Chapter 7 Rhiannon
RHIANNON
Our first night at the motel is uneventful. I’m about to crash out because I’m so damn tired when my mother calls. I contemplate letting it ring out, but then decide to answer in case it’s an emergency since I might not have signal the next few days.
“Rhiannon! Oh honey, finally! I’ve been trying to reach you all day!”
I should have ignored it. Should have let it go to voicemail again.
“Yeah, I told you I was going away. I might not have signal all week, Mom. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on? Sweetheart, Matthew came by yesterday—well, he brought us all gifts. Can you believe it?—and he told us everything. How you two have been talking, how you’ve been working things out, how you just needed this time away to think clearly—”
My blood runs cold. “Mom, stop. That’s not—”
“And, honey, I’m so relieved. I’ve been so worried about you, making such a rash decision, throwing away a perfectly good relationship with an amazing man over nothing—”
“It wasn’t nothing.” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, and I immediately regret it. I can practically feel her bristling through the phone.
“Well, whatever it was, you’ve clearly worked through it. Matthew was saying you might be coming home early? New Year’s Eve? His parents are having their annual party, and it would be so nice if you both—”
“Mom.” I close my eyes, trying to find the calm I don’t feel. My heart is beating very fast, and for a split second, I’m tempted to go along with it.
It would be so easy to say it’s true.
So easy to go back with him. It’s not that bad. He’s not a bad guy, not really. It would make Mom so happy. I could be happy. Happy-ish.
But even as I think it, I know it’s not true. I know what going back would mean—making myself smaller, quieter, more perfect. Watching every word. Walking on eggshells. Pretending the version of me he loves is the real me.
“I’m not getting back together with Matthew,” I say, but my voice wavers. “We haven’t been talking. I don’t know what he told you, but it’s not true.”
Silence. Long enough that I check to see if the call dropped.
“Rhiannon.” Her voice shifts, takes on that disappointed tone I’ve learned to dread. “Are you really going to do this? Push away someone who loves you? Someone who’s trying?”
“He doesn’t love me. He loves the idea of me. The version he can control.”
“Control? Rhiannon, that’s—” She sighs, that particular sigh that means I’m being dramatic, unreasonable. “Honey, every relationship requires compromise. Matthew is a good man from a good family. He’s stable, he’s successful, he adores you—”
“I just don’t think we’re right for each other,” I say, but my voice is getting smaller. Why does she always do this? Make me feel like I’m the problem?
“He wanted you to reach your potential. That’s not criticism, that’s support. And honestly, sweetheart, you can be very sensitive. You know how you get when you’re stressed, seeing problems that aren’t there—”
“Mom—”
“All I’m asking is that you think about it. Really think about it. You’re throwing away three years. Three years, Rhiannon. Do you know how rare it is to find someone who wants to build a life with you? Someone who sees a future?”
I feel myself crumbling. This always happens. She’s so certain, so convinced she’s right, and I’m just... tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of explaining. Tired of feeling like I’m the unreasonable one.
“I just...” I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. “I just need space right now.”
“Space to do what?” Her tone sharpens. “I should think you’ve had plenty of space to think Rhiannon, but maybe you do need some more if you’re going to keep playing with your life.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I hear myself say. “Maybe I do need to think about it more.”
What am I doing? Why am I saying this?
“That’s all I’m asking, honey.” Her tone softens and I grip my phone harder. “Just think about it. Talk to him. Hear him out. Maybe he made some mistakes but his heart is in the right place. He loves you.”
“Okay,” I whisper, because it’s easier than arguing. Because it is freezing cold, and lying on a crappy motel bed, I can’t think straight, and I just want this conversation to end. “Okay, I’ll... I’ll think about it.”
“You’ll talk to him?”
“I’ll... maybe. I don’t know. Mom, I have to go—”
“Promise me you’ll at least consider it.”
“I promise I’ll think about it,” I say, and I hate how weak I sound. How easily I fold.
“Good. That’s all I ask. I love you, sweetheart. I just want you to be happy.”
“I love you too,” I manage, and then I hang up before she can say anything else.
I sit up on the bed, phone clutched in my hand, feeling like I might throw up.
I didn’t set a single boundary. Didn’t push back. Didn’t tell her the truth about Matthew’s behavior. Didn’t explain that her “space to think” comment hit too close to home, because it’s exactly what Matthew used to say when he wanted me to see things his way.
