Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
ALMA
The cabin sits deeper in the forest than I expected, tucked into the dark between giant firs. By the time we reach it, the temperature has gone down at least fifteen degrees, and the sky overhead is thick with stars.
Crew wastes zero time as we breach the small porch. Unlocking the door, he steps inside first and silently moves through the space. Living room, kitchen, what I presume is the bathroom…
Did he…did he think someone might be in here already?
I don’t ask, remaining firmly in place. When he makes it back to the main area, he presses one of the shovels into my hand, his fingers brushing mine only long enough to transfer weight.
“I’ll be back. I’m gonna go check on the pit. When you hear three knocks, you’ll know it’s me. Don’t answer for anyone else,” he states clearly.
And then he’s gone, shutting the door behind him before I have the opportunity to utter even a single word.
I stand there for a moment death gripping the shovel as I try to understand how quickly life can tilt off its axis.
This morning I was making coffee and hoping Lance would just sign the fucking divorce papers.
Now he’s dead and I’m holed up in a cabin, armed with a weapon in case Sasquatch knocks on the door.
How is this my life?
Because you killed your husband, my brain reminds me.
After what feels like a century, there’s three measured knocks. He said there would be, and still I find myself looking through one of the windows just to make sure. His eyebrows pinch together when he spots me on the other side of the glass. I barely flip the lock before he comes bursting in.
“Everything’s fine.” He’s cool as a fucking cucumber as he says this, setting own the other shovel beside the door. “We’ll go back in the morning. If there’s any bones floating, we’ll scoop them out.”
Scoop them out—like fucking ice cream.
I almost throw up in my mouth.
Part of me wants to ask how he knows how to do this—any of it—but I don’t.
I just nod and watch as he shuffles through the space.
He sets all of our stuff by the door, turns on the heater, grabs pillows and a blanket from a closet somewhere.
Then he leads me back outside with nothing but a tip of his head.
The fire he builds is small and deliberate, contained by a ring of stones of all shapes and sizes.
Clearly, even with experience, he doesn’t trust the flames to behave without a boundary.
I sit beside him on an overturned bucket he pulled out of his proverbial Mary Poppins bag, the cold of the plastic pressing through my leggings as the heat of the fire warms only one side of me.
Despite the fact I told him I don’t like marshmallows, he hands me a stick anyway. I take the proffered makeshift skewer, and within a couple minutes, the sugary pillow stabbed through the end is already lopsided.
“Rotate it,” he chuckles softly.
“I am rotating it.”
“You’re holding it directly in the flame and hoping for the best.”
“That’s called rotating in spirit,” I counter.
Crew huffs a quiet laugh and the sound does something strange to my insides. Nevertheless, I adjust my stick as directed, but the marshmallow catches anyway, blooming into a small, furious flame.
“See?” I explain as it blackens. “This feels right.”
Without warning, he reaches over and snatches it from my hand. His fingers brush mine for half a second, and I swear my brain short-circuits like a faulty outlet.
“You’re going to set the forest on fire,” he scolds mildly, blowing out the small flame.
“I feel like that would be on-brand for tonight.”
Crew gives me a look. The light from the fire makes his features sharper than they already are, blue eyes piercing through me. “I’d rather not add arson to the list,” he jests, peeling the burnt layer off the marshmallow and passing back the stick.
I take it, careful not to touch him in the process, but end up nearly swallowing my tongue, anyway. It’s not so much how he pops the burnt sugar into his mouth, but more so how he licks his fingers.
Get it together, Alma.
Clearing my throat, I follow suit and pop the marshmallow into my mouth. It tastes like sugar, smoke, and questionable life choices. “That’s fair.”
We sit quietly for a while after that. It’s not like the thick, suffocating silence from the truck, but one that somehow feels…
earned. Crackles and pops from the fire fill the gaps, small embers floating away with every slight breeze.
Crickets hum somewhere beyond the treeline, frogs and other insects joining in the soundscape.
The sky above us is magically clear, stars scattered like the Universe got overzealous with glitter.
I can’t remember the last time I saw stars like this. I can’t even remember the last time I noticed anything that wasn’t inside my house, the inside my marriage, or the inside of my own head.
“You ever been out here before?” Crew asks as if reading my mind.
When I glance over at him, he’s staring up at the stars—not at me.
“No. Closest I’ve gotten to camping is a Pinterest board.”
His mouth twitches, but his gaze remains trained on the sky. “Yeah, that tracks.”
Gasping, I slap a hand to my chest in mock outrage, earning me his full, undivided attention. “Wow. Rude.”
Crew shrugs and pulls his marshmallow from the flame. “You don’t strike me as the pitch a tent for fun’ type.”
“I have layers, okay.”
“Name one.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it and promptly close it again. “I own hiking boots.”
Lips curled dubiously, he swivels his head toward me. “Do you really?”
“They’re very clean,” I stress. “Very clean.”
Crew chuckles again, quieter this time, and I have this moment where I realize that I like making him laugh.
