Chapter 8 Marisa #2
The storm rearranges itself outside the windows like a dancer changing costumes.
The lodge pops and sighs.
My body softens.
My mind stops sorting itself into acceptable and not.
Cruz tells a story about Isla’s invented business plan for a cookie company that will also make flamethrowers because balance is important.
Deacon pretends not to smile while he asks if she has filed for a permit.
Roman says he will consider investing if she proves a market need.
I wash bowls after without being asked, because love is a stack of clean dishes as much as it is anything else.
Roman dries.
He is bad at it on purpose until I give him a face that says his theater is cute and unwelcome.
He improves.
Deacon puts leftovers in containers with labels that make sense to him and to no one else.
Cruz turns off the stove and presses the back of his hand to my forehead like a nurse, even though I am fine and he knows I am fine.
“It is late,” he says, voice softer now. “Come, mi cielo. We will get you to bed.”
The room upstairs is small and warm and smells like cedar, just as promised.
The sheets are clean in that hotel way, but the quilt over them is handmade and heavy and looks like it remembers summers.
There is a glass of water on the nightstand and a phone charger waiting.
I do not remember mentioning that I forgot mine.
“Room service,” Deacon says, placing two ibuprofen next to the water as if he is not the man who just helped me forget what time is.
“Your bedside manner is concerningly good,” I tell him, slipping under the quilt. “What do you charge.”
“Unclear,” he says, and tucks the edge near my shoulder like he is building an exact border.
Cruz smooths the hair at my temple then kisses the exact spot. “Sleep,” he says. “If the storm knocks the power, we will handle it. You will not wake to cold.”
Roman stands at the foot of the bed with his hands in his pockets, deciding how to say a thing without making it heavy.
He looks at the window and the snow, then at me. “You are safe here,” he says finally.
The words land. Not like a net. Like a floor.
“Thank you.” My voice is not steady. I do not care.
They turn out the light like men who know the room now belongs to me.
I hear their steps retreat down the hall, then dip back toward the kitchen, then settle somewhere near the fire. I can picture them without opening my eyes.
Deacon checking the latch twice.
Cruz adjusting a damp log.
Roman taking the chair that faces both door and window, listening to the storm, keeping watch without needing to say who for.
I sleep like a person who has been seen and fed and tucked in by people who intend to keep doing it.
My body hums gently.
My mind curls around itself and quiets.
The phone wakes me before the light does.
It vibrates across the nightstand with the insistence of a gnat you cannot swat.
For a second I think it is the alarm I set last week and forgot to delete.
Then I see the numbers.
Twenty-six texts.
Four missed calls.
One new voicemail.
The time is a little after five.
The room is still blue with early winter.
The house sleeps like a large animal that has decided it likes us.
I do not want to look.
I do. I swipe.
The first is from Nico and appears to have been typed with his thumbs and his teeth.
You cannot keep living like this. You embarrass the family. Come home for Christmas and stop playing bakery.
The second is from my stepmother, which means it will be colder in a more direct form.
Your cousin got engaged. We need to talk about your future. I hear things. I worry. I pray for you. Are you going to Mass? The third is Nico again. Men will not want you if you keep behaving like you do. You are not a girl anymore. Stop whoring around.
My stomach hollows, not because any of it is new, but because I woke in a room that smelled like cedar and safety and now I am holding a machine that thinks it knows my life better than I do.
I scroll and the gist repeats.
Settle. Behave. Return. Repent.
The word reckless appears twice, which makes me laugh in a soundless way that is not laughter.
I look toward the door.
The house is quiet.
My heart knocks around my ribs like it wants to run and does not know which way to go.
I think about the fight I would have to have at breakfast if I stay.
I think about how careful I would have to be with the way I say yes to things that feel right. I think about the storm and the road and the way shame looks for a ride when family offers it a seat.
If I keep doing this, I will never hear the end of it.
The line appears in my head like I wrote it in steam on a mirror.
I am not ready to be brave in the way of staying demands.
Maybe not ever.
Not with a phone full of voices that know how to move into the attic of my skull and rearrange the furniture.
I stand. My feet find the cold floor and the need to flee outruns the need to be rational.
I dress quietly, sweater first, jeans next, socks by feel.
I slide the charger free without making the lamp click. I fold the quilt back into place like I was never here.
I pick up the bag I abandoned by the door last night and the weight of it makes my throat close.
I pause in the hall and listen hard.
The shape of a man sleeping in a chair outlines itself against the dusk-blue of the great room.
Roman.
His head is tipped back, mouth a hard line, hand on his stomach like he fell asleep trying not to.
Deacon’s boots sit neatly side by side on the hearth.
Cruz’s jacket hangs on the back of a chair.
The house smells like the end of a party and the beginning of something I do not let myself name.
I could leave a note. I do not.
I am cowardly enough to imagine the text instead.
Thank you. I am sorry. It is not you.
It is the part of me that never learned how to be allowed.
I take the stairs soft and slow.
The front door sighs like it expected this and is disappointed in me.
The storm has spent itself into a glitter that looks innocent and will roll a car without thinking about it.
I am careful on the walk, careful on the steps, careful turning the key because I would like to pretend I am careful with everything.
The engine is a cough then a steady hum.
I should leave it to warm, but I do not.
I pull out, tires slipping once, twice, then catching.
The road curves.
The lodge disappears behind trees the way it did the first time, only now my chest hurts in a way it did not then.
I tell myself I am doing the right thing.
I tell myself this is mercy.
I tell myself what I had last night is a story you get to visit but not keep.
The phone buzzes again. I do not look.
Dawn lifts its shoulder over the ridge.
I drive toward it like a person who has somewhere to be and nothing to say when she gets there.