22 #3
As soon as I realise snow has started to fall behind the glass, that small firelight in the hearth starts feeling like the only habitable inch left in the world.
And it’s a damning one.
When the white-bearded man finally claps his thighs and mutters something about sledge dogs needing rest, we shuffle outside.
Before climbing onto the sledge, Anders pauses, one hand on the handlebar, beard ghosting in the wind.
‘You’re coming for dinner,’ he says, not so much offering as decreeing. ‘Because if you don’t come to the Nielsens, the Nielsens come to you.’
He winks. The dogs bark.
Then the sledge swooshes off into the dark.
The front door closes with a heavy thud behind us.
And just like that, reality starts creeping back in.
Uninvited and unforgiving.
I’m still patting snow from my hair when Elias grabs his gloves from the shelf by the door and heads towards the back exit.
Through the window, I see him covering the snowmobile outside, then pocketing the keys.
Right side. Outer coat pocket.
I have no idea how to drive the thing, no idea which way the track runs, and no confidence that I would survive ten minutes in the dark without putting it into a tree.
But keys are keys. And hope, clearly, sometimes lives in pockets.
I glance northwards where I remember he’d said the cliff lies. Then to the right, where the forest thickens and the supposed town lies somewhere beyond.
I tuck it all beneath my mental rug where it can wait for the next rash decision.
When Elias returns for the chickens, my eyes follow him. I help clumsily where I can. He doesn’t correct me or thank me. As if I were an apparition he knows is here but has decided to tune out.
By the time the last hen is reluctantly returned to its rightful prison, darkness has swallowed the windows completely.
Elias walks past me without a word, trailing the scent of cold sweat and iron.
He’s been quiet too long.
And it’s not the quiet that descends after labour or after a stressful day, soothing the soul. This is the kind that had gathered in clusters every time Anders said wife, every time my ring caught the light, and every time Elias remembered I tried to run.
He disappears into the bedroom, then returns quicker than I can follow.
Something flies my way before his foot has even left the threshold.
A weight smacks hard into my palms.
A book.
I glance down at the cover.
Heat slams into me as the red cover sneers up at me from my palm.
My throat closes. Dread is already pushing the air out of my lungs.
Elias is halfway to the kitchen, yanking open the fridge as if he hasn’t just hurled an active grenade into my arms. He reaches inside and pulls out a chilled packet, then begins emptying it onto a plate.
With growing panic, I watch him spoon something that looks like jam, then begin piling everything else beside it. The sheer simplicity of the act feels absurd while I am standing here unable to feel my toes.
The book feels as if it’s burning a hole in my hand.
I glance at the cover again.
Then back at the jam.
My gut twists.
Oh God.
I actually… know this scene. The internet practically combusted over it.
Elias turns before the colour fully reaches my cheeks, the kitchen light cutting across one side of his face and completely darkening the other.
He’s not going to make me read that, is he?
His eyes move to the paperback in my hands.
Then to me.
‘Down on the rug, Leah.’
I can’t move.
‘Why?’ The question comes out on a startled breath as he takes that first step towards me.
His gaze doesn’t waver when the second falls, not even when the third brings him just behind the couch that separates us.
‘Today you reminded me of someone.’ His eyes lose whatever warmth was left in them.
My feet are rooted to the floor. Even my grip on the book loosens. It feels like standing at the edge of an open grave and realising the only way to go is forward.
‘Who?’ I ask, though some wiser part of me wants to swallow the question instead.
His jaw clenches. ‘A woman,’ he says. ‘Someone who thought wanting something badly enough made it right to take it.’ His gaze doesn’t leave mine. ‘Who lied with wet eyes. Who taught me that even a smiling mouth can bite.’
The room shrinks.
I can’t think of a single answer that won’t sound like defence, insult, or pity.
Elias looks down at the plate.
‘Last night your hand was on me. Today you ran.’ He holds the moment too calmly. ‘I’m done pretending. I’m done tiptoeing around this.’ His voice lowers as the next words cleave straight through me. ‘Everything in life has purpose. Hunger. Pain. Want. Fear. Damage. This.’
‘What is this?’
His lips remain parted when his blue gaze finds me, but he lets the quiet sit. The firelight reaches his face without softening a damn thing.
He looks at the book in my hands as though he still hasn’t quite decided how badly this is going to go.
‘What it needs to be,’ he says.
Outside, the blizzard throws itself at the windows, one long shriek dragging across the panes.
He steps around the couch, and repeats himself on a darker note, stripped of every pretence he wore for the world.
‘Down on the floor.’