Chapter 18 #2
Zach scrambles in, his claws clicking on the kitchen tile.
The cabin is quiet.
That’s the first thing I notice. No ranch hands calling across the yard. No hum of trucks, no phones buzzing. No Mom hovering and asking how I’m doing.
That’s why I came.
For the quiet. For the distance. For the space to think.
Or rather, not to think.
Not to think about her.
Never about her.
I dump my bag in the master bedroom and return to the large living area where I start a small fire.
The storm winds will pick up, and I’ll be glad for the warmth.
Then I sit down and lean back in an armchair, phone heavy in my palm.
Francine’s number stares back at me, digits etched into my brain since I found them.
I could call.
I should call.
The last conversation wasn’t enough. It barely scratched the surface. But the thought of hearing her voice again tightens something in my chest I’m not ready to face.
Not tonight.
Besides, she’s not the one I truly want to talk to.
I toss the phone onto the coffee table and scrub a hand down my face.
My head feels clear enough now. The scar’s healing, the stitches are gone, and the dull ache that used to follow me everywhere is finally receding.
My hair is about a quarter inch grown in.
My body’s fine. It’s everything else that isn’t.
Outside the huge picture window, the sky has become heavy, swollen with the kind of storm you can smell before it breaks. The wind threads through the trees, rattling the pine needles.
Then—
A car.
A car I recognize.
My stomach drops.
No. It can’t be.
But the crunch of tires on gravel keeps coming, closer and closer until it rolls to a stop right beside the porch steps.
The door opens. A slim figure steps out, walks to the back of the car, and pulls out a small suitcase.
A suitcase I’ve seen before.
Oh my God…
Angie…
Angie…
Angie…what the hell?
Something surges through me. I’m not sure what it is.
“Come on, boy.” I leave, head to the back, into the kitchen.
Am I hiding?
I don’t know what I’m doing.
I both want to see her more than anything in the world and I don’t.
I’m not ready.
But she’s here.
Tabitha.
Zach scurries away from me once the door opens.
He doesn’t bark. He remembers her.
Of course he does. Who couldn’t remember Tabitha? She’s the type of woman memories are made of.
What can I do?
I can’t hide in the kitchen.
Especially when I’m dying to see her, look at her, hold her…
I follow Zach back into the large great room, where Tabitha stands at the doorway, scratching my dog behind his ear.
Her hair is pulled into a loose bun. Small locks have escaped and frame her gorgeous face.
She hesitates, her jaw dropped, as she scans the inside of the house.
Our eyes meet.
It’s like being sucker punched.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. Angie must have—
Of course she did.
Tabitha freezes, shoulders tight. I can see the war happening behind her eyes, the fight-or-flight instinct.
I clear my throat, voice rough. “There’s a storm on the way. You should come inside.”
She lifts her chin. “Angie invited me here to relax for the weekend. I… I didn’t know I’d have company.”
I swallow. “Neither did I.”
The silence stretches between us, sharp as a blade.
Finally, she walks into the room, every movement precise, like she’s daring me to watch. She sets her suitcase down just inside the door.
“I won’t be here long,” she says. “I just need to use the bathroom. Then I’ll return to Boulder.”
I gaze out the window at the swirling clouds. “With a storm coming? You’d better stay here.”
She draws in a breath. “Fine.”
I return to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water just to do something with my hands. Behind me, I feel Tabitha moving. She takes her shoes off and then moves around with care—too much care.
I want to turn. I want to look at her, drink her in, drag her back into my arms and remind her of what we were, even if it only lasted a weekend.
But I don’t.
Because the last time I reached for her—metaphorically, from the hospital—she didn’t come.
Thunder rolls low and distant in the sky. The wind picks up, rattling the windows in their frames. I return to the living room.
Tabitha’s arms are folded. “Angie thought I needed a break. From the seminar. To relax.”
“Do you?”
She presses her lips together. “I’m not so sure anymore.” She turns her head toward the door. “I really should go. I can handle a little rain.”
A flash of lightning sears the window, and then thunder cracks so hard the walls seem to shudder.
The lights flicker once. Twice. Then they go out.
