Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Grady
The rain churns around the cabin in sheets, flattening the trees beyond the porch and rattling the windows loud enough to blot out all other sound.
It’s the third day of this, and rain slaps the windows, wind rattles the frames, and the world outside these walls dissolves into gray.
I pace between the stove and the table because sitting still only thickens the silence.
I used to swear I could live alone forever with books, work, and no one needing anything from me.
Three days of this storm prove how wrong I was.
The electric space heater ticks as it cycles, battling the constant, muggy chill in the air. I let it run for only half an hour at a stretch before flipping it off and pulling the wool blanket higher.
The mug of tea I made earlier has gone tepid on the counter, and a pulsing ache from my knee up into my hip discourages me from standing to turn on the kettle again.
Only the glow of my laptop breaks the monotony, the screen filled with Jared’s social feeds. I’ve spent the better part of two days scrubbing his name from the cesspool of gossip forums, flagging fake accounts, and rebuilding what’s left of his reputation.
It’s grueling, mind-numbing work, but I find a certain satisfaction in sniping the trolls one by one with a well-placed fact or a polite correction that leaves them floundering. Most lose interest once their narrative collapses under evidence.
But one account, HarborWatcher23, keeps coming back. Same clipped video. Same poisonous phrasing: You can see it in his eyes. He wanted to attack that Omega.
The words repeat in every post I come across. I’ve reported them half a dozen times, but they slip past filters, and their persistence stirs anger within me to stop them.
It’s not only the lies. It’s how they want to keep this incorrect narrative alive about Jared being dangerous, which puts Jared in danger.
I reach for my mug and grimace when I get a mouthful of dregs. No way around it now.
As I reach for my cane, a bang comes from the door.
My heart skips a beat before reason returns. Nobody would be out in this weather unless they had to be, and no one has reason to come out to Kyle’s cabin.
But then the noise comes again, three distinct raps on the door.
Cane in hand, I limp across the room. The pane in the door runs with water, distorting the shape beyond into unrecognizable features.
I crack the door, and the storm roars in. Emily stands on the front step, rain slicker clinging to her shoulders and water running in rivulets down her jaw and into her collar. Her silver hair escapes in strands, stuck to her cheek and brow.
“Thought you might be lonely cooped up in here.” She lifts a quilted thermal bag and a plastic-wrapped loaf of bread. “Figured you haven’t been eating anything good, since I heard Kyle hasn’t had luck fishing.”
I blink once, thrown by her arrival, before I shake myself into motion. “You’re soaked. Come inside.”
She steps over the threshold, pushing back her hood to reveal a pallid complexion with bruised circles beneath her eyes. Her posture remains upright, though, bringing with her a blend of clover, rain, and wet wool.
As I close the door, she sets the thermal bag on the counter and peels her slicker open with her back to me. The movement drops a fresh spray of water onto the floor, and her boots leave muddy half-moons on the mat.
The utilitarian kitchen seems smaller with Emily in it. I can’t decide whether to clear the table for her, stand out of the way, or help her with the bread.
She moves with easy confidence, as if she’s used to being inside Kyle’s space.
She shakes her hair back without a care for how it spatters the countertop. “Sit. You look ready to topple over.”
My knee throbs in perfect sympathy, but pride keeps me on my feet. “You didn’t have to drag yourself through this weather.” I limp around the table. “It’s practically a monsoon.”
She snorts, unlatching containers and setting them beside the bread. “I’ve worked on roofs in worse.”
As she pries off the lid, steam rises in the chill air, filling the room with garlic, thyme, and chicken stock from the soup inside. Even after hours of being in the bag, the soup is warm.
“Are you hungry?” She rips a chunk of bread from the loaf and hands it over before I can answer.
“Of course.” I tear into it, the crust crackling and crumbs dusting my palm. “But you should have called. I’d have met you halfway.”
She peers at me over her shoulder while she pours soup into two mugs, and arches an eyebrow. “One, that’s ridiculous. The footing out there is treacherous for someone with two good legs.”
Her blunt practicality should irritate me, but instead, it loosens a knot inside me. She sets the mugs side by side on the table, then slips off her jacket, leaving it hanging from a dining chair.
Her paint-stained shirt clings to her shapely form, and heat rushes to my cheeks before I look away.
