She parks her car in the old dirt lot, gravel crunching in that old familiar way beneath the tires.  Leaving her purse in the passenger seat, she gets out and slams the door behind her, taking a moment to appreciate the small-town silence that simply does not exist up in Nashville.  She enjoys the feeling of flip-flops on her feet instead of stilettos as she walks up towards the steps in front of the store.

A couple old men sit on the bench outside the screen door, beneath the new florescent "OPEN" sign.  

"Hey y'all," she greets, and they wave. 

"Goin' shoppin'?" asks the one closest to her, tipping his straw hat in her direction. 

"Yep."  She pulls the door open and winks at them flirtatiously, reveling in the beaming smiles that spread across their weathered faces before slipping inside. 

The clerk at the front is familiar; an old friend from high school.  "Hey," he greets.  "Long time, no see."

She smiles at him and exchanges small talk in the tiny store as she gathers the items she needs and piles them in an old, hand-held metal basket.  Butter, eggs, milk, a bag of chocolate chips.  She's counting on sugar, flour, and vanilla already being at her destination.

"You seen Justin?" the clerk asks as he rings her up, and she freezes as she counts out cash onto the counter, but only for a nanosecond.  "I heard he's back in town."

"Nope," she says.  "Ain't seen him."  She hands over the total, minus the 10% locals discount of course, and takes the paper bag he slides across the counter towards her.  "Bye."

The old men try to entice her to stay and chat with them awhile, to get a glass bottle of Coke from the old metal freezer on the porch and take a load off, but she doesn't pause on her way down the steps.

"I got a pressin' appointment," she calls over her shoulder to them.  "See y'all later."

She doesn't turn the radio on as she drives further into town, enjoying the sounds of silence as her car never quite reaches the speed limit.  It's not just that she doesn't want to get pulled over, but she's enjoying the break from fast-paced life already.

She knows the little dirt road to turn off onto, which trees to mark her way as she follows the often unforeseeable twists of the path.  When she finally reaches the cabin, the sun is a bit lower in the sky, casting scattered shadows through the cover of trees.  She doesn't bother being silent as she gets her paper bag from the backseat and slams the door.  The noise seems muffled in the woods, even quieter than the general store parking lot.

Her footsteps are loud on the wooden steps, that's impossible to avoid.  The porch is covered in a thick carpet of dry pine needs that crunch under her feet when she walks.  The screen door is shut almost all the way - it's caught on the sheer volume of dead needles, so she nudges it the rest of the way open and uses her hip to push on the wood door that she knows will be unlocked because it's never had one.

The door opens less than an inch before it budges, caught on something, and she rolls her eyes, annoyed to have to put her grocery bag down.  Using both hands this time, she pushes, hearing something scrape on the wooden floor inside, and when the space is big enough, slips her slender arm between the door and frame to reach around and grasp the back of the chair that has been shoved up against the doorknob.  With only minor difficulty, she pushes it aside, and opens the door enough to slip her entire body in, plus the grocery bag.

The cabin smells dusty, but it looks exactly the same as the last time she was here.  She stills in the entryway for a couple of seconds, looking not for similarities, but differences.  Finally, she spots it; a jacket tossed haphazardly over the back of the couch in the den.  Vindicated, she heads for the kitchen.

She finds sugar and flour, undisturbed in airtight plastic containers, but vanilla will have to be substituted with the imitation version.  She shrugs it off and sets to work, preheating the old oven, getting out bowls and spoons and metal measuring cups.  She's so involved in her task that she hardly notices the footsteps coming down the stairs or the deliberate noises he's making in the doorway to get her to turn and look at him.

Finally, apparently giving up, he speaks.  "The hell are you doing here?"

His voice sounds hoarse, like he's been sleeping or crying, but she knows better.  "Making cookies, what does it look like?"

She finally ventures a glance over her shoulder at him, and he's scowling.  "I didn't ask you to come."  He looks like shit, and she hadn't even known that was possible for the golden boy, but it was true.  His beard was unkempt, his hair was grown out to that in-between spot of bushy and not-quite-curly, and he was decidedly pale, dark circles under his eyes. 

"I know that."  She turns away to crack a couple of eggs in with her butter and sugar, and starts to stir.  She always stirs by hand when she bakes, an old trick she learned from her grandmamma - using new-fangled electric mixers allows for too much air in the cookies, making them crispy and tough.  She's always been partial to a soft, chewy cookie herself.

"I kinda wanted to be alone," he says, breaking the silence that had fallen again, the only noise in the cabin the sound of her wooden spoon scraping the sides of the metal bowl.  "That's why I came out here and jammed the door."

She doesn't say anything, just shrugs one shoulder as she pours the dry ingredients in with the wet and incorporates them gently.  Her concern is more with the old oven than with him at this point - she hopes it can still get to 350 degrees.  Once the chocolate chips are dumped into the dough and interspersed carefully with a few turns of her spoon, she opens the oven door and sticks her hand inside.  Not quite satisfied with the temperature yet, she closes it again and glances at her watch.

