'm gonna come," she said.
"Not yet."
"Jordan—"
"Not yet."
He pulled out and spun her around, lifting her onto the counter in one motion. She wrapped her legs around him, and he pushed back inside her, deeper now, the angle different.
She threw her head back and cursed.
He kissed her throat, her collarbone, the soft skin below her ear. She tasted like salt and sweat and something sweet underneath, something that was just her.
"Please," she said. "Please, I need to—"
"Come for me."
She did. Her body tightened around him, her heels digging into his lower back, and she came with a cry that was half his name, half something incoherent. He followed a moment later, emptying himself into her with a groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest.
They stayed like that for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. Then she laughed, soft and breathless.
"We're going to break this counter," she said.
"Worth it."
He helped her down, and she wobbled on her feet, grabbing his arm for balance. He steered her toward the bed, and they collapsed onto it, limbs tangled, hearts still racing.
The next morning, Jordan woke to find Anna already at the kitchen table, her sketchbook open, her pencil moving. He watched her for a moment, the way the morning light caught the red in her hair, the way her brow furrowed when she was concentrating.
"What are you working on?" he asked.
"Something new."
"Can I see?"
"Not yet."
He got up and made coffee, and they sat together at the table, the steam rising between them. Outside, the maples were turning, oranges and reds bleeding into the green, and the air had that crisp edge that meant autumn was settling in for good.
"I've been thinking," she said.
"About what?"
"About what I'm going to do here. While you're writing."
"You don't have to do anything."
"I know. But I want to." She set her pencil down. "I've been talking to some editors. People I've worked with before. There's a publisher in the city that wants me to illustrate a picture book. Something about a bear who's afraid of the dark."
"That sounds perfect for you."
"It's a start." She looked at him. "But I was thinking about something else too."
"What?"
"Your book."
He stiffened. "What about it?"
"I've been reading it. While you sleep." She held up a hand before he could protest. "I know you didn't want me to. But I couldn't help it. It was just sitting there, and I was curious."
"And?"
"And it's good. It's really good, Jordan." She leaned forward. "It's not garbage. It's not even close to garbage. It's raw and honest and it made me feel like I was back at that lake, sitting by that fire, watching you write in your notebook."
He didn't say anything.
"I think you should send it out," she said.
"To who?"
"To agents. Publishers. Anyone who'll read it." She reached across the table and took his hand. "You dropped out of school to do this. You said you were going to write for a living or die trying. So try."
He looked at her hand on his. Then he looked at the pages still stacked on his desk, the ones he'd been revising for days, the ones he couldn't seem to get right.
"What if they hate it?" he asked.
"Then they hate it. And you write another one."
"And if they hate that one too?"
"Then you write another one." She squeezed his hand. "That's what writers do. They write. They don't sit around waiting for permission."
He laughed, but it was shaky. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You were just too busy staring at my ass to notice."
He pulled her across the table and kissed her, coffee cups rattling, her sketchbook nearly tumbling to the floor. She kissed him back, laughing against his mouth, and for a moment, everything felt possible.
That night, he started sending out query letters.
He sent ten. Then twenty. Then thirty, each one carefully crafted, each one accompanied by the first three chapters of his manuscript. Anna read every letter before he sent it, offering suggestions, catching typos, telling him when he was being too modest or too boastful.
"You need to sell yourself," she said. "You're not just some kid who dropped out of school. You're a writer with a story to tell."
"I am some kid who dropped out of school."
"You're a writer. The rest is just details."
The rejections started coming a week later. Form letters, mostly, polite and impersonal. "Thank you for your submission. Unfortunately, this project isn't right for us at this time." He pinned them to the wall above his desk, a growing collection of failures.
Anna hated it.
"Why do you keep those?" she asked.
"So I remember."
"Remember what?"
"That I tried. That I put myself out there. That I didn't give up."
She looked at the wall, at the dozens of rejections, and something shifted in her expression.
"Okay," she said. "But I'm adding something."
She went to her sketchbook and drew a small illustration—a bear, standing on its hind legs, holding a rejection letter in its paws. She pinned it to the wall in the middle of all the others.
"There," she said. "Now it's not just failures. It's art."
He pulled her into his arms and held her tight.
The first acceptance came three weeks later.
It was an email, short and to the point. An independent publisher in Vermont, small but respected, wanted to see the full manuscript. Jordan read it three times before he believed it was real.
"Anna," he said. "Anna, wake up."
She groaned and rolled over. "What time is it?"
"Doesn't matter. Look at this."
He shoved his phone in her face. She blinked at the screen, her eyes still half-closed, and then she sat up straight.
"Is this real?"
"I think so."
"Holy shit." She grabbed his face and kissed him. "Holy shit, Jordan."
"They just want to see the full manuscript. It's not a deal."
"It's a start." She was already out of bed, pulling on his flannel shirt, the one she'd claimed as her own. "We need to celebrate. We need to—"
She stopped.
"We need to send them the best version of this book you can write," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean we need to edit. Really edit. Not just fix typos and rearrange sentences. We need to tear it apart and put it back together."
He looked at her, at the fire in her eyes, and felt something shift in his chest.
"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."
They worked for two weeks, day and night, side by side at the kitchen table. Anna read every page out loud, and Jordan listened, marking passages that didn't work, scenes that dragged, characters that felt thin. She was brutal in her honesty, and he was grateful for it.
"You can't start every chapter with the weather," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because it's lazy. Find another way in."