I clear my throat. “And two?” When she cocks her head to the side in question, I add, “You said ‘One’, which implies there must also be a ‘Two’.”
Her brow clears. “Oh. Well, two, we’ve never exchanged phone numbers.”
“That can’t be right.” I shuffle to the counter, where I left my phone next to my laptop. “After all this time, we must have…”
But as I scroll through my contacts, I discover she’s right. “Well, I’ll be damned. We should remedy that.”
“I’m obliged.” She takes my phone from my fingers and adds her contact.
When she holds it back out to me, though, and I reach to take it, she doesn’t release it.
Instead, her silver gaze holds mine. “But don’t think I’ll be using it to invite you out in bad weather and risk setting your healing back.”
“We live in the Pacific Northwest. Bad weather is eighty percent of the year.” I tug my phone from her grasp. “Are you saying you won’t invite me out eighty percent of the time?”
One corner of her lips quirks. “No, I’m saying I’ll be coming to visit you about eighty percent of the time.”
The easiness of the statement leaves me flustered. I’ve never had anyone besides Chloe be so vocal about wanting my time, and my bestie always summoned me to her apartment next door. She never got her butt out of her writing chair to come see me.
“Sit,” she repeats, thunking the mugs onto the table and going back to the counter to slice up the rest of the bread. “You’re not scaring me off with that stormy expression.”
I sit because she tells me to and lift the soup to my nose, inhaling the fragrant steam while she stacks slices next to my elbow as if she expects me to eat half the loaf by myself.
She drops into the chair across from me, the tabletop wobbling with every shift of her weight. “Don’t just sniff it. Eat before it cools.”
Steam drifts from my mug and fogs my glasses. “Let me enjoy the experience. This smells wonderful.”
She purses her lips, but a light blush blooms in her cheeks, returning some of the color to her pale complexion.
The bread crunches as I tear through the crust. Garlic, rosemary, and a warm hint of yeast bloom across my tongue, sweeping away the cold-tea bitterness that lingered from earlier. I scoop up soup with a hunk of bread, letting it drink in the golden broth, and burn my fingers, but I don’t complain.
For a minute, the only sounds are the chaos of the storm outside and the softer rhythm of us eating. Emily spoons soup with quick, efficient movements, always clearing the rim before each bite so nothing drips on the table.
“This is amazing,” I say around another spoonful, warmth spreading from my mouth to my cheeks and down my throat.
“It’s leftovers from Monday, so don’t get too excited. I threw in some extra garlic this time. My gran used to swear it kept off the winter crud.”
I try not to show my surprise. For all the meals we’ve now shared, Emily rarely talks about herself. “Is your grandma still alive?”
“She passed a few years back.” She dips her bread into her mug and chews, her attention fixed on the storm. “Never saw her sick a day in my life, though.”
“Quinn’s come down with a cold,” I offer, thinking of the little girl’s phlegm-filled coughs when I chatted with her on the phone last night. “I’ll let Holden know to stuff her full of garlic.”
She grunts. “I’m sure he has his own family cures. His familial pack is close like that. Good people.”
“I only met them briefly at the wedding. They seemed nice, though.” I reach for another slice of bread. “How’s the Homestead coming?”
Emily leans back, the old chair creaking beneath her. “Flooring is down in finished rooms. We’re just waiting for the baseboards to arrive, so they can go in. We’re ready for appliance hookups in the kitchen, but can’t pull the new lines while there’s standing water around the exterior panel.”
I pick at the crust, savoring the heat in my hands. “I bet Holden can’t wait to be back in his kitchen.”
She huffs. “I imagine he’ll be moving in before the rest of the rebuild is complete.”
I chuckle. “Can’t say I’ll complain if that’s the case. I’m a mediocre cook, and Kyle is very one-track with his meals.”
Amusement flickers across her face. “Fish, fish, and more fish.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I might be salmoned out for at least a year,” I confess. “Don’t tell him that, though. He’s already being so nice, letting me stay with him.”
“Have you given any more thought to moving to Pinecrest?” she asks.
I cast a guilty look toward the pile of brochures I picked up and haven’t touched since. “No, but I need to decide soon. My lease renewal is coming up for my apartment in Mosswood.”
Emily stands and collects our empty mugs, moving to the sink. “What are the pros and cons?”