Chapter 24
Sorrel
Iwake up alone.
Which shouldn’t surprise me considering I basically told Gregory to fuck off last night. Well, not in those exact words, but the message was pretty clear.
God, I’m such an idiot.
I lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling beams, secretly wishing he’d crossed the sectional in the night. Wrapped those ridiculous arms around me. Whispered that we’d figure it out. Maybe pressed his morning wood against my ass and made me forget why I was being such a coward.
Our last night together and we wasted it.
The thought makes my chest hurt.
Like, really really friggin’ hurt.
I sit up, scanning the great room.
Empty.
Just the fire crackling away like nothing’s wrong, like my entire world isn’t imploding in approximately... I turn on my cell phone, and check the time... eight hours until the helicopter arrives. I power it off again. Still no signal.
Sounds from the mudroom. I hurry over in my socks, still wearing his hoodie because apparently I’m a masochist who enjoys torturing herself with his scent.
Gregory’s bundling up. A shovel is resting against the door beside him.
“Where are you going?” My voice comes out angrier than I intend. Because...
He thinks he can sneak out without my noticing?!
He doesn’t look at me. “To clear the helicopter pad. And my head.”
Oh.
Right.
The pad.
Because if four feet of snow is covering it, the rescue helicopter probably can’t land, and we’ll be stuck here forever, which should make me happy except it won’t because he hates me now and--
“What about the mountain lion?” I blurt out.
He shrugs. Actually shrugs. Like he doesn’t care if a cougar rips him apart. “If the pad isn’t clear, the helicopter won’t land.”
The casual acceptance of danger makes my throat clench. “I’m coming, too.”
“Suit yourself.” He still won’t look at me.
Ouch.
Okay.
That’s what we’re doing today.
But there’s no way I’m letting him go out there alone. Not with that cat potentially circling. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened while I was inside wallowing in my own self-created misery.
So I bundle up, too. Boots, coat, thermal gloves and mitts, hat.
He wordlessly hands me his Patagonia jacket to layer over everything, same as yesterday during the firewood mission.
The gesture would be sweet if he wasn’t treating me like a particularly inconvenient piece of equipment he’s obligated to maintain.
Outside, the cold hits like a slap. I don’t know how the hell he can take it in just a sweater, but hey.
The sun is brilliant on the snow, making everything so white it hurts to look at.
We trudge toward the helicopter pad. I lead the way, with Gregory guiding me. Two hundred yards from the house according to Gregory. With each step through the thigh-deep snow, my thighs burn.
I deserve the pain, though.
Probably.
I scan the trees, searching for signs of the mountain lion. Nothing.
So far.
After about fifty yards of this torture, I glance over my shoulder. “What about the snow blowers? They had some fuel didn’t they?”
Gregory shakes his head. “They don’t really work in four-foot drifts. Besides, how do we get them onto the elevated helipad?”
“Damn.” I turn forward again, legs screaming. “So we’re doing this the hard way.”
“We’re doing this the only way.”
Fair enough
“How would you normally clean it in winter?” I ask.
“Thomas has a team he calls in,” Gregory tells me matter-of-factly. “But they don’t come out when the roads are shut down.”
He has an excuse for everything.
We reach the pad. It’s huge. Of course it’s huge. Gregory Falk doesn’t do anything small.
And it’s buried under four feet of pristine snow that needs to be cleared entirely or the helicopter can’t land safely.
Fun times.
He takes his shovel and starts without a word.
I join him with mine.
We work in silence.
Awful, terrible, heart-crushing silence.
We occasionally glance at the surrounding trees but never spot the cougar. It’s either gone or way better at hide-and-seek than I thought.
Well, at least that’s one win for the day.
Gregory’s doing most of the heavy lifting, of course. His shoulders bunch and flex under his sweater as he heaves shovel after shovel of snow to the side. I focus on the edges, clearing smaller sections, feeling mostly useless but too stubborn to stop.
We’re like a mycorrhizal network after a mining disruption, I think bitterly. All the connections severed, both organisms suffering from the break but too damaged to reconnect.
God, even my metaphors are depressing now.
An hour passes.
Two.
Still no sign of the cougar.
My arms ache.
My back screams.
Gregory’s face is red from exertion (and maybe the cold), his breath coming in visible puffs, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t take a break. Just keeps shoveling like he’s trying to bury something.
Maybe he is.
