Chapter 31
do it for the bear cubs
Rowan - five years ago
I power up the generator, the low buzz slicing the otherwise perfectly still air.
Using a flashlight, I navigate around to the front door of the camper where I left Hannah.
We’re on the far corner of my grandparent’s property, tucked behind a curtain of forest thick enough to shield Pops’ cabin entirely from view.
The rickety iron steps creak underneath my feet, and I twist my body to fit through the narrow frame.
Hannah waits just inside the door while I make sure all the lights and toilet are in working order.
There’s a comfortable chill in the air tonight so it’s not stuffy or cold inside, but I crack a few windows to air it out anyway.
“Here,” I say, reaching for the stack of linens in her arms. “I’ll get it set up for you.”
It takes all of three seconds for her to explore the eighteen-foot abode before she’s seen everything and joins me at the bed. We work together in unnerving silence for the next few minutes until the job is done—until there’s no real reason for me to stay.
“I grabbed you a water from the house.” I incline my head toward the bottle on the counter as I squeeze past her in the tiny galley.
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and this.” I lift the backpack holding her shoes and wedding dress and set it on the banquette by the door.
She offers a weak nod and another “Thanks.”
This is it—I’m fresh out of excuses to make this last longer.
“Well…um…” I look aimlessly around the trailer, volleying between her, the bed, and the door. “It’s late, so I’ll let you get some rest.”
My feet drag. One step, then another. I almost turn around.
Maybe she needs more blankets. I could show her how the generator works or give her my number in case she needs anything.
But I talk myself out of it. The sun will rise in a few hours and it’ll all be over.
I’ll be off to the airport, and she’ll return home to deal with the fallout of her failed wedding.
“Rowan?”
The sound of my name on her lips is a blast of cool air in the heat of summer. I swivel back, trying not to look too eager.
“You could stay,” she says. “I mean, if you want to.”
I’ve mastered a lot of sleeping hacks in the military but vertical slumber is not one of them. If I stay, we’re sharing the bed.
“Do you want me to stay?” I ask cautiously.
Hannah gnaws on her lip. “Yes.”
Thank god!
“Okay.” I grin like an idiot down at my shoes as I toe them off.
“Wait!” she blurts out. “You’re single, right?”
Stunned, I stare at her, unblinking, for long seconds before a wheezing, husky laugh erupts from my chest. Does she really think I’d spend an entire night with her—the dressing room, the dance at the bar, this camper—if I was committed to someone else?
Her expression quickly pinches into a wince like she just played back her own words. “Dumb question.”
“Yeah, Hannah. Dumb question.”
“To clarify, I’m not asking because I wanna…like, have sex with you.” She slaps a hand to her mouth with a curse. I lift a brow. “Not that I’m not attracted to you, because”—she twirls a hand in my general direction—“you’re…you, obviously.”
I cross my arms. “I am me. And you’re”—I mimic her gesture—“you.”
“Right!” she shouts, like I’m not standing two feet in front of her. Then she shoots me a…finger gun? “You’re you and I’m me.”
“We’ve established that.”
I get the impression she’d start this conversation over if she could, that maybe she wishes a sinkhole would open beneath her feet. But does she stop talking? Nope.
“Yes, and because you don’t live here and I had a fiancé up until eight hours ago, we probably shouldn’t—”
“Have sex,” I finish.
“Exactly.”
“Yeah, I mean, honestly, sex with you sounds like a terrible idea.” My face breaks in a wry smile.
Her jaw unhinges on a guffaw. “Well, excuse me for trying to be mature and set proper expectations!”
I can’t help but laugh. This is the most fun I’ve had with a woman probably ever.
Hannah bites down on her tongue, her smile fighting tooth and nail. She lifts her chin. “You know what, I take it all back. You’re not invited to stay.”
My voice drops as I shuffle closer. “Now that’s gonna be a problem.
” I peer into those captivating eyes, and the air siphons right out of my lungs.
“You see, I’ve already taken off my shoes and there’s that dark walk through the woods back to the cabin.
The whole ordeal sounds like a pain in the ass. ”
Not all women thrive on sarcasm and snark the way Hannah does. But, man, this girl can dish it out. Case in point, she scrunches her nose, hisses through her teeth, and says, “Does it?”
“Totally. I think I’ll just crash here.” I round my face into a fake yawn made for Broadway. “I’m beat.”
With that, I bop her nose and elbow past her.
Her mouth gapes as I pad over to the bed.
To really put an end to the “discussion” I launch myself onto the mattress, but what I don’t account for is the effect of my weight on this tiny trailer that was manufactured sometime before the original Woodstock.
Everything shakes, the entire structure groaning as it sways on its axle.
