Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
JOSIE
Did Colby feel that? The surge that went through my skin when she touched me?
Yes, I was in pain, but she was so delicate, taking long, smooth strokes, and making me feel so comfortable and not embarrassed even though this is super freaking embarrassing.
I seriously need to work out more. My muscles are dehydrated and angry, and feel like someone’s roasting them over a fire.
But now, after sharing this moment with Colby, there’s more embers burning than just the ones in my deltoids.
Shit.
The heat from the shower water does little to ease my muscles, and even less to soothe my mind.
Something is shifting between me and Colby.
Something tangible, that’s both heavy and light.
An electric current that hums in the air, mixed with a comfortability like this has always been our state of being—living in this house, snuggling on the couch, playing with Kona.
It’s reality nested inside of a fantasy, and it’s warm and tingly, as much as it’s pretty damn terrifying.
My body is marginally better from the shower.
I step out from the bathroom and whoa… Something hearty, like bacon or sausage, funnels through the air, and I instantly salivate.
God, she’s a good cook. Yesterday Colby made crepes for breakfast. Freaking crepes.
She was not joking that first day that she’s fully prepared and stockpiled with goodies in case an apocalypse happens.
Is it terrible for me to wish for an apocalypse? Probably.
I grab my one fresh pair of underwear, scoop up my other pair and the devil bra to throw in the wash, and toss on the new clothes that Colby left out for me last night.
When I slip on her shirt, I sniff the collar.
When I leave here, I might see if I can take one of her shirts home with me.
They feel good on my body, they’re cozy, they carry her scent…
Everything feels like it’s becoming a routine. The clothes, the laundry, the eating together, playing with Kona, washing dishes. A casual, easy, seamless routine. And I love it.
I don’t think I ever realized that maybe I needed a little bit of a break from my frantic after-hours life.
Nothing about my world was routine. I think I’ve been pushing for anything that’s not routine.
Drumming classes, Pilates, art… these hits of dopamine I was seeking to find something new, to give me a spark, to find my passion, bled into all aspects of my life.
And not only did I need a break from that hustle, I think I needed a break from my job.
I love working at the clinic, truly. Being with the animals touches a piece of me that helps me as much as it helps the animals.
But I don’t even remember the last time I took more than a weekend off.
My mind has shifted somehow, relaxed in a way, and it feels like this purgatory-style hunt is reaching the end.
I’m still nervous that I’m leaving the staff shorthanded, though. I’ve been checking in every day with Leo, who assures me that things are fine and, with the blustery weather, most people have cancelled their appointments.
Colby, on the other hand, does not seem to have that same fear.
She hasn’t even so much as pulled up a laptop since I’ve been here, at least not that I’ve seen.
I still don’t understand the nature of freelance work.
Maybe she has one of those jobs where she has an assignment and has until the end of the month to complete.
Braless—and will probably remain as such because I am never wearing a sports bra again—I follow my nose down to where Colby is standing over the oven, stirring. “Hey, do you need some help?”
She’ll say no. She’s said no for the last fifteen meals. I’m keeping this as a running tab of everything I owe her. Food, cooking time, utilities… probably even some therapy sessions thrown in there, too.
“Nope, I’m good,” she says and flips the bacon.
I remove Kona’s cone of shame and stroke her fur before I wash it. “Just one more week, baby girl, and you can take this thing off forever.”
“She will be so excited. Poor thing. That has to be so miserable.” Colby gives Kona a small piece of bacon from her palm and sets down a bowl of scrambled eggs in front of her.
No lie. Kona eats better than me most days.
At the table, Colby hands me a plate. I really do feel bad about not getting my own food, but after eating over a dozen meals here, I realize that she likes cooking and serving.
It’s a bit of a foreign concept to me, but every time she sets down a plate, her soft gaze focuses on me until I take a bite.
“So, I’m thinking if you want, we can go in the hot tub later,” Colby says and scoots up her chair. “Might be good for your limbs.”
“Oh God, I was hoping you would say that.”
