20. Sweet Thing
SWEET THING
CAIN
S he doesn’t ask where we’re going. She just comes along.
I pull off the gravel road and park at a scenic vista point that most tourists pass by.
From there, we cut across a narrow, pine-lined trail that winds toward the ridge above the falls.
The path is soft with needles and damp earth, and sunlight filters through the canopy in golden stripes, casting a cathedral glow over everything.
We move past small rivers swollen with snowmelt, their water rushing over mossy rocks. The air smells like sap and wet stone.
It’s mid-spring, and though the air is still crisp, the cold no longer bites. Not when the sun shines.
The trail I’ve chosen is the Canyon Trail to South Falls—a gentle loop, just under a mile.
The forest wraps around us in every shade of green imaginable, moss climbing the trees like a second skin.
Ferns unfurl like secrets, and the air is clean, new.
A dense canopy overhead filters sunlight into shafts of gold, spotlighting patches of wildflowers and slick stones. It’s silent, but not empty.
It’s enthralling as only the Oregon wilderness can be.
It doesn’t take long before the trees part, and we’re standing before the tallest single-drop waterfall in Silver Falls State Park.
The view strikes like breath after a long silence.
Water tumbles from a basalt cliff over 170 feet high, crashing into a basin that spits back mist and light. A silvery spray arcs like lace across the rocks. The sound is thunderous but peaceful, like nature is exhaling.
Faith stands beside me, her face tilted toward the falls, letting the view—and whatever’s quietly shifting between us—settle.
We kick off our boots and sit on the blanket I’ve spread across the patch of soft grass. She curls her legs beneath her, arms loosely around her knees, the breeze tugging gently at her hair. I stretch my legs out, lean back against a sun-warmed rock, and face the waterfall.
The roar of the falls fills the silence between us, drowning out the past and making room for the now.
“This is pristine beauty,” she murmurs.
“Yes,” I say, but I’m looking at her.
She notices and blushes. I feel like I won an award.
I’ve packed the world’s simplest picnic: two sandwiches, a thermos of coffee, her favorite kettle chips, two big pieces of Ripley’s double chocolate brownies, which she loves, cold sparkling water, and strawberries.
We eat and talk about books, about Silverton, about the bookstore, about Ripley’s.
We talk like we used to.
“Why did you so easily believe I’d steal?” she asks, casually, just as I pop a strawberry into my mouth.
The question blindsides me. I swallow wrong, and the juice hits the back of my throat, going down the wrong pipe. I start coughing hard, doubled over, and she leans in, patting my back with a grin.
She’s laughing. My Faith is laughing.
And God, it stops me cold—because it’s been so damn long since I’ve seen that light in her. So long since I’ve heard that sound and felt it reach right into my chest.
If all it takes is choking on fruit to bring her back to life like this, I’d do it again. Every day. For the rest of my life.
“ Fine , I won’t ask difficult questions,” she teases when I get my bearings back.
I roll my eyes.
Her ease with me tells me that she’s healing. Her question tells me she needs answers to be whole again.
“I believed Paula because she’s my sister. Because I didn’t, for a moment, think she’d lie to me. I told myself it made sense. That it had to.”
Faith looks away and gazes into the distance, the trees, and the waterfall.
Pristine beauty .
“Then Kyle…the moron, gets in about how you did this in Seattle and I just…” I trail off because I don’t have a good explanation for what I did. I just don’t.
She gives me a long, assessing look. “I understand.”
“You do? Because I fucking don’t. I had no reason to distrust you. I…you work hard, Faith. You have such integrity. I knew you had secrets, and I thought they were the wrong ones.”
She looks at me, confused. “Secrets?”
I shrug, helpless. “You never talked about Seattle. You didn’t mention friends, or family—no one from before.
It was like your past was a closed book, and I didn’t know how to read between the lines.
Twenty-two years, and nothing to show for it?
I told myself it made sense…that maybe you were starting over.
But deep down, I thought you were running away. ”
“I was,” she breathes.
“I know. But I…fucked up, thinking…”
“I was pulling a Marion Crane?” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, like she wants to lighten the moment.
“Am I Norman Bates in this story?” I wrinkle my nose, letting her lead us away from the unpleasant for a moment, but I know we’ll have to go back.
She laughs.
Again .
My heart warms.
I want to hold her. I want to kiss her. I want to make love to her.
But mostly, I want her to be happy.
“Speaking of mothers”— she gives me a long, assessing look—“yours called me.”
I shoot her a look of mock exasperation. “ Mother is nothing like Mrs. Bates.”
She chuckles, then sobers. “She told me she was so sorry for what happened.”
“When was this?”
Mom never told me, but I’m not surprised. Christmas was difficult for them. Paula was a brat, behaving like she was fourteen instead of twenty-five. We all felt like we failed in making her a responsible adult.
“Christmas. She wanted to meet me.”
I nod. Wait.
“I wasn’t ready,” she says, her voice soft. “I couldn’t face people. Couldn’t handle kindness. Or pity. Or being seen.”
I cup her cheek, I can’t help it. I want to, need to touch her, comfort her, and myself.
She leans into my palm, just briefly—nuzzling into the touch for a nanosecond before pulling away. It’s not rejection. It’s restraint. She’s not pushing me out. She’s silently telling me, “ This is all I can take right now .”
“But I’m better,” she adds. “Not whole. Not fixed. But…I’m not hiding anymore.”
“I can see that.”
She glances at me, and a warmth flickers in her eyes.
I extend my hand, palm up—offering, not asking. I don’t move. I wait.
She hesitates, just for a nanosecond , then reaches for me.
We meet in the middle, fingers finding each other like they remember how. Our fingers tangle, and in that gesture, we begin to mend.
“I thought about this a hundred times,” I murmur. “What I’d say. What I’d do. But it never looked like this.”
She tilts her head. “Like what?”
“Like peace. Like the sound of you breathing next to me being enough.”
She doesn’t smile. But she leans in.
It’s the most precious moment of my life.
When we kiss, it’s not desperate or urgent.
It’s not carnal.
It’s careful.
It’s loving.
Like we’re both learning how to be soft again.
She rests her head on my shoulder, the sun warming our faces.
I hold her close and whisper into her hair, “Sweet thing.”
I feel her smile at the endearment.
This isn’t a grand gesture. It isn’t fireworks or confessions or forgiveness etched in stone.
It’s just a hike and a picnic.
It’s one of the happiest moments of my life.