Hannah’s eyes bulge while her hands dart out to grip the edges of the counter for dear life.
“That,” I say once the movement has stopped, “is why we won’t be having sex tonight.”
She giggles. “Imagine the traumatized wildlife if we did.”
I drag a hand down my face, fighting a laugh. “For the bear cubs, Hannah. We do it for the bear cubs.”
“Or don’t do it, you mean. Poor fellas need their beauty rest.”
It’s the smorgasbord of secondhand embarrassment and innuendo and sexual tension we’re simultaneously too aware of that propels us into hysterics.
I bury my head in my hands from the bed, while Hannah collapses to the counter, head on her forearms. Silent laughter, then the loud, from the gut kind that makes your ribs ache.
By the time we come up for air, we’re both swatting tears from our eyes.
One arm tucked behind my head, I pat the empty mattress beside me. “Come to bed.”
“My turn,” I say.
We’ve been at this for hours. Talking. Laughing. Asking questions. Telling stories. Staring a little too long across the minuscule space between us.
Curled up on our sides, we face each other, hands tucked under our cheeks.
The camper is dark, the plug-in nightlight in the bathroom the only source of illumination in the small space. Moonlight sifts through the trees outside, casting a soft glow over Hannah’s face through the partially open blinds.
“Shoot, soldier.”
“Who taught you to play chess?”
A thoughtful expression envelops her face. “I don’t know her name.” At my quizzical look, she goes on. “It was when Maddy was in the hospital.” She works her jaw against the painful memory.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s fine,” she assures me. “She was in emergency surgery, and Mom and I had been in the waiting room for hours with no news when a nurse came by. She and my mom started chatting, but I was zoned out waiting for an update on Maddy.
“I think she knew I needed a distraction because she pulled a travel chess board from her purse. When I told her I didn’t know how to play, she offered to teach me.” She smiles softly. “That was my first chess lesson.”
“Was that the night Maddy passed?”
The downcast turn of her lips matches her voice when she says, “Yeah.”
I have half a mind to pull her into my chest. But we’re horizontal and I fear that changes the dynamic of a hug between friends. Acquaintances? I don’t even know.
Instead, I move the conversation along. “And you were a chess prodigy after one lesson?”
She scoffs. “Hardly. It was weeks after the funeral before I played again. I’d nearly forgotten about it, truthfully.
But this one night I couldn’t sleep, my mind wouldn’t slow down, and that’s when I remembered.
I fell down a rabbit hole of chess tutorials on YouTube after that.
Played online. Forced Mom to learn.” Her soft chuckle coasts over my face and she pops a shoulder.
“And the rest is history,” I muse.
“Something like that.”
Silence settles over us. Minutes pass as Hannah’s breaths deepen, finding a steady rhythm like she’s finally dozed off. I allow myself one final perusal of her face, noting the soft turn of her nose, the full lips, the swell of her cheeks, before my eyes grow heavy with sleep.
“Rowan?”
My lids lift slowly to find her gaze on me. “Yeah?”
“I have to ask...” Her mouth opens on an inhale, closes, then opens again like she’s summoning the courage to go on. “You said earlier it’s hard for you to get out here, but…how often are you able to visit?”
A sharp pang reverberates in my chest, talons clenched around my vocal cords. “It’s…rare.”
She nods but doesn’t reply. My pulse pounds. We’ve laid ourselves bare tonight—shared secrets, insecurities, and fears with an ease that’s difficult to find with most people.
Why stop there? I may not be able to visit, but she can at least know how I’m feeling.
“Hannah?”
“Hmm?”
I hesitate, doubting whether or not I should do this. Be this honest with her. She doesn’t say anything to rush me in the silence, but the way her eyes cling to mine is enough to urge me on.
“When I was a kid, I used to get in my feels a lot, especially after my dad died. So my mom started this thing every night—like a conversation starter, to help me open up. And the rule was you could say whatever you wanted as long as it was honest. The more honest the better.”
“I like that,” she says sincerely.
“I’ll ask you and then I want you to ask me, okay?”
“Okay.”
A pause. “Tell me something real.”
She takes a breath, releases it slowly as she pulls one hand from under her head and rests it in the narrow space between our chests. “It feels like I’ve known you my whole life.”
“Now ask me,” I say, the request scraping like sandpaper. My gaze holds hers while I slide my hand down until our fingers brush.
“Tell me something real, Rowan.”
I extend my pinky and wrap it around hers. “I really wish I’d met you under different circumstances.”
There’s nothing left to say. I know she feels the same. And when we wake up in a few hours, the real world will dictate that we move on as though tonight never happened. Because life hasn’t given us a choice in the matter.
But we’ll never forget it did happen. And it was perfect.