Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
ALLIE
Ieat too fast, then stop halfway through. Freefalling. My eyes droop, so does my head like I might bury it in what’s left of the lasagna.
“Did I do okay?” the cowboy asks, eyes searching mine.
A simple enough question. But it ignites fury inside.
I bite my bottom lip, pushing my fork around on my plate. Arms weak, body trembling. Even my teeth join in chattering.
“Cold?” Austin asks, not waiting for the answer. Down the hallway he stops at the thermostat, then disappears, returning with a flannel.
I open my mouth to protest. But catch it in mid-air before words come out. He grabs his plate heading back to the kitchen, purposely not looking at me.
Until I relent and shrug into the soft fabric. Pine sap and smoke encircle me. I want to bury my head in the fabric, breathe in warmth and strength.
Shame settles inky in my stomach.
What the hell is wrong with you, Allie?
I can almost hear Trevor barking out the question, feel his hollow eyes boring into me.
“Want more?” the cowboy grunts from the kitchen loading up his plate.
My stomach lurches, desperate for more, even though I’m stuffed. As if I can bury guilt and shame beneath layers of marinara and mozzarella.
Instead, I shake my head, so dangerously close to tears I wonder if I should excuse myself to the bedroom.
The only bedroom.
One bed.
I shouldn’t be here.
I have no clue how sleeping arrangements will work, or if I can sleep at all.
My thoughts spiral, even as my body sinks, heavier with each move, every breath. Exhausted.
“You okay?” Austin asks again.
“Fine,” I snap, more forceful than I mean to be. As if saying it loud enough will make it less of a lie.
My heart flutters inside my chest, hummingbird fast and just as fragile. I shake my head, resting it in my hand. Ashamed at the way I’m falling apart.
“I really should go,” I say under my breath, more internal plea than anything I want to voice to Austin. He’s been so kind, so patient and generous with me today. I should at least thank him. Act better.
My gaze goes to his. Face unreadable. So silent. So damn silent I want to run out into the blizzard and scream.
“Could we maybe just have a normal conversation?” I ask, rubbing my hand over my face.
“Sure,” he says, sitting across from me, arms folded, eyes narrow.
Apparently, I’m supposed to start. “Have you always lived in Stillwater?”
He nods.
What did I expect? Twenty questions it is, then.
“Always been a cowboy, too?”
He shifts uneasily. “Parents no good. Taken in by an old cowboy. Informal adoption.”
I count in my head, trying to decide if these are the most words I’ve ever heard him string together. I may have a new record.
He shovels a forkful of lasagna and chews slowly, thoroughly, staring off into the distance. Then, his eyes find mine. “And you?”
“I’m from Boise. That’s where Trevor, and I live.”
He nods.
God, it makes me want to throw my napkin at him or maybe my fork. Just one reaction. One comment. Mean-spirited or not would feel better than this ridiculous quiet.
I yawn, eyes drooping some more.
“Bedtime?” he grumbles.
My head darts back up. “Just a little tired is all.” My voice sounds far away.
Any normal human being would follow up with a question. So, what’s Boise like? How’d you end up with a loser boyfriend who beats you when he’s drunk?
Something. Anything.
But this nothingness stretches on and on.
And this guy couldn’t be more inaccessible if he tried—a fortress wall with no gate.
“God, I can’t keep my eyes open. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I murmur, head tipping forward again before I catch myself.
“Long day,” he says, rising from the table. “Done?” he reaches a hand toward my plate.
“Yes,” I startle. “Thank you.”
He pauses, jaw twitching. Then, slow and awkward, “You’re welcome.”
But my thoughts are past registering him now. Or the miracle of his two-word response.
I caused this.
I’m the problem.
I ruin people.
“You should go to bed.”
My spine straightens, startled by the full sentence, calling after him as he heads for the kitchen, “I thought you don’t believe in shoulds.”
He stacks the plates by the sink, then, grabs a stack of blankets from a steamer trunk in the living room corner and hands one to me. “More if you need them. Help yourself.”
He takes the rest to the floor in front of the hearth, fashioning a makeshift bed. My heart drops into my stomach, unable to believe my eyes.
“The floor? You can’t sleep there.”
“Couch’s too short,” he says matter-of-fact, like I should already know this.
“But your bed. Your—”
“Yours now,” he cuts in.
My cheeks heat.
“Temporarily,” he adds, and the knot in my throat relaxes.
Austin turns away, trudging down the hallway. I doze off in the chair, elbows braced on the table. I don’t know how long I stay this way or when I hear the floorboards creak.
I raise my head, taking in his new appearance—gray sweatpants and a V-neck white T-shirt that hugs his chest in lethal ways. My heart stutters.
He moves into the kitchen, washing dishes and putting food away. I should help. But I can barely move—in and out of consciousness. Crashing hard.
Then, he pads past, turning off lights slowly. Not making a fuss. Not saying a word.
Finally, I rise with a yawn, clutching the blanket to my chest as I make my way to the bathroom. On the countertop, I find an unopened toothbrush and a fresh tube of toothpaste.
And then, it hits me all at once. How rude I’ve been. How unreasonable and ungrateful. God, I’m even worse than Trevor said I was.
Trevor.
I remove my sweater and stand in front of the mirror, eyes blurring as they wander across my skin finding purple and blue patches at the wrist and one shoulder.
Where he gripped me too hard. Where he didn’t mean to. Where I deserved it.
I catch a sob with my hand, fearful Austin will hear. Even more afraid he’ll keep listening—waiting—letting me sit with realizations that only happen where I fear most…
Silence.
My grandpa’s words wash over me. The ones I refused to believe. The ones Austin has never said… just implied with every quiet action, every kind gesture.
“You deserve better, Allie,” I whisper, fingertips brushing over darkened flesh.
The words don’t feel right in my mouth. Like an affirmation that isn’t true. At least, not yet. So, I try for something simpler. Something I may be able to wrap my head around in the cozy silence of this cabin.
“You deserve different, Allie.”
That, I can believe.
Later, I cry into Austin’s pillow, snuggled beneath blankets to muffle the sounds. My shoulders shake, whole body wrenching with each sob as I surrender to the most world-shattering thought I’ve had in a long, long time.
That I deserve different.