“Josie. If you want to go in the tub, you need to just say something.” She hands me the salt, and I hand her the ketchup—gross—for her eggs.
I take a huge bite and grin into the food. “I’m already putting you out so much. Look at you. You’re housing me, feeding me. I’m using your washer every day. The list goes on.”
Colby reaches her hand out and puts it on top of mine. And she leaves it. She’s trying to transfer a message, a warm one, firm one, and I’m so close to absorbing. “You are not putting me out. At all…” Her eyes dip to the table. “I really love having you here.”
Oh, that tone. Okay, I feel that tone, the sincerity, all the way down to my toes.
When was the last time I felt like someone really wanted me somewhere?
Leo loves me, yes, but I’m a perpetual third wheel.
My family is too scattered. My past relationships since Zoey were limited, at best. Even at the end with me and Zoey, I didn’t feel like she loved having me there.
It was more of us going through the motions.
“Are you sure I’m not cramping your style? ”
Colby tilts her head back and forth like she’s contemplating.
“Well, I’ve had to stop myself from having full-on conversations with Kona because apparently in the outside world, people perceive that as odd.
Who knew?” She grins and slices into her eggs.
“But really. I think I didn’t know how much I was missing human contact, you know. It’s been wonderful.”
There is something so genuinely kind and open about Colby that I also forget that this—having people in her space, in her home, in her life—is way out of the norm, too. “You really went balls to the wall with the whole reclusive thing, huh?”
Colby giggles. “I really did. I thought for so long that this is what I needed.”
Something in my stomach tingles. “And what do you think now?”
A long pause stretches between us. A pink hue flushes her face, and she looks at her plate. “Now I think I’m getting ready for something more.”
My gaze drops to her mouth. I say to myself it’s to look at her smile, but I think that it’s more.
Dammit. I know it’s more than to just look at her smile.
When I sweep my gaze back up, our eyes lock.
It’s a blip, really, a fleeting moment. But whatever this is, it’s an extension of what happened in the bathroom, and a small flock of butterflies release in my belly.
After breakfast, I wash the dishes while Colby takes Kona outside.
I’m feeling something but can’t pinpoint exactly what it is.
I’m prickly and restless, but not for an activity.
More for some alone time, which is rare.
Whatever it is, though, it’s gnawing at me, hard, and when Colby returns, I ask to borrow some gear.
As I finish up the dishes, Colby gets everything out for me.
Snow pants, insulated jacket, gloves. She lays them out, organized, neatly, and I swear she wants to attach a note to the top with a bow or something.
I can’t help it. I love it. The thoughtfulness, even with the way she sets a pile of clothes on a bench, gets me right in the heart.
Outside, I blink against the sun. The snow has stopped completely, and the only accumulation in the air is the fog releasing with my breath. It’s so tranquil, so quiet, the only sounds are the whistle of a soft wind, and the crack of branches succumbing under the weight of the snow.
With the walking stick gripped in my palm, I trudge through the path.
My breath turns heavy, my heartbeat kicks up, my mind begins to free.
The sun splinters through the woods, crackling against the snow like a diamond kaleidoscope, and I stop for a moment to take it all in.
The beauty is astounding. How have I lived here my whole life, right outside of Duluth, in one of the most gorgeous parts of the country, and never once noticed the way the sunbeams sparkle against the snowflakes?
Did I notice this when I was little and forgot?
Or have I really shunned this entire nature-loving part of myself as I grew up?
The tree branches are wide and open, stretching like they’re ready to give me the hug that I need, the hug that I’ve been missing for years.
God, I used to love being outdoors so much.
Visions of me jumping in the lakes on a blistering hot summer day, skipping rocks, building snowmen, and crunching into a heaping pile of burnt orange and red leaves fill my mind.
And then it all stopped. In a snap, I swapped running outdoors with sitting in my room, hating that I felt small and invisible, but not knowing what to do to stop it.
“Minnows are the best for walleye, why?” My dad would ask me this—or a variation of this question depending on what we were fishing for—during one of his many outdoor lessons.
