Out of the Woods

Chapter Fourteen

Fourteen

The fire is nearly out when Yvonne and I make it back to camp, the logs red and glowing but no flames flickering above them. The afternoon sun sits right above us in the sky, helping everything dry again after yesterday’s rain.

“They should be back soon,” Yvonne says, walking over to the fire and picking up some kindling. “I’m going to make some lunch; would you like some?”

I shake my head softly. “I’m going to lie down until everyone’s back.” My body needs the rest, and my mind needs a private moment to reflect. I feel emptied out following Yvonne’s exercise—and while I feel inextricably different about her, I still am desperate for some alone time before whatever the rest of the day holds.

I climb into our tent and find my sleeping bag neatly laid out over my mat. Folded nicely on top of it is a fresh change of clothes, my e-reader, and a small bundle of yellow cornflowers. It’s the last thing I expected to see. So much so, that I nearly tear up at the sight of it.

I sit on Caleb’s mat, so as to not disturb his peace offering, and curl into myself—hugging my knees and grasping at my elbows. I sway, studying each petal attentively, noticing the dusting of pollen. Caleb has bought me many extravagant presents over the years—but none compare to this. My heart swells and sings as I take it in.

Folded clothes, a piece of comfort, and a sweet gesture. Simple, as things used to be between us.

Eventually, I move to lie on my side, and breathe in the scent of Caleb from his sleeping bag. The faint remnants of his eucalyptus deodorant mixed with sweat and dirt and grime. I find it oddly comforting.

I lie awake, with one thought persisting that I cannot shake. He deserves a gesture of his own. So, I get up, throw on my boots, and head toward the path where I’d seen some aster flowers earlier with Caleb’s multitool in hand. I cut a dozen or so flowers, praying the local bee population forgives me, and use a long weed to tie them off into a bouquet. I make my way back toward the tent, climb in, and place the flowers on Caleb’s bed. I pull out his last clean pair of socks—because he’s already worn all his other clothes somehow—and ceremoniously lay them next to the flowers.

But something is missing. Something to bring him comfort. With limited resources, I pull out my journal and pen, tear out a page. I love you so much, I write onto a blank page before folding it into a paper airplane.

However, as soon as it’s folded, I realize I have more to say. So, I tear out another page. You’ve always been enough, I write on this one, then fold.

Then, again, I realize I’m still not quite done.

You don’t have to fake it anymore.

Tear, write, fold.

I am sorry for not telling you how I’ve been feeling.

Tear, write, fold.

I am grateful for you, I promise.

Tear, write, fold.

I want us to grow together.

Tear, write, fold.

I want us to change for the better.

I keep going until Caleb’s bed is covered in at least two dozen paper airplanes. When I’ve finally poured out every thought and see the mess that I’ve left, I gently move my nicely folded clothes off my bed, tucking them at the end of my mat, place the flowers next to my water bottle between where we sleep, and lie down to read.

—

“Sar,” I hear gently in my ear. “Sar-ah,” someone sings out. “Baby—”

I blink awake, yawning as I do. “I fell asleep,” I say, though it sounds more like ahfeyelasweep. Caleb’s kneeling next to my mat, smiling down at me as he softly tugs a strand of hair away from my mouth. I feel it peel away like it had been stuck on my chin by drool.

“You were out cold,” he says with a timid laugh. “I see you’ve had a big day…” He gestures to his bed with a thumb over his shoulder.

“You left me flowers,” I say with another yawn, then shake myself. “That was really nice.” I move to sit up, stretching out my neck—feeling stiff after a few nights’ sleep without my beloved Tempur-Pedic mattress and memory-foam pillows.

“I see I got some flowers too.” Caleb’s smile is hesitant, but bright nonetheless—I think he’s feeling the same sense of precariousness as I am. We both know this isn’t a clean slate situation. We have to talk about what happened. But it is nice to see that we’re both trying to lead with kindness.

“Do you like them?” I ask.

He grins, nodding. “Of course, and the planes too. Thank you, baby.”

“I’m sorry for fighting,” I say alongside a soft sigh.

“I’m sorry too,” Caleb says, his head hanging in the space between us. “Really sorry. I hate that I made a scene in front of everyone.”

