Camille
“They’re calling for a blizzard.”
I turn at the sound of Dawson’s voice.
He stands a few feet away in a thick winter coat the color of blackberries.
“I don’t know what to do in a blizzard,” he continues.
“That makes two of us,” I reply.
“Listen,” he says. “I have a bit of a problem.”
I wonder what he thinks of the impending storm, considering he despises the regular cold.
“What is it?”
He glances at the camper. “The heater coil. It’s broken.”
There’s no way he can survive a blizzard with no heat.
“Why don’t you stay with me?” I offer. “You’re welcome to the spare bedroom.”
What I’m proposing might be dangerous for all the wrong reasons. Inviting Dawson so close to the comfort of my bed is tempting trouble, but worse still is him freezing when there’s a perfectly warm house next door.
“You’re serious?” he asks.
“Completely.”
His look guarantees unnamed things and I nearly melt right there from the heat his stare holds. “You’re sure that’s a good idea?”
I wish I could promise that my resolve was strong, and that nothing would happen between us, but lately, it seems like I can’t stay away from him. Plus, I remember how seriously he takes such things.
I laugh. “No, I’m not sure at all. But I can’t let you freeze.”
My stomach flips and I realize how much I want him here.
“For now, the best thing would be to stock the wood inside the house. I have food and a fire. We can figure the rest out. So, what do you think?”
He moves closer, running the pad of his thumb across my jaw.
“I think,” he murmurs, “that staying with you sounds perfect.”
I lean into his touch. “Get a bag. Come over when you’re ready. I’m glad you’re staying,” I say.
Dawson gives me a small, rueful smile. “Me, too.”
Dawson
Camille’s cabin smells like pumpkin spice. A fire pops behind the grate, its warmth enveloping me. Wizard meows contentedly and drops down into a ball just beside the blaze, purring loudly. I place the overnight bag on the couch.
“You’re welcome to use the bathroom and anything you need,” she informs me. “The spare room is small, but adequate, I hope. If you prefer the couch, I can set up a sleeping pallet.”
She appears almost shy, glancing anywhere but at my face.
“I’ll take the room,” I reply.
Camille leads the way to the door that opens into a quaint space—large enough for a twin bed and a nightstand.
A sliding closet door reveals, upon closer inspection, several shelves.
Facing the bed is a distressed wooden accent wall, decorated with hanging clear lightbulbs and several pictures—a map, a painting of a lone deer in winter, a cedar plaque embossed with the word “Home”, a “Bear Crossing” sign, and a framed piece of flannel fabric with stenciled white evergreen trees front and center—all placed just so.
The room has Camille’s flair. I see her here in the decorations, sparse as they are.
My eyes land on the bed, a red and green quilt on top.
I remove my smaller case from the overnight bag.
“There’s pasta if you’re hungry.”
“Thanks. That’d be nice.”
I set my bag on the floor, reaching in it for sweats. Camille returns from the hall closet with another comforter that she drapes over the bed.
“I’m not sure how cold you’ll be. Here’s an extra blanket. Do you need anything else?” she inquires. “The fire should burn through the night. It gets a little chilly by morning, but you can restock the wood if you get too cold.”
Maybe in sweats, tucked under a comforter, I’ll avoid chilly temperatures.
“I’m going to change,” I say.
“Okay. Me, too.”
Her stare quickly slips down my body and lingers, even as I turn my back and enter the bathroom with my bag.
I check my reflection in the mirror. I could use a shave, but seeing as how I left my razor at the camper, I give up that notion.
The pants I slip on are threadbare and much more comfortable than the jeans I stuff into the bag.
I finish pulling a cotton sweatshirt over my head, the whole outfit a light gray, and return to the living room.
“The blizzard should hit tonight,” she warns. “I think I need to pay better attention to the weather from now on. I don’t like having almost no notice. Mr. Hill mentioned a storm coming our way a day or so ago, but I didn’t realize it was this bad.”
To her credit, neither did the weather forecasters. The storm shifted to the right, directly over us, and it’s getting stronger by the minute.
There’s a windup radio on the table. I barely hear the staticky words, a low-pitched warning to buckle down and wait it out. Already, fat flakes spiral from the sky, bare tree branches becoming laden with snowy pillows.
The sun hangs heavy, threatening darkness in an hour or two.
Wind thrashes against the outside of the house, letting us know the storm is intensifying and nearing.
