Vera flipped around in her seat. ‘I’ll just run in and get my shoes. Back in a sec.’

I watched as she flitted across the dirt and into the cabin, not even stopping to unlock the door.

‘You don’t lock it?’ I asked, hardly able to contain my surprise. I couldn’t imagine leaving anything unlocked – no matter how remote.

‘Not out here,’ John said, matter-of-factly. ‘We used to, but then we got out of the habit. I was teaching these art classes, and it got easier for us to leave it open, in case students beat me here. There’s nothing valuable inside, just canvas and paints. I keep all my finished work back at the gallery anyway.’

He retrieved his phone from his pocket, scrolling through news feeds as he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. I found myself suddenly wondering what he’d say if I showed him that video from college, whether he’d pity me or judge me or accept it as one of those things. Then I remembered how Davis had reacted, despite my trying to convince him that it wasn’t that big a deal – You’re telling me these assholes have seen my girlfriend like that? – and I pushed the thought away.

‘So do you still do the classes?’ I asked.

John looked up, catching my eyes in the rearview, and shook his head. ‘Not really.’

‘Got tired of it?’

The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. ‘No, but like with the gallery, the market ebbs and flows. There’s not as much interest in them anymore. Haven’t done them since the spring.’

I thought of that girl in the café – Al – locals won’t touch the place. And the graffiti – you fucking pervert. What had happened to turn their business upside down? Could an affair with a neighbor have had that much of an effect? Wasn’t Woodstock supposed to be progressive?

Vera burst in then, a pair of muddy hiking boots in her hands. ‘Let’s go.’

We wound back the way we’d come, made another turn, and I imagined John inside the studio, teaching classes, when people had still wanted to take them. Painting, drawing, what have you. It sounded lovely. Indulgent. The kind of life one was meant to live. The kind I’d dreamed of, after all was lost.

Then, for the briefest of moments, I imagined Rachel in there with him.

He eased onto the brake and made another turn. The road crumbled to gravel as gangly trees arched their arms around us, luring us into a bare parking lot, not a car in sight.

‘There’s no one here.’

Vera turned around. ‘That’s why we love this trail,’ she said. ‘We have it all to ourselves.’