He's still in the doorway, trying to look angry and put out, but he's a bit too tired to manage it.

"Where do y'all keep the cookie sheets in this place?" she asks brightly, and he scowls again.

"You know where they're at," he grumbles but crosses the room anyway to open the narrow shelf next to the fridge, pulling out two thin metal cookie sheets.  They're darkened with age and warped a little bit with overuse, but she remembers them fondly and takes them from him.

"Thanks."

He remains standing for a few more seconds but finally pulls out a chair at the rickety old linoleum-topped table as she begins to scoop spoonfuls of dough out onto the sheets. 

"So you heard I was missing," he says, and it's not a question.  She senses he's not done, so she doesn't respond right away.  "Who called you?  Mom?  Trace?"

"No one called me," she replies, setting aside one full sheet and reaching for the next.  "I was watchin' Entertainment Tonight."

He scoffs, the disdain he holds for the show - and her for watching it - apparent in the soft noise.

"They made it out to be more dramatic than it actually is," she says, and he glances up.

"Made what out to be more dramatic?"

"Your mental breakdown," she says simply, and her tone implies no doubt that there is no room for argument, so he doesn't try.

"You knew I would come here," he accuses, and she opens the oven again, feeling the heat and nodding in satisfaction.  "How?"

"Where else would you go?" she asks rhetorically as she slides the two full cookie sheets in the oven and sets the manual timer for ten minutes.  It's been a long time since she's baked here, and she would rather err on the side of being cautious, less she end up with a tray full of scorched cookies.  "I mean, I guess you could go wherever you wanted.  But you're sorta...what do they say?  A creature of habit."

"Who's they?" he snaps, sitting up straight.  "Who says that?"

"I was referring to the expression in general," she clarifies, opening the fridge to put away the remainder of the eggs and butter.  The interior of the appliance was, as she'd expected, barren, save for a few bottles of beer and an old jar of marmalade.  "No one says that about you, specifically.  ‘Cept me."

"You don't even know me," he says.  "Not anymore.  It's been a long time."

She gets out two glasses from the cupboard, the tall ones with a daisy decoration across the top, and fills them with milk.  Then, she sits across from him at the table, enjoying the feeling of being off her feet, though she did just have to drive two and a half hours. 

"I'm your friend," she reminds, daring him to deny it as she stares him down across the table.

He doesn't, but adds, "And my wife." 

Now it's her turn to scowl.  "No.  We got that annulled, remember?"

"I remember."  He slouches a bit in his chair and stares out the kitchen window.  "Not my choice."

"It was the best decision," she recites, hearing the sentiment in her dad's voice even as she speaks.  "We wouldn't have worked out."

"How do you know?" he asks, then waves his hand.  "Who cares?  It's over now.  I've spent too much time thinking about how things could have been different.  I'm driving myself crazy."  He rests his elbows on the table, putting his head in his hands and pulling on his hair a bit, looking every bit the insane recluse that he was making himself into.  She watches, silent.  "Why are you here?  You can't help me."

She doesn't try to disagree.  "I never said I could."

But he goes on as if she hadn't spoken.  "Why doesn't anyone think I can handle anything by myself?  Why does everyone always have to come after me, like I'm some kind of kid?  Maybe I just need time, you ever think of that?"

His voice grows steadily as he speaks, getting angrier with each word.  "Okay, so maybe I'm ‘breaking down'.  Whatever.  Who cares?  At least leave me in peace.  You didn't need to come after me.  Did you think it was going to change anything?  That you could fix me?"

He knocks the old glass salt shaker off the table in frustration, sending it crashing to the wooden floor.  It shatters, a tiny explosion of glass shards and salt, and she can't help but think that it's a shame - it was probably an antique.

The noise seems to subdue him, and he leans back in his seat, as if surprised at his own actions.

She gets up to get the broom from the corner, near the door down to the basement, but he stands to take it from her.  "I'll do it.  I don't want you to get cut."

The oven dings as he starts to sweep, so she turns away to get her cookies.  Ten minutes was just enough time, because they look perfect, so she takes the trays out and turns the oven off. 

The mess is cleaned up by the time she gets the hot cookies on a plate and sets it on the table in front of him, along with the glasses of milk.  He looks timorous now, and he takes a cookie from the plate with a grateful glance.  He finishes it completely before draining half the glass of milk and reaching for another.  She sits across from him and waits.

"How did you know?" he asks a few minutes later, once he's polished off three cookies and the full glass of milk.  She shrugs.

"Nothin' that chocolate chip cookies can't fix," she says with a smile, and he matches it, almost.

"I'm an ass," he says, dejectedly, and her smile widens. 

"Yes," she agrees.  "But I love you.  And I'll always be here for you.  Even when you don't want me to be."

She pushes the plate closer to him.  "Have another cookie."