Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
WINTER
I wish I had come here in the beginning.
For all my thoughts about practicality and logic and independence, being here is a hundred times better.
Back at the motel, I was scared and depressed and anxious and my stomach was in so many knots I couldn’t imagine ever getting them untwisted.
In the motel room, I was straining to identify each little sound, trying to reassure myself that Thomas wasn’t about to break in. All the noises I wouldn’t have thought twice about before—the fridge kicking on, the pipes creaking as hot water ran through them, the clunk of a car door shutting outside—sent me into spasms of panic.
Even though I knew Officer Wilkes was right outside, I still kept waiting for the doorknob to turn and Thomas to walk in, grinning in that slimy, malicious way he does right before he doles out another punishment.
I tried to take a nap, but relaxing enough to fall asleep was an impossibility. I could have taken one of the pain pills they gave me, but that would have been even worse. Drugged into a heavy sleep, I might not have heard an intruder until it was too late.
So I just sat there on the bed, feeling cowardly and helpless and nothing like the independent woman I used to be.
Back before Thomas, I considered myself a strong person.
I dealt with the crushing loss of my parents without falling apart. I got scholarships and worked my way through college so my aunt wouldn’t have to dip into her retirement. I worked like crazy to gain experience and build my reputation to the point where I could start my own graphic design business. And I saved for years just so I could buy a house in Bliss, not once doubting that I could do it all by myself.
When I think about everything Thomas stole from me—my business, my house, my independence, my dreams—I get so angry I want to scream.
Or beat the crap out of him. That would be nice, too.
The heat of anger is actually a welcome feeling. It chases away the clinging sadness and fear and gives me hope that one day I can be strong again.
I will be strong again. I might be bruised and battered and beaten down now, but that doesn’t mean I will be forever.
If only stupid asshole Thomas wasn’t still out there. It’s hard to focus on being strong and brave when I keep thinking of all the horrible ways he can hurt me. All the ways he can hurt Aunt Linette, although, thank God, she’s staying out in New Mexico with her friend and far away from Thomas’s reach.
Although. Enzo seems to think I’m already strong.
He said it in the hospital and again on the car ride here. I was staring out the window and trying not to think about Thomas racing up behind us, high beams blinding, forcing us off the road and killing Enzo before turning on me. Out of the blue, Enzo said, “I think you’re really brave, Winter. I just want you to know. Everything you’ve done. It’s all incredibly brave.”
I’m still not sure I agree, but he got my mind off Thomas, at least.
Once we got to Enzo’s house, it was easier to push the negative feelings aside.
He did everything to make me feel comfortable and safe. Like parking right in front of the house instead of the detached garage so I didn’t have to walk as far outside in the dark. And taking me on a complete tour of the house, showing me all the locks and deadbolts and making sure all the windows were locked as we went through each room. He even gave me my choice of four different bedrooms, telling me to pick whichever one I liked the best.
And I was curious to see where he lived. Where he spent a good part of his childhood. As we walked through the house, he pointed out things from when he was a kid—the hole he patched after deciding to practice pitching inside, his old bedroom with the penciled height measurements on the doorway, and the photo of his old dog, Rascal, on the mantle in the living room.
He made some comments during the tour, pointing out things he wanted to fix or update, like the white appliances in the kitchen and the old tiles on the bathroom floors, but I think they add charm and personality.
Enzo’s farmhouse looks lived in. Comfortable. It holds memories.
I can imagine Enzo as a teenager here, hanging out with his friends, playing with Rascal, and starting his journey to becoming a man.
There was a flicker of doubt when I left the motel. Was I making the right choice? Was I putting too much trust in someone I don’t really know all that well?
But as soon as we got in the car, Enzo turned to me and said, “If you feel uncomfortable at any time, please tell me. We’ll find you another place to stay. I know a group of guys; they work for a top-notch security company just north of New York City. If you don’t feel safe here, I’ll call them. They’ll be happy to help. Okay?”
And just like that, I knew my instincts were right.
It doesn’t hurt that Enzo has this combination of strength and alertness and confidence, like he’s constantly on guard against any possible threat and is more than capable of dealing with it.
Coupled with that, he’s kind and thoughtful and seems to have an intuitive sense of how I’m feeling.
Like now, when he leads me back into the kitchen and pulls out a stool for me to sit on. With a gentle smile, he says, “I know you must be exhausted, but I was thinking I could at least make you a sandwich. Or…” He trails off, thinking. “Mac and cheese. Grilled cheese. Pasta with sauce.”
His smile turns into a sheepish grin. “I haven’t done much shopping lately. But I’ll buy more stuff tomorrow. You can help me make a list.”
We haven’t really talked about me staying past tonight, but now doesn’t feel like the time to get into it, so I just nod. “A sandwich is fine. I’m not really that hungry.”
“Okay.” Enzo heads over to the fridge and pulls out a pile of deli-wrapped packages. “I have turkey, ham, Swiss, American… And mustard and mayonnaise. What sounds good?”
