Chapter 17 Rhiannon
RHIANNON
The cabin feels different when we’re packing it up.
Smaller, somehow. Like it’s already trying to forget we were here.
I move through the space methodically, checking under furniture for stray equipment, making sure we haven’t left anything behind.
Carter’s doing the same on the other side of the room, and we’re moving around each other with the kind of careful distance that’s become our new normal over the past two days.
We don’t talk much.
There’s nothing to say.
Or maybe there’s too much to say and neither of us knows how to start.
I fold the blanket we slept under—the one from the couch, from Christmas Eve, from before everything got complicated. It still smells like pine from the tree branch. Like woodsmoke from the fire. Like us, when we were still an us.
I fold it carefully and put it back on the shelf where we found it.
“I think that’s everything,” Carter says from across the room. His voice is neutral. Polite. The way you’d talk to a stranger.
“Okay. I’ll do one more check.”
“Sure.”
He doesn’t offer to help. Just carries a box of equipment out to the truck.
The cabin door closes behind him with a soft click.
I stand in the middle of the empty room and try to remember what it felt like when we first arrived.
When everything was awkward and uncertain, but at least it was honest. Before I knew what it felt like to fall asleep on his chest. Before I knew what his laugh sounded like first thing in the morning.
Before I knew that he names paper stars and hates puzzles, but did it anyway. For me.
Before I ruined it by being exactly what I always am.
Too scared. Too careful. Too much and not enough all at once.
I do one final check of the rooms, find nothing, and head outside.
The truck is already loaded. Carter’s in the driver’s seat, engine running, staring straight ahead.
Snow cling to the pine branches like powdered sugar, and everything smells clean and sharp—the kind of cold that stings your nose
I climb into the passenger seat and close the door.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He puts the truck in gear and we start driving.
Away from the cabin. Away from the thermal sites. Away from the place where, for a brief and stupid moment, I thought I could be someone different.
The silence in the truck is suffocating.
I stare out the window at the passing trees, watching the forest give way to the road we took on the way up. It feels like a lifetime ago. Like we were different people then.
Or, maybe, I was just better at pretending.
Carter hasn’t said a word since we left. Just drives, hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw set. The tension radiating off him in the tight set of his shoulders.
I want to say something. Anything. But every time I open my mouth, the words dissolve before I can speak them.
What would I even say?
I’m sorry I’m like this? I’m sorry I can’t be what you need?
I’m sorry I’m afraid of losing myself? I’m sorry I’m too scared to let myself have good things?
None of it sounds right. All of it sounds like excuses.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Service came back about an hour ago, and texts have been trickling in ever since. My mom. My dad. All of them wishing me Merry Christmas, asking how the research is going, hoping I’m having fun.
I haven’t opened any of them.
I can’t deal with their cheerfulness right now. Can’t pretend everything is fine when I’m sitting in a truck with someone who can barely stand to be in the same vehicle as me.
Someone I did this to.
Carter’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.
We’ve been driving for maybe forty minutes when Carter finally breaks.
“Okay, I can’t do this anymore.” His voice is tight. Controlled. But I can hear the edge underneath. “What’s wrong?”
My stomach drops. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Rhi.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’ve barely said two words to me in two days.
You won’t look at me. You flinch every time I get too close.
” He’s still staring straight ahead at the road, but his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.
“So either I did something to piss you off, or—I don’t know. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say again, because what else can I say?
Everything’s wrong. I’m wrong. This is wrong. I’m terrified, and I don’t know how to stop being terrified, and I’m hurting you to protect myself, and I hate that I’m doing it, but I don’t know how to stop.
“Fine.” The word comes out flat. Final. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it.”
The silence returns, heavier than before.
I bite my lip hard enough to hurt. Stare harder at the window. Blink back the tears that are threatening to spill over.
This is what I wanted, right? Distance. Space. Protection from getting too close.
So why does it feel like I’m dying?
Minutes pass. Maybe five, maybe ten. Time feels strange.
Then Carter speaks again, and his voice is different. Quieter. But somehow worse.
“You know what?” he says. “Shutting me out sucks.”
My stomach overturns.
Because he’s right. I am shutting him out. I have been for days.
And it does suck. For both of us.
I don’t know what to say. Don’t know how to explain that I’m not trying to hurt him, I’m trying to protect myself. That those two things are apparently the same thing, and I don’t know how to untangle them.
“I just...” I start, then stop. Try again. “Things are moving too fast.”
There. I said it.
The truth, or at least part of it.
Carter nods slowly. Doesn’t look at me. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” He signals, changes lanes to pass a slow-moving car. His movements are careful. Precise. “I get it.”
That’s it? He gets it?
I don’t know what I expected. For him to fight me on it, maybe. To tell me I’m wrong, that we’re not moving too fast, that this is exactly the right speed.
But he doesn’t.
He just... accepts it.
And that hurts more than if he’d argued.
Because it means he agrees. It means he thinks I’m right. It means he’s not going to fight for this, for us, because maybe there is no us to fight for.