So, we settle in. Camille with a book in the armchair, seemingly completely at ease with me here.
And me on the couch, head tilted back against the cushions, waiting for night to come.
When Camille leaves her spot to enter her room, I wonder what she’s doing. She returns a minute later with a magazine that she tosses into my lap.
“Enjoy.” She’s wearing a small smile.
I read the title and grin. She remembered.
I open the pages to find maps. Topical landscapes with mountainous terrains, deserts, and oceans. My fingers bump over volcanic peaks that launch themselves into the sky. The first half contains close aerial photos. The second half holds images from farther away, some even viewed from space.
Camille abandons her spot and takes a seat next to me.
“Where were you stationed?” she asks.
I debate telling her. I suppose it doesn’t hurt, as long as I keep the details at bay.
I take her hand and lay a finger over the general area. Her eyes settle on where we’re touching.
“A small town,” I divulge. “There was no running water. No bathrooms. No official home infrastructure. Occasionally, there were huts made from mismatching supplies, barely bigger than a closet. Everything was war-torn and desolate. The army gave us provisions, but they didn’t always hold over until the next shipment. We improvised.”
She watches me with a blank stare. I can’t help but wonder what she thinks.
“What did you eat?”
I stopped cringing a long time ago at some of the things I consumed to get by.
“Anything we could,” I reply. “Mostly rationed packs of dried food. Sometimes wild animals. Whatever it took.”
The same blank stare greets me.
“We stayed in caves or tents or even just in small packs hidden away behind a sand dune. The weather was a beast. Everything was a challenge. We were constantly on the go. Never in one place for long. The risk of being discovered was too great, so even if we remained in one general area for a month, we switched up our location. Our sleeping quarters were often less than good, but we didn’t fail missions. So, at least there was that.”
I move her finger to another spot.
“This was the worst I ever stayed. I made a mistake. Took a bullet to the leg.”
She gasps and I pause, letting my words sink in.
“Sometimes, we were injured. It’s part of the job. I was lucky. It missed all major arteries. It doesn’t even hurt much anymore. A little scar tissue. Nothing more. I’ve seen worse.”
I close my eyes for a brief moment. I can’t help the memories that haunt me. A brother in arms covered in blood. A stopped heart.
“Dawson.” Camille’s voice is in my ear. My eyes snap open.
I think for a moment she’ll want to know more, but instead she smiles and requests, “Show me a place you’ve always wanted to visit but never have.”
I relax and move her hand to another page, relishing the feel of her skin against mine. I stop her finger over Oregon.
“The redwood forest,” she murmurs. “I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Where have you always dreamed of visiting?”
She guides my touch to a tiny island.
“Sandy beaches and coconuts, huh?” It doesn’t surprise me. “A piece of land dropped right into the middle of an ocean.”
Camille eyes the island. “Yes.”
I wonder if she misses Miami and its sandy beaches. She told me she loves swimming. I imagine she’d have a blast in the deep, tropical waters.
“What do you think the sea life is like there?” she muses, her face set to wonder, her mind lost somewhere in the thought of the ocean and its inhabitants.
“I think it’s full of fish and saltwater that you could swim in for hours,” I reply.
She gives me a full-blown, heart-stopping smile.
“I think, Dawson” —I love the sound of my name on her lips— “that you might be right.”
A couple of hours later, the sun is gone, replaced by a darkness so thick I can almost reach out and touch it, a sheet of black against the pale ground. I place another log on the fire.
Camille has gone to bed. It’s peaceful here in the small home she’s made for herself. The electricity flickers, as though it means to give itself over to the storm. The fire shimmers swaying along the walls.
I add two more logs to the pile to hopefully hold us over until morning.
The next day, the blizzard rages, sending fat flakes down in parachuting patterns. Trees shudder under the weight of the powder that accumulates on their branches. There is not a creature in sight, aside from Wizard curled by the fire.
I finally get my answer as to what people do when snowed in during the coldest season in Darlington. So far, Camille and I have drunk too much coffee, read, played cards, eaten food, and restocked the fire.
It isn’t until darkness falls again, the second night of the blizzard, that my restraint wears thin, a bow drawn too tightly, ready to snap.
I’ve been careful not to let this thing between us go too far.
She doesn’t make it easy on me, though. Not when she keeps glancing my way, her eyes passing over my body.
A radio on the table softly broadcasts weather in the background.
If it’s correct, the storm will end by morning, and I’ll be back to the camper tomorrow.