Chapter 18 #2
“I didn’t catch your name,” I say, intent on doing more research on this guy. I’d go to Paul, but the fact he’s meeting him at the diner, coupled with Lily’s hunch about him. Can I trust him?
The man doesn’t answer me, though. Instead, he runs a hand through his raven-black hair, and says, “Did you know if a lily rises despite the darkness, it’s proof that even the innocent can bloom in shadow.”
Then he turns to leave.
I end up driving to the cabin with zero intention of leaving again. I don’t have it in me to drive to my mom’s house, not after that.
Damn it, Brent. I don’t want to be dragged into this.
Did you know if a lily rises despite the darkness, it’s proof that even the innocent can bloom in shadow?
I’m not sure what it is about what he said as he walked away from me. The oddity of his word choice, or maybe it’s the fact Lily has been on my mind and something about it resonated with me.
When I pull into my cabin, the soft flicker of the lamp by the kitchen window is the only light aglow, and Max’s shadow looms back and forth, like he’s pacing the floor. Right now, it’s his shadow that’s a comfort.
I grab my phone and send a quick text to my mom, letting her know I won’t be there for dinner. I should text Lily, especially how we left things, but I don’t feel worthy right now. The stench of the ambush is still wrapped around me, squeezing tight.
I groan. Did Brent really think I’d help move drugs? Use private national park roads and routes to facilitate his operations. I don’t care if he’s in charge or who in the cartel he reports to. I could never. Could I? Would I?
I stumble out of the truck, the dark of night fully blanketing the tiny cabin I call home.
It’s been nice living in one of the ranger outposts—I’m close to work, immersed in nature, and there’s plenty of room for Max to run and train.
Being nearby is helpful, but the lingering guilt never truly goes away.
I know my mom would never in a million years allow me to come back home, but still. What kind of son am I?
I’ve never been more grateful for Lily, though somehow, she’s the reason I can’t show my face tonight. I’ll stay here, pack up Max’s stuff, then head over early in the morning to get a jump on the turkey and pies.
I let out a disbelieving chuckle. What a contradiction. Being approached by a drug lord yet worrying about cooking a turkey, insanity.
The fresh scent of twilight and pine is nearly euphoric as I approach the door to the rustic cabin nestled in the heart of Yosemite Valley.
Several of the rangers in my unit live in the older cabins or shared housing.
They’re designed to blend into the natural surroundings, built with weathered logs that no longer hold the expected earthy brown, but rather a concrete gray.
It’s hard to see at night, but poking up through the sloped shingled cedar roof, illuminated by the half-moon, is an original stone chimney, functional and used in the colder months, though closely monitored and the use regulated.
Max barks from inside the cabin, my footsteps thrashing through the foliage strewn in front of the attached porch.
My personal-use hiking boots sit outside, caked with mud from a hike earlier in the week.
I went up to Tenaya Canyon, notorious for its difficult navigation and slippery off-route trails.
I wonder if Lily’s been.
Max barks again, bitter I opted to leave him home. Entering the cabin, he bounds over to me, sniffing my shoes and whining when he looks behind me. I bet he smells my mom’s house, or better yet, Lily. I scratch him on the head, burying my cold-tipped fingers into his toasty fur.
After I shrug off my coat, tossing it on the hook beside the door, I turn toward the ashy wood-burning stove, while Max continues to paw at my discarded shoes over the doormat which reads Beware: The Dog is the Boss Around Here!
There isn’t much to this place. It’s a one bedroom, though it has a set of bunk beds in the living room, set up for when off-park rangers need to crash or seasonal rangers get into town early.
Because of this, I don’t have a couch, just a wide chair tucked into the corner by the woodstove.
To the right, when you walk in, is the kitchen, and back past the living area is the single bedroom and adjoining bathroom.
I crouch in front of the cast-iron door, shuffling the stack of newspaper over to crumple a pile and stuff it in the woodstove. Then, on top of that, I carefully place dry kindling, arranged in a crisscross pattern, and finish with the larger logs sitting near the stove, split.
Quickly, I strike the match, leaning in to allow the flame to blacken and then catch the corner of the newspaper. They curl, hungrily stretching toward the kindling, which releases a piney aroma as it catches. A soft roar crescendos when I nudge the air intake open, feeding the flames.