"This scene doesn't work," she said.
"I know."
"Cut it."
"I can't. It's important."
"Then rewrite it. Make it earn its place."
He rewrote it. Three times. Four. Until it was something he was proud of.
They sent the full manuscript on a Tuesday afternoon, and then they waited. The waiting was the worst part. Jordan paced the cabin, unable to sit still, unable to focus on anything else. Anna tried to distract him, but nothing worked.
"You're going to wear a hole in the floor," she said.
"I don't care."
"You need to relax."
"I can't relax."
She stood up and walked over to him, taking his face in her hands.
"Yes, you can," she said. "Come here."
She led him to the bed and pushed him down. Then she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, and looked down at his face.
"Let me help you relax," she said.
She unbuttoned his shirt slowly, kissing each inch of skin as it was revealed. She worked her way down his chest, his stomach, her lips trailing fire. When she reached the waistband of his jeans, she looked up at him.
"Still tense?" she asked.
"You're not helping."
"I'm helping."
She pulled his jeans down and took him in her mouth, slow and deliberate, her tongue tracing patterns that made him groan. He fisted his hands in her hair and tried not to thrust.
"Anna," he said.
She hummed around him, and he nearly lost it.
"I want to be inside you," he said.
She pulled back, wiping her mouth. "Then be inside me."
She shucked off her clothes and climbed on top of him, sinking down onto his cock with a sigh. She started moving, slow and deep, her hands braced on his chest.
"This is helping," he admitted.
"Told you."
She rode him for a long time, the pace leisurely, almost lazy. The sun moved across the floor, and the cabin was quiet except for the creak of the bed and the sound of their breathing.
"I love you," he said.
She stopped moving.
"What?"
"I love you." He looked up at her. "I've been wanting to say it for weeks. I love you."
She stared at him. Her eyes were bright, and for a moment, he thought she might cry.
"I love you too," she said.
She kissed him, deep and slow, and started moving again. This time it was different. Softer. More deliberate. They came together, her forehead pressed to his, her breath hot on his lips, and afterward, she didn't move. She just lay there on top of him, her heart beating against his.
"I love you," she said again, like she was trying to get used to the words.
"I know."
"Don't get smug."
"Too late."
She laughed and kissed him, and the sun continued its slow arc across the floor.
The acceptance came two weeks later.
Jordan was on the porch when his phone buzzed. He looked at the screen, saw the email, and almost dropped the phone. Then he called Anna.
She was in the city, meeting with a potential client, and she answered on the second ring.
"Hey," she said. "What's up?"
"We got it."
"What?"
"The book. We got it. They want to publish it."
There was a long silence. Then a whoop that nearly burst his eardrum.
"Oh my god," she said. "Oh my god, Jordan."
"I know."
"I'm coming home. Right now. I don't care about this meeting."
"Anna—"
"I'm coming home."
She hung up, and he stood there on the porch, the phone in his hand, the sun warm on his face. The maples had gone full red now, and the air smelled like woodsmoke and fallen leaves. It was his favorite time of year.
She arrived two hours later, and she found him in exactly the same spot.
"We have to celebrate," she said, breathless, running up the steps.
"We are celebrating."
"Not like this. I mean really celebrate." She grabbed his hand. "Let's go out. Let's do something. Let's—"
"I want to stay here."
"Here?"
"Here." He pulled her close. "With you. That's all I want."
She looked at him, at his face, at the joy that was almost too big to contain.
"Okay," she said. "We'll stay here."
They went inside, and she made him tell her everything—the details of the deal, the timeline, what it meant. He told her about the advance, the editing process, the cover art, and the publication date.
"They want it out in the spring," he said.
"That's fast."
"They liked it. They said it was—" He paused, a smile spreading across his face. "They said it was the best memoir they'd read in years. They said it made them feel like they were there."
Anna beamed. "I told you."
"You did."
She kissed him, and then she pulled back, her eyes serious.
"I want to ask you something," she said.
"What?"
"When they make the cover. When they design it. Can I—" She hesitated. "Can I do the illustrations?"
He stared at her.
"You already said you'd write me into every book," she said. "Now I want to draw you into one."
He laughed, pulling her close. "Yes," he said. "God, yes."
The book was published in April. Anna's illustrations were on the cover—a lake at dusk, a fire burning low, two figures sitting side by side on a rock. The reviewers called it "luminous" and "stunning" and "a debut that will stay with you long after the last page."
It hit the bestseller list two weeks later.
Jordan read the news on his phone while sitting on the porch, the same porch where Anna had found him drunk and defeated all those months ago. She was inside, working on her next illustration, and he could hear her humming through the open window.
He called her.
"Did you see?" he asked.
"See what?"
"The list. We're on it. Number three."
There was a pause. Then her voice, shaky.
"Number three?"
"Number three."
She came outside, her phone in her hand, her eyes wide. She looked at the screen, then at him, then at the lake below the cabin—glassy and still in the afternoon light.
"We did it," she said.
"We did it."
She sat down beside him on the porch swing, and they looked at the lake together. The chains creaked as they swayed, the familiar rhythm that had carried them through the winter.
"Did you ever think we'd get here?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But I hoped."
She leaned her head against his shoulder.
"What happens now?" she asked.
"I write another one."
"And I illustrate it."
"And we keep going."
She smiled. "I like that."
The swing creaked. The lake shimmered. And somewhere in the distance, a neighbor's dog barked, the same dog from all those months ago, welcoming them home.