Chapter 22 #2
We dance quietly at first. Florence, he says, so close to my ear it sends shivers up my spine. What happens now?
Well, first I think we keep dancing and then—
No, I mean, how much longer are you staying here?
We haven’t crossed this bridge yet. And Alba hasn’t said a peep about it since Christmas Eve, I think trying to give me the space to work it out on my own.
I’m not sure, I say, but it might be a lie. He doesn’t look at me, only pulls me closer as we sway to the music.
Well, for what it’s worth, I hope you decide to stay.
Stay, stay, stay beats through me like a pulse. I have a flash of what it would be like to stay here—seeing Alba all the time, getting some autonomy in how and what I want to bake, and Alistair. Part of me thinks if I let myself really fall for him, it would be so, so easy.
But then I think about Mrs. Murphy, the idea of so many people keeping tabs on my life, on my choices. Judging me for my shortcomings.
My thoughts start racing and swirling like a hurricane.
Someone else living in my childhood home, my mother trapped forever in a grave up on that hill, Alistair getting hurt at work, having to drive past the post office every day, having to live face-to-face with all that pain.
Mrs. Murphy’s words slice through me like a knife: Sometimes they never come home.
How dangerous is your job, really? I try hard to keep the panic from my voice.
Alistair doesn’t buy it for a second. He pulls away to look at my face, his eyes scanning me, reading everything there.
Why are you asking me that?
Why aren’t you answering me? He doesn’t normally evade my questions like this, and it only fuels my panic further.
It can be dangerous, Florence, but you didn’t need me to tell you that. His face looks crestfallen. What’s happening right now?
I–I need some air, I say, physically moving away from him.
I can feel the tears coming. I walk outside and into the falling snow, which looks so beautiful it only makes me cry harder. Alba’s voice comes thundering into my head: Why don’t you try, just once, leaning into and learning to live with the hurt, instead of running away from it?
But I can’t. I can’t stay here where everything feels so raw all the time, the reminders of what I’ve lost spinning webs around me like spiders.
I take deep, heaving breaths and kneel into the snow. I register that Alistair has followed me outside. He kneels down beside me, his hand instantly on my back, moving soothing circles there.
Florence, tell me what set you off tonight, please, he says, his tone gentle but firm.
You could die, right Alistair? That’s the big twist, isn’t it? That you could die, too?
There’s no twist, he says. I have the same chance of dying from a random health condition as I do of dying at work.
But it’s not the same chance, I say, standing back up. In fact, I think it’s a much, much higher chance.
Why are you picking a fight with me about my job? He stands back up too.
What are we doing here? I feel angry now, and I lean into that instead of acknowledging all the other emotions trying to barge their way in.
I mean, I could never be with someone in your line of work.
Do you think I could seriously handle it if you got hurt, if you died, too?
Why would you put me in this position? Trying to get to know me, teasing me, making me like you.
He doesn’t acknowledge any of the hurtful things I’m throwing his way, like this is somehow his fault. I know it’s not, but I’m desperate to turn the panic swallowing me whole into anger—it’s the only way I can think to run from it.
Tell me what happened, Florence. Did somebody say something to you? I don’t want to tell him that this is all about stupid Catherine Murphy’s mom and her big mouth. The hurt in his voice is making my anger evaporate like steam, drifting off into the air. I feel the emotions bubbling over again.
I can’t do this, I sob. I can’t stay here.
He says nothing, waiting for me to go on. But there’s no going on. I have to get out of here. I vow to myself that I’ll leave first thing in the morning—ignoring the warning bells going off in my head about the snow, about Alba, about Alistair.
Well, it’s not safe to drive tonight, Alistair says, as if reading my thoughts. I just have to get through this wedding and—I’m going to give you some space, Florence. I don’t want to push you further, but I’m not walking away, okay?
He takes my face in both of his hands, gently forcing my eyes to meet his.
I’m staying in that cabin there, on the far right.
I have to work tomorrow, but come see me anytime if you want to talk.
Call me, text me, come over whenever. But I think we can talk through this.
All right? Let’s try to have a conversation about it, whenever you’re ready.
I can barely register his words. He kisses me softly and looks like he wants to say more, his eyes swimming with something I can’t quite decipher.
The old Flora is trying to claw her way to the surface, to say something, anything, to him.
But I shove her down…
Down…
Down.