“At first I was embarrassed because they were all looking,” I admit, reaching to tilt his chin up to see me. I stroke his jaw with a bent finger before dropping my hand back to my lap. “But then, after you went to bed, I got a little bit high—” Caleb’s face crumples into an amused look of confusion. “More on that later,” I interject. “And I realized I was actually feeling relieved. You got angry with me for real. Of course, it didn’t feel great in the moment but I’m glad that you expressed yourself instead of sitting with it alone. You trusted me to see your anger and not shield me from it.” I pause, turning to sit cross-legged across from him as he moves to do the same, shuffling some planes off his mat to make room. “I know it might sound strange but I’m grateful. I’m glad you see me as capable of handling the good and the bad emotions. Because I am, ” I emphasize. “I’m capable of seeing you at your worst. At your angriest. At your lowest. At your meanest…and still loving you. What I want most is for you to stop taking care of me so much so I can finally start taking care of myself…and you kind of did that.”

Caleb nods slowly, his nostrils flaring on a long sigh out through his nose.

“Sorry, that was a lot at once, huh?”

“Y-yeah, no, well, yes, but…Good,” he stutters out.

“I’ll give you a minute,” I say with a bashful smile.

After a long beat, Caleb nods to himself as if he has internally processed it and is now prepared to speak. “I think sometimes I do want to protect your feelings instead of expressing mine. I’m definitely guilty of telling white lies just to avoid any sort of conflict. It’s not that I don’t trust that you can handle yourself—I just don’t want to see you experience any more hardship than you already have.” He nervously chews at his bottom lip, then drops his hands into his lap. “It’s so strange because I see you as this confident, funny, smart, spontaneous, sexy, slightly intimidating woman and there’s this part of me that thinks…‘How’d I get so lucky.’ But then, I’m the only one who gets to see the softer, emotional, grieving, hurt person underneath…and I wonder who I’m supposed to be married to sometimes. And playing it safe means treating you like some wounded bird instead of the courageous, brave woman you are.”

I blink, slightly stunned.

“A lot at once, right?”

I nod, that same wistful smile returning. “I’m ready to not be wounded anymore,” I say. “Are you ready to let me have all of you? Good and bad? Safe and vulnerable? Do you trust me?”

“I am…I do,” he responds, reaching for me. I take his hand in both of mine and begin stroking my thumbs along his palm, tracing the lines and scars and edges of him. “And…” His chest rises on a deep breath. “I’m sorry about the fundraiser. I get it now. Why you’d want it to succeed or fail all on your own. I get that I overstepped. I—”

“You were just following our pattern,” I interrupt, my eyes not leaving his hand. “I know your intentions were good.”

“But next time,” he says quietly, “I won’t intervene.”

“Thank you,” I say, a slight hitch to my voice. “I appreciate that…And I’m sorry for how I reacted.”

“It was a difficult night for you,” he says softly.

“Still…”

“I really don’t like change,” he admits, his hesitant gaze falling to the space between us.

“I know, love.”

“I don’t want to risk losing you.” I trace the scar on his hand, thinking of all the hundreds of times I’ve done it before.

“You won’t.”

“Promise?”

I look up to find his eyes, searching for mine. “If you give me the space to grow, I’ll plant myself next to you. Always.”

“You’ve always been a lot better with words than I am…” His eyes shift to my journal, and the airplanes around him. “And that probably won’t change…. But earlier this morning I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I wrote something and I want you to hear it. It feels a little vulnerable but…”

“If you’re comfortable,” I say, nodding. “But if it’s just for you, that’s okay too.”

He removes his hand from mine, then reaches to pull his journal out of his pack. “I kind of wrote it like a letter. And, obviously, it was before we got the chance to talk.” He clears his throat, opening the journal and holding it open in one hand as the other tightens and flexes across his knee. “Sarah,” he reads. “I don’t think I felt you slipping away until it was too late, so I gripped on too tightly, afraid to let you go. Then, after the fundraiser, it felt like you were halfway out the door and I didn’t want to spook you so I kept my distance, trying to figure out how we could best move forward. I spend my days solving problems and compiling data and you feel like the one piece of my life I cannot solve. And, maybe, I should stop trying to. You’re my wife, after all, not a mathematical equation or an algorithm. But just like you turn to prayer when you’re most afraid—I turn to logic. To facts. To what I know to be true. Clearly, that’s not doing me any favors. So, here’s what I know to be true that logic cannot confirm…” He flips the page, then taps at the top left corner of the journal with his forefinger.