Maybe I imagined the whole thing.
Maybe the connection I felt was one-sided.
Maybe I’m just another girl who got too intense too fast, and he’s relieved I’m pulling away before he had to.
The thoughts spiral faster than I can catch them.
“Fine,” I hear myself say. My voice sounds strange. Distant. “That’s fine.”
“Good.” His voice matches mine. Polite. Neutral. Strangers. “Then we’re on the same page.”
Are we?
I turn back to the window, watching the landscape blur past. Trees and snow and mountains, and none of it matters because everything inside me is screaming.
This is what I wanted.
This is what I asked for.
So why does it feel like the worst thing that’s ever happened to me?
“So,” Carter says after another stretch of silence. His voice is back to that careful neutral. Professional. “We’ve got tonight at the motel. Then tomorrow morning, we go back to Site One for the final readings. After that, we’re done. We can head back to campus.”
I nod. “Right.”
More silence.
Then he adds, “And then you don’t have to see me again.”
The words hit me like ice water.
Don’t have to see me again.
Not won’t. Not might not.
Never have to.
Like it’s a relief. Like the idea of not seeing me is something he’s looking forward to.
I go very still.
“Right,” I manage. My voice is barely a whisper. “We’ll be done.”
“Yep.”
The word hangs in the air between us.
Done.
With the research. With the data collection. With whatever this was.
Done.
I want to say something. Want to take it back. Want to tell him that’s not what I meant, that I don’t want to never see him again, that the idea of going back to campus and watching him from across the quad and pretending we’re strangers makes me want to scream.
But I don’t say any of that.
Because I’m the one who did this. I’m the one who pulled away. I’m the one who said things were moving too fast.
This is what I wanted.
Isn’t it?
I look out the window and watch the world blur past and try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing.
That protecting myself is more important than this ache in my chest.
That being careful is better than being hurt.
That I’m making the right choice.
I don’t believe any of it.
But I don’t know how to stop.
The motel appears.
It’s the same place we stopped on the way up—cheap and rundown but clean enough. The parking lot is mostly empty. The neon “VACANCY” sign flickers in the growing dusk.
Carter pulls into a spot and kills the engine.
The silence is deafening.
“I’ll go check us in,” he says, already opening his door.
“Do you want me to—”
“No. I got it.” He’s out of the truck before I can finish the sentence.
I watch him walk into the motel office through the windshield. Watch the way his shoulders are tight. The way he shoves his hands in his pockets. The way he doesn’t look back.
My phone buzzes again. Another text.
I pull it out, finally.
Mom:
Merry Christmas, sweetheart! Hope the research is going well. Miss you!
Dad:
Hope you’re staying warm up there. Drive safe coming home.
I stare at the messages until they blur.
They’re so normal. So cheerful. So completely disconnected from the reality of where I am and what I’ve done.
I should respond. Should tell them I’m fine. That the research went well. That everything is perfectly normal and professional and exactly as planned.
But I can’t type the lies.
Can’t pretend that everything is okay when I’m sitting in a truck feeling like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Carter comes back out of the office. Two key cards in his hand.
He opens the driver’s side door, doesn’t get in. Just leans down to look at me.
“They only had rooms on opposite ends of the hall,” he says. “That work for you?”
Opposite ends of the hall.
Maximum distance.
“That’s fine,” I say.
“Good.” He holds out one of the key cards. “Room 115. I’m in 132.”
I take the card. Our fingers don’t touch.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah.” He closes the door, moves to the back of the truck to start unloading equipment.
I sit there for another moment, key card in my hand, staring at the numbers.
Opposite end of the hall from 132.
Maximum distance.
We pass each other in the hallway. Don’t make eye contact.
The motel carpet is beige and worn. The walls are that generic cream color that’s supposed to be calming, but just feels sad. There’s a vending machine humming at the end of the hall, and somewhere a TV is playing too loud.
It’s depressing.
Everything is depressing.
On my way to get some fresh air, I pass Carter again. This time, he doesn’t move to the side fast enough and we nearly collide.
“Sorry,” I say automatically.
“It’s fine.” He shifts the equipment case to his other hand. “You okay? That one’s heavy.”
“I’m fine.”
“Right. Fine.” He moves past me, and I catch the scent of his soap. The same smell that was all over that couch we shared. The same smell that was on the blanket I folded this morning.
My throat gets tight.
I keep walking.
On my way back in, Carter’s door is closed. I stand in the hallway staring at that closed door.
I could knock.
I could say something.
I could try to explain.
But what would I say?
I’m scared? He knows that. I’m sorry? That’s not enough. I don’t know what I’m doing? That’s painfully obvious.
I go into my room and close the door.
Lock it.
Stand in the middle of the generic motel room and finally let myself cry.
Quietly.
Because I don’t even get to have this. I don’t get to be sad about a situation I created. I don’t get to mourn something I killed myself.
This is what I wanted.
Distance. Safety. Protection.
So why do I feel like I’m breaking?