And worst of all—I told her I’d think about talking to him.
I told her maybe.
When there is absolutely no maybe. No universe where I go back to him. No version of this story where I make myself small again just to keep everyone else comfortable.
But I said maybe anyway.
The following day, after a less than restful sleep, the GPS on the dash announces we’re a few minutes from Site Two. The mountains are closer now, massive and snow-covered and beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
The sky, though. The sky is getting darker.
“Hey, Rhi?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for driving. I’m shit at it in winter conditions.”
I glance over, surprised. “You’re welcome.”
I wish I could be more like him—relaxed enough to admit weakness without bracing for judgement. People like Carter can say they’re bad at something and laugh it off. People like me have to be good at everything, or pretend we are, or risk being dismissed entirely.
By the time we reach Site Two, the wind has picked up. Not dangerous yet, but enough to make the pine trees sway.
Site Two is a hot spring surrounded by pine trees, and even in questionable weather, it’s the kind of beautiful that makes you understand why people write bad poetry.
Steam rises into the cold air like something out of a fantasy movie. The water is this otherworldly blue-green that doesn’t look real—like someone adjusted the saturation too high in Photoshop. Snow frames everything in perfect white, and for a moment I just stand there, taking it in.
“Wow.” Carter breathes beside me.
“Yeah.”
“This is—” He stops, searching for words. “This is actually really cool.”
It’s such an understated reaction that it makes me smile. “Yeah. It is.”
I’m unpacking the water sampling kit when Carter touches my arm.
“Hey. Do you think we should—” He glances up at the sky, frowning. “The weather’s getting worse. Maybe we should head back? Do this site tomorrow?”
My nose twitches
He’s probably right. The smart thing would be to turn around. Come back when the weather’s clearer. It’s what a reasonable person would do.
But we’re already here. We’ve already hiked in. And the storm isn’t supposed to hit until tonight—I checked the forecast three times this morning. We have time.
I want to say that. Want to explain that I’ve done this in worse conditions, that I know these sites, that we’re fine.
But the words stick in my throat.
What if I’m wrong? What if the storm comes in faster than predicted?
A familiar tight grip clenches in my chest—the same one that tells me if I make one wrong call, everything collapses, and it’ll be my fault.
Because it always feels like it’s my fault.
That’s what being “the responsible one” means; mess up once and you lose the only thing you’re good for.
What if we get stuck out here and it’s my fault and Carter gets hurt and Professor Bam’s data is ruined and—
“Rhi?”
I’m spiraling. I know I’m spiraling. This is what I do—second-guess myself into paralysis because what if I’m wrong, what if I make the wrong call, what if people are upset with me—
“I—” I start, then stop. Try again. “I mean, the forecast said the storm wouldn’t hit until tonight. We should be fine? But if you think we should go back—”
“Do you think we should go back?”
“I... what?”
“You’ve done this forty-seven times. You know these sites. You know the weather patterns.” He’s watching me carefully. “What does your gut say?”
My gut says we’re fine. My gut says we have at least three hours before the storm hits, and this site check takes forty-five minutes max.
But my mouth won’t say it.
“I don’t want to—” I swallow. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. If you think we should leave, we can leave.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I asked what you think.”
God, why is this so hard?
“I think...” Deep breath. “I think we’re okay. The storm’s not supposed to be here until seven, maybe eight PM. We’ve got time. But—”
“But what?”
“But if you’re worried, we can come back tomorrow. It’s fine. Really.” The words come out in a rush. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to stay or being reckless or—”
“Rhi.” He says my name like he’s trying to snap me out of something. “Stop. You’re not forcing me to do anything. You’re the expert here. If you say we’re good, we’re good. I trust you.”
I blink at him. “You... you do?”
“Yeah.” He says it so simply, like it’s obvious. “You’ve been doing this for two years. You know what you’re doing. I’m just here to carry shit and try not to break anything.”
Something in my chest cracks open.
He’s not mad. He’s not telling me I’m being stupid or obsessive or reckless. He’s not making me responsible for his comfort while simultaneously undermining my judgment.
He asked what I thought. And when I told him, he believed me.
“Okay,” I say, voice a little unsteady. “Okay. We stay. We do the site check. We’re fine.”
“Cool.” He picks up the equipment case like it’s settled. “Just tell me what you need.”