There’s something about making a fire, whether with a lighter or matches, in a stove, charcoal grill, or outside camp ring that soothes the thrumming anxiety running through me.
Wood crackles and pops, embers darting up the flue like tiny stars exploding out of existence, and I close the door, standing.
An orange glow flickers behind the glass, and I can’t help but think it would be nice to share this steady heat with someone for a few hours.
Spread out on the floor in front of the sizzling fire with thick blankets and warm mugs of cider or coffee.
I don’t care, but it’d be nice not to be alone.
As if he heard my thoughts and takes personal offense to me thinking I’m alone, Max trots over to nudge my pant leg then sits to peer up at me.
I stare at him with those expressive eyebrows. “You’re the best friend a guy could ask for. I’m just saying it’s nice to have a certain someone to share you with.”
Max tilts his head, licking his lips, eyes flicking toward his empty food bowl.
“You and me both,” I say, padding into the kitchen.
The open upper shelves hover above nicked wooden counters that slide in between an older stove and small fridge, and I fumble around in the fridge for a few ingredients to make some avocado toast and pull out Max’s premade dinner as well.
He sits patiently while I prepare his bowl, adding his favorite toppers—raw chicken feet and frozen diced carrots.
“Platz,” I command, and he lays down. “Braver Hund. Okay!”
Max darts in for his meal just in time for my toast to pop up. I mash up an overripe avocado and crack some fresh pepper with a sprinkle of sea salt, then call it good when my stomach gurgles in protest. Retreating to my chair, I sit, watching the fire and eating.
I never asked what my mom and Lily were having for dinner, and suddenly I want to know.
So, I pull out my phone.
What did you have for dinner?
Lily responds a minute later.
Lily
Nope. You don’t get to know. Should’ve come.
My mom tell you to say that?
Lily
No. I can’t repeat what she told me to say.
I laugh, startling Max, whose ears perk up with the foreign sound.
Well, I should say foreign in the cabin.
There isn’t too much to laugh about when you’re here by yourself.
I guess that’s why I spend so much time out with my mom, playing pickup basketball with old high school friends who’ve stuck around Pinebrook, even hiking with Max so I can run into people.
Occasionally, a few of my ranger buddies will get together, but most of them have families or we’re on opposite schedules.
The myriad of things my mom probably muttered under her breath after I texted and told her I would not come back until tomorrow would probably make a priest blush.
I stare at the gear by the door—boots, my wide-brimmed hat I thought looked ridiculous on me when I first started wearing it until several girls tossed their number at me, and my jacket.
The ever-present aroma of woodsmoke gently wafts through the cabin, and Max, successfully full, comes over to curl up by the fire.
There’s another ding on my cell phone.
Lily
Are you okay?
I can sense the true question. Why didn’t you come back? Is everything okay? Hell, I hope she doesn’t think I didn’t come back because of her hug—that’s exactly why I want to come back.
I want to tell her, confide in her, but she already doesn’t trust law enforcement. How do I tell her I’m tangled up in this mess with Brent? It would only prove her point. At least talking to her makes the looming anxiety dissipate.
I type out an answer, delete it, then try again.
All good. Got home to Max later than I anticipated so I decided to stay the night. Wishing I could go run Sunrise Lakes Trail up at Clouds Rest. Could use it right about now.
I wait a moment, and when a response doesn’t come through, I get up with my plate and do the dishes. I’m halfway through drying my last dish when my phone rings.
Quickly, I wipe my hands, expecting a work call now that it’s past 8:00 p.m. However, the name on the screen isn’t my supervisor, it’s Lily. Thinking something could be wrong with my mom, I swipe to answer, my “hello” coming out breathless.
“Okay, so is hitting Clouds Rest via Sunrise Lakes a day hike?” she asks.
I release a breath, relieved there’s nothing wrong, then the corner of my mouth lifts. Her voice—low and raspy, like she’s trying to be quiet in bed and may have almost been falling asleep.
“You can summit Clouds Rest in a day, but I’d argue it’s most spectacular at night,” I say, turning off the lights in the kitchen and double-checking the lock on the cabin door before padding into the single bedroom.
The walls are stained a warm honey color and depict the queen bed frame in a broad shadow due to the bedside lamp.
My pine frame bed is covered with a comforter—striped with earthy green, navy blue, and rust red repeating over a brown quilted material—and I sit on it, dropping onto the plush mattress with a grin on my face.