A tiny hunger pang twinges, which is actually nice, since it’s the first time I’ve actually wanted to eat all day. “Ham and Swiss? With mustard?”
“Sounds good.” As he starts making the sandwiches, he says, “So. You used to visit Bliss, right? I remember you telling me when you came in to get all the hiking gear.”
I know what he’s doing, and I could hug him for it. For almost the last twenty-four hours, all I’ve talked about is the robbery and Thomas and my concussion and all my rational and irrational fears.
But this—sitting in his kitchen at the worn butcher block island, watching Enzo make sandwiches the size of my head, talking about hiking and trips with my parents—makes me feel normal again.
The band around my chest releases another notch. My persistent headache subsides from a pounding drumbeat to a more gentle throb.
“Yeah. I grew up in Manchester, so my parents and I would take trips all over the state. Weekends in Burlington, skiing at Stowe, road trips up north… And we’d come through Bliss whenever we could and have lunch. That’s when I decided I wanted to live here. It just felt like it could be home.”
Enzo slides a plate in front of me and sits down on the stool to my left. Turning toward me, he says, “Yeah. I can see that. It is a nice place to live.” His jaw twitches. “Usually.”
Except for the whole being abducted and held hostage by my ex-boyfriend thing.
“Anyway,” he hurries to add. “You mentioned wanting to get into hiking. Have you done much of it?”
“Not really. Just walks through parks and stuff like that. But I always thought it seemed like fun. Really being in nature, challenging myself, maybe bringing a camera and taking pictures of the scenery.” Pausing, I take a small bite of sandwich and finish it before revealing another truth about myself.
“I lost my parents when I was twelve. After that, I moved to Albany to live with my aunt. She was great, but sometimes… I needed to be alone. So I’d try to find places I could walk and just be by myself. Being outside… it felt less… stifling. It didn’t hurt as much, somehow.”
Understanding fills his gaze. “I get it. I walk around the property a lot—it’s about ten acres—when I’m struggling with tough memories. Or I’ll head out on the Long Trail and walk until my head clears. Something about being out there… it makes my problems feel lighter. Easier to deal with.”
My chest squeezes, but this time it’s not from anxiety or fear.
And I wonder what losses Enzo has had to bear. His uncle, obviously. And having been in the Army so long, he must have seen some terrible things. Maybe lost some of his teammates. Friends.
Was there a woman? Did they split up? Was the stress of the military too much for their relationship? Or did he find the love of his life only to lose her tragically?
Why am I thinking about Enzo’s relationships to begin with?
But somehow I find myself asking, “Do you always hike on your own? Or do you like to go with friends? A girlfriend?”
Enzo puts down his sandwich and stares at me for several long seconds.
My cheeks go hot. Why did I ask that? First of all, if Enzo had a serious girlfriend, he wouldn’t have asked me to stay here. At least, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t. And it’s really none of my business if he does.
Except he said he couldn’t stop thinking about me.
Ugh. Of all the things I should be worrying about…
“Sorry,” I mutter, dropping my eyes to my plate. “It’s none of my?—”
“Winter.” He’s using that soft voice again, the one that makes me feel all warm and gooey inside. His fingers brush across mine; his touch lingering even after he pulls away. “To answer your questions, yes, I usually go hiking on my own. I have a few Army buddies who like hiking, so maybe once a year we’ll do a hike together. Like last year, I was on leave and hiked a few of the Adirondack High Peaks with my old teammate, Finn, and his wife, Hanna.”
“Oh.”
“And there’s no girlfriend. There hasn’t been. Not in a very long time.” After a silent beat, he adds, “Aside from going with my friends’ partners, I’ve never gone hiking with a woman. I’m not sure why. It just—” He shrugs and his cheeks tinge the faintest pink. “I’m not sure why. I just never wanted to.”
An irrational disappointment spears through me. I know it’s dumb, but I allowed myself a silly fantasy of hiking with Enzo. Of sharing that quiet peacefulness with him. Reaching the summit of a mountain and taking a picture with him instead of just a selfie of me.
Somehow most of my sandwich has disappeared—I didn’t even realize I was eating it—so I start to push away from the island so I can put the plate in the sink. But Enzo puts his hand on my shoulder and stops me. He holds my gaze as he says, “But I’d like to take you hiking once things settle down. If you’d like to go with me.”
Oh.
My nose prickles.
“I’d really like that.”
Enzo gives me a long look. Then he lightly squeezes my shoulder and smiles at me. “Good. So we have something to look forward to.” Taking the plate from my hand, he says, “Now. Let me take care of the dishes. You must be exhausted. I bet you didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Not really,” I admit. “And I am pretty tired.”
“Of course you are. Why don’t you pick out a bedroom, get a shower, and I’ll come check on you before bed? Does that sound okay?”
Part of me wants to stay in the kitchen, talking to Enzo and clinging to this partially normal feeling for as long as I can. But my head still hurts, my eyelids are drooping, and all my muscles feel like jelly. Plus, I bet Enzo didn’t get much sleep after all the chaos of last night, either.