It’s actually a little unsettling how much I want to keep hearing that sound.
Mentally shaking the thought away, I shove another marshmallow onto the stick just to have something to do with my hands, and focus on not burning it this time.
When he doesn’t correct me, I realize I must be doing it right.
“So…” His gaze lifts to mine. “What happened? With your husband, I mean.”
I hitch a shoulder and rotate the stick. “He wasn’t supposed to still be a part of my life. I filed for the divorce weeks ago, had him served. He barely asked why and moved out. We didn’t speak for a few weeks…until he finally went through the papers, that is.”
Crew doesn’t interrupt, listening as intently as any good therapist.
“He came back tonight to argue about alimony.” I let out a humorless breath, shaking my head as the argument replays in a reel.
“He wanted me to retract it, said I wasn’t entitled to his money, that I could work.
Mind you, I gave up my job because he said I should.
Before we got married, he promised I wouldn’t have to worry about money anymore, promised me security.
Turns out that only counted if I behaved, if I didn’t hold him accountable to his vows and let him have his fun.
When I argued my case and told him the alimony stood, he lost his ever-loving temper. ”
Crew’s jaw ticks slightly, but still he doesn’t speak, allowing me to get the full story out. The fire pops as I remove the marshmallow, sending a small shower of sparks upward. He holds out a half-assembled s’more, chocolate and crackers awaiting the sugar I just barbecued.
“So I ran. In retrospect, I should’ve gone out the front door and yelled for help, but I turned the corner and ran upstairs instead.
” I swallow. “That’s when he grabbed my arm.
Hard. That’s also when I kicked him. I didn’t even think about it.
I just…reacted. I can still feel the resistance, the split-second where gravity made its decision.
He fell, but he didn’t get back up. There was so much blood…
” I whisper the last bit. “So. Much. Blood.”
Those blue eyes watch me with an intensity that still—shockingly—doesn’t feel like scrutiny. It’s more of an assessment. “You defended yourself,” he concedes.
“I panicked,” I counter automatically.
“You defended yourself,” he repeats, more firmly this time.
The certainty in his voice doesn’t erase what happened, but it steadies something inside me that’s been quietly tilting sideways all night.
“I almost called 911, I swear I did, but all I could think about was the wine on the counter. The divorce papers. The way ‘fell’ would’ve turn into ‘pushed’.”
“So you called your dad.”
I nod. “I didn’t mean to kill him. It just…happened.”
“I know.”
And somehow that’s exactly what I needed to hear. His certainty isn’t loud, but those two little words ground me, allowing me to exhale what almost feels like a relieved breath.
We sit there in a comfortable silence until the fire is more ember than flame. When Crew stands, it’s fluid and decisive. He crushes the last glowing spot beneath his Converse and jerks his head toward the cabin. “It’s late. We should call it for the night.”
The warmth from the heater greets us when we step back inside the cabin. The space somehow feels smaller now, more intimate. My gaze drifts to the single bed pressed up against the wall.
Crew doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll take the couch,” he states without hesitation.
The couch is narrow, too small for a man like him. The cushions are quite thin, too. “You don’t have to,” I tell him. “You’re here because of me. Take the bed.”
He shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
But I do.
It’s not so much that I mind. I just… I hesitate for another pregnant beat, then force myself to say the thing that’s been tightening my chest since we arrived. “I don’t…think I can sleep alone.”
The honesty of that statement hums between us. For a long second thereafter, Crew just studies me. There’s no teasing in his expression now, no deflection. He simply pulls his shirt off over his head, his beanie along with it, and tosses them onto the coffee table.
“Okay,” he says simply.
I have to look away, keeping my line of sight straight ahead as I shuffle over to the bed and climb onto one side. Part of me wonders if I should leave it fully made and forgo using the blankets, but that would only make it weird.
Or weirder, I guess I should say.
Two people are perfectly capable of sleeping in the same bed witout things getting out of hand.
The mattress dips when he settles into the spot beside me, spiking my pulse of its own will.
I pull the covers over my shoulder and stare at the wall, begging sleep to just take me so I can escape the awkwardness of this moment.
A few minutes later, he clicks the lamp off.
Darkness wraps around us, broken only by the sliver of moonlight peeking in through the curtain.
His breathing evens out first.
Mine doesn’t—at all.
I try to relax, to let my body sink into the mattress, but the moment I close my eyes, I see Lance’s face as he fell down the stairs.
The puddle of blood that creeped out from his head, the unnatural stillness of someone who was shouting only seconds before.
My eyes snap back open, and while I don’t want to risk waking the man beside me, I shift onto my back.
Minutes pass, yet the images don’t stop. Even staring at the ceiling I can see the entire encounter playing out before me. I try focusing on the sound of Crew’s breathing, on his presence beside me, on the fact that he’s solid, and warm, and real.
Ugh, stop it.
I turn onto my side again.
“Sleep,” Crew murmurs quietly.
My fingers curl into the blanket, pulling it tighter around myself. “I can’t,” I whisper into the dark.