Us.
At one point, Gregory straightens, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the subzero temperature. For a second, I think he’s going to say something. His mouth opens. His eyes find mine.
Then he looks away and goes back to shoveling.
What was that?
When the snow gets lower, I’m able to contribute more, and we develop this wordless rhythm. He breaks through the packed layers, and I scoop away the loose stuff.
We’re a team again.
Sort of.
When we finally finish, I’m half-surprised we’re both still alive and un-mauled. The mountain lion apparently decided we weren’t worth the effort today, which is either a good sign or means it’s saving us for dessert later.
Emboldened by our continued possession of all our limbs, on the way back we make a quick detour to the food storage area and grab lunch, one sad chicken that we haul back inside.
I melt fresh snow for water without speaking. He builds up the fire in the great room without acknowledging my existence.
I cook the chicken. We eat in silence at opposite ends of the kitchen island. The food is pretty tasteless, probably because I can’t stop thinking about how thoroughly I’ve wrecked this.
Us.
After we’re done eating, we return to the great room.
Gregory sits on his side of the sectional, I sit on mine.
He keeps looking at me. Opening his mouth like he wants to say something. Then changing his mind and looking away.
He does this maybe five times.
I don’t pry.
Don’t force him.
What’s the point?
I already said everything wrong last night. Adding more words to the disaster seems counterproductive.
Still, I can’t help but think I was right.
Because...
This can’t work.
Not really.
So why does being right feel so spectacularly shitty?
Because I didn’t want to wreck things this badly. I didn’t want our last day together to be this frozen wasteland of misery. Maybe if I’d kept my mouth shut last night, waited until today to have the “we’re impossible” conversation, things would’ve been... different. Better.
And let’s not forget the other tragedy here. I could’ve had one last night of mind-blowing orgasms and--
Oh my god, Sorrel. Do NOT go there. This is not the time for your vagina to lodge complaints about missed opportunities.
But it’s true though.
NOPE. Not thinking about that. Definitely not thinking about his hands or his mouth or the way he--
Stop!
I shake my head, and stare at the fire, being very, very careful not to look at him.
Or even think about him.
Doesn’t really work, but hey. I tried, right?
Eventually, exhaustion catches up with me. I didn’t sleep very well last night at all.
I lean back against the sectional, just for a moment.
Just to rest my eyes.
The flames dance hypnotically and my eyelids are so heavy...
I wake up disoriented.
I’m lying down. On the sectional. There’s a rolled-up jacket under my head serving as a makeshift pillow. His blanket is draped over my shoulders.
What the--
I definitely fell asleep sitting up. Which means...
I look across the room. Gregory is in his usual spot, pretending to read some book. Like he didn’t just carry me or at least gently reposition me while I was unconscious.
Making sure I was comfortable even when we’re not speaking.
Even when he thinks I want nothing to do with him.
And then... then... I realize what he’s actually reading.
And I’m dumbfounded.
The tender gesture combined with seeing that book held in his hands breaks something inside me.
“You’re not actually reading that, are you?” I squeak. Like, literally squeak.
He doesn’t look up from the page. “I am, actually.”
It’s my ecology textbook. The one excitingly titled “Fungal Ecology.”
His finger traces a line of text. “’Mycorrhizal networks demonstrate remarkable resilience following mechanical soil disruption.
Even when primary fungal highways are severed by human activities, the remaining hyphal fragments can regenerate connections within eighteen to twenty-four months, provided three critical conditions are met: cessation of disturbance, preservation of at least thirty percent of the original fungal biomass, and reintroduction of compatible host species. ’”
He closes the book, finally meeting my eyes.
“It’s exactly what you told me. The fungal networks can heal if you stop actively destroying them.
Just like you said. But there’s a catch.
They can heal only if... only if you don’t obliterate everything to begin with.
” His jaw tightens. “Thirty percent. That’s the threshold.
Less than that, and the whole system collapses permanently.
More than that, and nature can do the work herself, given time and space. ”
Oh my god, he actually understands it.
“The mines in Brazil,” he continues, his voice becoming tinged with regret.
“We removed... everything. Topsoil, subsoil, all of it. We didn’t leave thirty percent.
We didn’t leave anything.” He looks down at the book in his hands.
“This whole section about post-mining restoration? It doesn’t apply to what I did because I made restoration impossible. Not difficult. Impossible.”