So I give him a grateful smile and say, “Okay. Thank you. A shower and bed sounds great.”
At least, in theory, they did.
The shower was fine, though more challenging than I anticipated. I kept bumping my forehead while trying to wash my hair or inadvertently letting the shower spray hit it. And the heat was nice at first, but then it made me feel a bit dizzy. But at least I was clean and Enzo even found some moisturizer and conditioner for me, explaining they were left over from the last time his mom visited.
Going to sleep, though?
So far, it’s been a massive fail.
Even though I watched Enzo lock all the doors and windows, saw the collection of framed photos of him with his Green Beret team, and logically, I know I’m safe here, I still can’t fall asleep.
Even though I’m in one of the second-floor bedrooms, door locked from the inside, with no possible way for Thomas to get to me, it’s still not enough.
Tonight, I’m not sure if anything could be.
I can’t close my eyes for more than a few seconds before panicking, convinced I’m going to open them to find Thomas looming over me. Or worse yet, I’ll realize I’m back at his house and this escape was nothing more than an unfulfilled dream.
My head still hurts and I should take something for it; I’ve gotten as far as opening the pill bottle before I think what if Thomas breaks in and I don’t hear him?
It was one thing, sitting in the kitchen with Enzo. Or walking around the house with him. Even the hospital and the motel were more tolerable when he was there with me.
But sitting in this unfamiliar bedroom with only my overactive imagination for company…
It’s not great.
I’ve been in here for over an hour and I’m no closer to sleep than when I first got into bed. Actually, I think I’m more stressed out now, since dinner in the kitchen lulled me into a sense of security that’s gradually fading.
Maybe I can find something to watch instead. There’s a big TV in the living room and Enzo made sure to show me where all the remotes were and he even said, “I’m subscribed to a lot of the streaming services—Netflix, Hulu, Max, Prime—so there should be plenty of things to choose from. Not just true crime and police shows.”
The more I think about it, the better of an idea it sounds. I can go down to the living room, turn on a bunch of lights, find a comedy to watch, or maybe a completely unrealistic rom-com where the girl transforms from ugly to beautiful just by taking off her glasses.
Maybe the comforting drone of the TV will help me finally doze off. Or if nothing else, it’ll be something to distract me.
So I pull on a sweatshirt over my sleep shorts and shirt—I really need to thank Officer Nelson again for bringing me some of my clothes—and tiptoe out of my bedroom and into the hallway.
I thought I’d be nervous walking around in the dark, but as I get closer to the living room, I realize Enzo thoughtfully left little lights on all around the house. At least, I’m guessing he did it for me, though I supposed he could be afraid of the dark.
Twenty years in the Army, most of it in Special Forces… He could be suffering from PTSD. The dark could bring back terrible memories for him.
And just like earlier, when I thought about who Enzo might have lost, my concern shifts from me to him.
I don’t like the idea of Enzo being scared. Suffering. And a big, tough guy like him, Special Forces, so outwardly strong; he’d feel like he had to hide it.
It makes me wonder if he talks to his old teammates about stuff like that. Or did he share those things with his uncle, and now the person he talked to about his struggles is gone. Does he talk to his mom, who he mentioned now lives in North Carolina with her new husband, or does he not want to tell her things that would make her worry?
It’s unexpected, this protectiveness I’m feeling. Especially considering I haven’t known Enzo that long.
By the time I reach the living room, I’m wrapped up in thoughts of Enzo and what might have happened to him in the Army and my troubles have finally been shuttled to the side. I’m actually distracted enough to not notice the TV is already on, albeit with the volume down low, and I let out a squeak of fright as a rumbly voice asks, “Couldn’t sleep?”
I clap my hand to my chest—I’m not sure what that actually does, but it’s instinctive—and spin around to find Enzo reclining on the couch with his feet propped up on the coffee table.
Before I can respond, he drops his feet to the floor and says apologetically, “Sorry, Winter. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No, it’s okay.” I blow out a slow breath, trying to persuade my racing pulse to slow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“You’re not.” He flashes me a wry smile. “I couldn’t sleep. And I wasn’t really doing anything. Just staring at crap on my phone and watching a movie I’ve seen a dozen times.”
I glance at the screen and immediately identify the movie he’s watching. “ Spaceballs ?”
“Yeah.” His smile gets bigger. “It’s old, but never stops being funny. I used to watch it once a year with my uncle.”
“I used to love that movie.” My own lips tug up as I watch Rick Moranis try to drink coffee through his helmet. “My dad thought it was hilarious. I would always pretend I thought it was silly, but then I’d end up watching it with him, anyway.”
The flickering glow of the TV casts Enzo’s features into strong shadows and angles. He eyeballs me lingering a few feet from the couch and says, “Do you want to watch with me? I can start it from the beginning.”
Oh .
There’s that feeling in my chest again.
“Yes.” I head over to the couch and sink down on the middle cushion; not close enough to touch Enzo, but close enough to catch the fresh scent of whatever soap he used in the shower. Close enough to feel safe again. “I’d really like that.”