Chapter Fourteen #2
“What is the purpose?” she asked.
“Does it need one?”
“I am considering that question.”
“Take your time.”
I stepped closer to the edge of the porch and tipped my face toward the rain.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Checking the forecast.”
“With your face?”
“Most accurate instrument I’ve got.”
“You have no comparative data.”
“Cold, wet, and coming down. That’s three data points.”
“Your standards for evidence change according to how much you enjoy the conclusion.”
“Now you’re getting it.”
I opened my mouth and caught a drop on my tongue.
Avena stared at me. “Why?”
“You never did that?”
“Atmospheric water may contain biological material, mineral residue, and airborne contaminants.”
“That’s a no.”
She frowned.
“A very thorough no,” I added.
She ignored me. “Did it taste different from the water inside?”
“A little like pine. Mostly like rain.”
“Rain cannot taste like itself. That is not descriptive.”
“Some things get to be their own description.”
She considered the water falling beyond the porch as if it had presented an argument she intended to defeat. Then she lifted her face, extended the tip of her tongue, and caught a single drop.
The expression that followed was worth every year I couldn’t remember. Surprise first. Then suspicion. Finally, a reluctant pleasure.
“Well?” I asked.
“It is cold,” she said.
“And?”
“Wet.”
“We’re making progress.”
She laughed. A full-throated laugh I hadn’t heard from her before. The very rain seemed to settle into the sound.
“Grandpa and I used to sit on this porch during summer storms. When the power failed, he lit an oil lamp and claimed electricity had become lazy.” I smiled at the memory.
“We counted the seconds between the lightning and thunder, played cards on the floor, and listened to rain work its way through every repair he swore would last another season.”
“Grandpa liked storms,” I said.
“Why?”
“They gave him something to complain about.”
“That cannot be the entire reason.”
“He liked the noise. Said a hard rain made the cabin feel more solid.”
Avena frowned back through the open door. “Because the boundary between inside and outside became easier to perceive?”
“Because it was warm in there and miserable out here.”
“That is less elegant.”
“Grandpa didn’t trust elegant answers.”
“I suspect I would have found him difficult.”
“Probably. But he’d have liked you.”
She went still enough that I felt it through our joined hands.
“You cannot know that.”
“He liked everything that needed extra work.”
“Are you saying I need work?”
“I’m saying you’re not simple, but Grandpa always liked a challenge. I think we’re alike in that way.”
I shot a look at her from the side of my eye. The color beneath her skin shifted toward pale violet. Raindrops hitting tin filled the pause between us.
“I contacted someone who answers questions with more questions,” she said.
The person with the tea?
I kept my voice even. “Someone you trust?”
“I do not know yet.”
“But you asked them a question.”
“I asked whether I could ask.”
“I guess that’s a start.”
“I hope they deserve the chance,” I said.
The blue-white light at her hand softened. “So do I.”
Rain continued to fall beyond the porch.
Avena stood beside me with wet fingers, loose silver hair, and a sadness I couldn’t name and hated all the same.
She had lied to protect one moment with me and contacted someone because asking questions had become worth the danger.
I didn’t understand what kind of life made either choice necessary and that fact made me afraid for her. And us.
Still, knowing she had made them was everything.
“You’re different tonight,” I said.
“My measurable variations remain within tolerance limits.”
I fought my smile. “Not what I meant.”
“I know.” Another sigh almost escaped her. I saw it start in her chest then retreat. She watched a narrow stream of water spill from the roof and carve a channel through the snow below. “The evaluation concluded without restriction. I should feel relieved.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“And?” I asked.
“I do not know.”
“That’s allowed.”
“Unidentified emotional responses are not useful.”
“They don’t have to be useful.”
“You apply that principle to an unreasonable number of things.”
“It’s what I do.”
She gave me a raised brow, but the look lacked its usual force.
“Maybe you’re sad,” I said.
“Why?”
“No idea.”
“Then the conclusion is unsupported.”
“People get sad before they know why. Sometimes the feeling shows up first and waits for the explanation to catch up.”
Avena looked down at our hands. “That seems inefficient.”
“Emotions usually are.”
“Does identifying it help?”
“Sometimes.”
“And if it does not?”
“Then you let someone stand with you while you figure it out.”
Her fingers tightened around mine. The smallest increase in pressure but enough to tell me she understood.
Her shoulder came to rest lightly against my arm as she leaned into me. Every part of me noticed.
I kept my eyes on the lake and my hand around hers. The cabin smelled of wet wood, cold stone, and the coffee we hadn’t made but drank anyway. For once, the world beyond the cedars didn’t feel like the only mystery that mattered.
The clock stayed at 6:13.
Avena kept holding my hand anyway.