“I can feel you when I’m alone. I can sense your presence like a second nature and can anticipate your random visits to the office based on some sort of intuition or connection between us. And, when you’re not near, you occupy every corner of my life. Half of my thoughts are about you. All of my dreams involve you. My hopes and fears and purpose revolve around you. I just want you to be at peace. That is all I have ever wanted from the first moment I saw you cry and had the privilege of being the arms you ran to. And, if your future peace means leaving, so be it. But don’t think for a single second you could ever truly leave me. You can go as far as you need to, but you’ll always be a part of me. You will always be the second voice in my head. The force that surrounds me. The source I pull inspiration from. I am sorry if it’s too late. Sorry for myself that I’ll have to go on as half of a whole. And I hope that if you have to rewrite your life, you won’t erase my part in it, that you’ll let me stay a part of your story.” He looks up with tears in his eyes, “Always yours,” he pauses awkwardly, “Caleb.”

I dive at him, grasping onto the extra fabric of his shirt as I pull him to me. “Never,” I promise as a sob wracks me. “I would never erase you from my life, Caleb.” I lean back, tears falling off my chin as I desperately try to clear my eyes enough to look into his. “It’s our new chapter, okay? For both of us. Together.”

“Together,” Caleb says like a vow. “Okay,” he says, letting his forehead fall against my neck. “Thank god,” he whispers, so quietly it’s as if he didn’t mean for me to hear it.

Neither of us moves for a long while. We stay tucked around each other, letting our breathing slow and hearts rest in each other’s safekeeping. Then, Caleb leans back to wipe his nose and face with his sleeve. An embarrassed sort of laugh escapes him as he does, his sweet smile in stark contrast to his red-rimmed eyes.

“Helen gave us some homework to do.”

“I just got a vivid flashback of you asking me to help you ‘study.’?” He throws up quotation marks over that last word.

“Well, we’ll actually be doing the work this time and not groping each other between the school’s library shelves.”

“Less fun but understood. What sort of homework?”

“Well, more like tent-work, I guess,” I say, rolling my eyes at my own stupid joke. “We have to write down where we want to be ten years from now. Like, metaphorically speaking. Then, later, we can chat through it with her.”

“Okay,” Caleb says decidedly, nodding. “But does this tent-work actually have to be done here or…?”

I shrug. “No, I guess not. Why?”

“We passed a pretty cool spot earlier and I wanted to show it to you,” he says, looking me up and down appreciatively. “Did you pack your bathing suit?”

I nod excitedly, eyeing him with eager suspicion.

“Perfect, change into it and meet me outside.” Caleb makes his way outside the tent, practically diving at the door’s zipper.

“You can stay here while I change, Cay…” I reach into the bottom of my pack for my swimsuit. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” I tease.

Caleb raises a brow in my direction, then shakes his head as if I cluelessly misspoke. “You have no idea, do you?”

“What?” I half-say, half-scoff.

He drops his hand from the zipper’s pull and places his forearm over his bent knee before he flexes his fingers. God, I love his hands. “I’m trying to be a good boy, Linwood.”

“Linwood, huh? Been a long time since I got referred to by my last name…. And what does staying in here with me have to do with you being a good boy?”

“Because you changing clothes requires that you first get naked. And if you get naked, I’m going to forget the rules. And if I forget the rules we’re not going to get our homework done. Thereby, proving the point of said rules in the first place…”

“You always were such a teacher’s pet,” I whisper, my cheeks heating as I reach for the hem of my shirt.

“Be good, ” he warns.

“Always am,” I reply, my grin turning to a devilish smirk as I pull my shirt off over my head.

“Such a fucking tease,” he says, hungry eyes on my bare tits as he wets his lips.

“Go on then,” I say, shoo-ing him with one hand as I place the other arm across my chest, feigning modesty. “Go and be a good boy.”

He groans, but does as told, leaving the tent and quickly closing the entrance behind him. Then, I hear him sigh, just outside the door—and realize immediately what he’s forgotten.

“Need your bathing suit?” I call out.

“Heh, yeah…”

I smile to myself, rifling through his bag, then unzip just enough of the tent to present it to him.

“I’ll be back after I change,” he mumbles before he starts walking away. “I love being butt-ass naked in the woods.” I hear him grumble some more just before his footfalls grow too far away to hear.

I smile to myself, gripping the bathing suit to my chest.

Hope, in my experience, is a dangerous feeling, but I’ll choose to feel it anyways.