I can’t help myself. “Still think you’re leaving?”
“It’s not dark yet.”
“It will be. Soon.”
Silence. Until the storm hits, wind clawing at the eaves.
And us. Alone.
The dark swallows everything except the small fire in the fireplace. Orange light crawls over the room, over her cheekbones, over the tight line of her mouth. Rain hammers the roof. Wind howls through the trees.
“Breaker’s in the mudroom,” I say. “I’ll check it, but I’m guessing the lines are down. It happens here sometimes during the summer when a storm hits.”
“I can use a flashlight.” Her voice sounds steady.
“There should be some in the kitchen. Plus candles. Then there’s that lantern.” I point and walk to the hearth. I thumb the striker on the lantern. It catches on the second try. I pass it to her, and our fingers brush. Heat darts up my arm like I touched a live wire.
“Careful,” I say. “The glass gets hot.”
She nods and turns away.
I head to the mudroom. The breaker panel is a metal rectangle with a stubborn latch. I flip it.
Nothing.
Try again. Still nothing.
“Power’s out,” I say. “We can build a bigger fire for light.”
She purses her lips. “In August?”
“We’re in the mountains. It’ll cool down enough for a fire. I’ll find some flashlights and candles.”
“Fine.” She sets the lantern on a shelf. “I’ve studied by worse.”
For a second, we just stand there in the hush, the storm taking a breath between hits.
“You can take the master bedroom,” I say. “I’ll take one of the others.”
She crosses her arms. “I don’t need the master bedroom.”
“Take it anyway.”
She looks at me, tilting her head. “I can sleep on this couch. I don’t even need a bedroom.”
“I insist.”
“Fine,” she relents.
She drifts to the window. Rain streaks the glass. Lightning splinters across the sky.
“What was Angie thinking?” I say, because saying I missed you is a bad idea and saying why didn’t you come is worse.
“She offered the cabin,” she replies without turning. “I said yes.”
“Because you had a bad day?”
She exhales. “Because the seminar is taxing. It’s hard work. I needed a break. I’m not sure what I was thinking. I can’t afford to waste any time. Thank goodness I brought my materials.”
Something loosens in my chest. Not relief. Recognition. “You’re allowed to be human, Tabitha.”
She glances at me. “Are you?”
I look away first.
The storm leans harder into the house, the wind whistling low through the chimney. The lantern’s steady circle makes everything outside look farther away.
“The water heater is propane,” I say. “So we’ll have hot water. The stove is too. We can boil some water. There’s tea.”
She simply nods.
I walk to the kitchen, find the kettle, fill it at the sink, set it on the gas. The flame blooms blue.
Tabitha follows me. “Do you remember,” she says quietly, “the morning after the wedding? The way the light came through the blinds in my room just as the sun was rising?”
I grip the counter. “Yes.”
“It’s stupid.” She shakes her head. “I keep seeing it. The dust in the light. The shape of it on your chest.”
I inch toward her. “Not stupid.”
Her mouth twists. “I fell back to sleep. And you left.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
I draw in a breath. I have no answer for her.
She’s silent long enough that the kettle starts to whistle.
I pour the water. The steam fogs my face. I hand her a mug, careful to avoid her fingers this time. She takes it, bumping my knuckle, and that somehow feels worse.
“Why did you come here?” she asks, blowing across the surface of the tea.
“I needed quiet.” I meet her eyes. Don’t blink.
Something in her shoulders eases and then tightens again. “We can talk logistics,” she says. “Schedules. Rooms. Rules.”
“Sure.” My mouth is dry. “Rules are good.”
She lifts her chin. “No alcohol.”
I huff out half a laugh. “Easy. There’s wine somewhere, but I’m not drinking. Doctor’s orders.”
“And no talking about… You know.”
“We don’t need a rule for that,” I say. “We need honesty.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“I know.”
She thinks about that, rolling the mug between her palms. “Okay,” she says. “Honesty. I’m not here for you.”
I absorb it. Swallow. “Okay. Honesty back. I told myself the same thing.”
Her gaze catches on the scar at my hairline. She doesn’t touch it. I’m weirdly grateful.