I see myself, my blond hair, my gap-toothed smile, my favorite rain boots with the cherries on them, casting out my fishing pole next to my dad on the dock. “Because it acts like what it would in the real world.”
My boots crunch into the snow. Each breath I take I let the memories flood me without kicking them away.
I allow myself to drown, even though I hate it, even though I want to run, but I need it.
Something in me is screaming at me to allow the memories to consume me.
Just this once, to submerge myself into the past.
Hot tears burn behind my eyelids and trickle down as I think of long moments of quiet between me and my dad as he’d set up a tent.
The way I’d hand him the mallet to pound the stakes into the ground, and he’d say things like I had so much potential, that if I set my mind to something, I could do anything.
“A president or a princess, Josie-bear. You get to decide.”
The tears fall stronger now as I picture him and me ice fishing in the dead of winter, the hollow winds outside.
I remember me not understanding how the ice wouldn’t crack underneath our tires as we drove out on the lake with our truck, how the ice fishing camper with the propane fire wouldn’t melt the ice beneath us and send us to our impending death.
Fuck! It hurts so bad, these memories, these feelings, but I keep going.
My chin trembles and a choking sob releases as I remember us hiking to Gooseberry Falls, the way the power of the water blew my pigtails back and my dad would point out the different types of rock.
My tears fall, hard and heavy, as I keep pushing through the snow, keep stabbing my walking stick into the earth, keep thinking of camping trips and the magic of making s’mores around a fire.
The air is stinging my lungs, but I don’t want to go back to Colby’s.
I want to be here, in the outdoors, in the place that I used to love so much.
When my dad left, I wanted to strip that part of me and never return.
Even though he maybe didn’t mean to, he stole my love for nature when he abandoned us all.
“Why did you leave?” I scream into the woods, and the voice echoes back to me. “We didn’t fucking do anything wrong!” Our lives could’ve been so different. Were we not good enough? Was I not good enough?
Fuck my dad. I let him take so much from me.
My self-worth. My trust. My heart. The tears flow now, dripping underneath my chin, and for every sob, something in me breaks.
There’s an ice pick hitting over and over into this frozen wall I’ve built.
I was just a kid! I didn’t deserve for my dad to leave, to be raised by an overworked, stressed, exhausted mom, didn’t deserve to be made to feel like I wasn’t enough, or too much and couldn’t be handled.
The pick cracks and cracks and cracks, the sobs invade my body, my shoulders shake with each step.
I grab a stick and whip it into the tree, thinking of the school concerts he didn’t go to, and the Christmases that he didn’t show up to.
I throw another, then another, then another.
The prom that he missed, and my graduation, and me moving into dorms, and teaching me how to change my tires.
The pick hitting my inner wall finally cracks through.
I drop to my knees, bury my head in my hands and let the pieces fall.
It floods out of me, cathartic, drowning me behind the sobs.
I’m trying to catch my breath, my much-needed breaths, the breaths that I’ve waited twenty goddamn years to pull in, but I can’t.
He cannot define me anymore, his absence cannot hold me back.
I’ve let it control me for all these years, locking a piece of me away that deserves to be free.
I refuse to give him any more power, I refuse to keep myself locked in this cage of sadness while wishing that my childhood was different.
For so many years, I’ve held this in. A beaker, bubbling with a cover on, needing someone to pop off the top and let me overflow with grief and anger and longing.
I’ve needed to let myself sit with all of my feelings.
I’ve never been good with that before, and as uncomfortable and gut-wrenching as it is, it’s liberating.
I can breathe. For the first time in forever, I can breathe.
My sobs slow, finally, the tears turn cold against my cheeks, but body aches, and it’s the best I’ve felt in years.
I stay like this for God knows how long.
Until my shakes stop, until my breath evens, until I officially let go.
I’m lost so far in a trance, a beautiful, needed, all-consuming trance.
So much so that I don’t notice what’s standing in front of me.