Chapter Five
Juniper
My friend Lana picks up on the first ring. “I didn’t hear from you last night.”
“I know, sorry. I fell asleep early and,” I sigh, “this has been the strangest twenty-four hours of my life. I show up, and he’s a total ass.
Turns out he was friends with my dad, I have this weird dream about him, I’m all turned on, I masturbate, he storms in, we get chased by a grizzly bear that I’m pretty sure is a spirit, then he said he had no feelings, so I kissed him. Who does that?”
“Okay… wow.” She laughs under her breath as the seatbelt warning dings in her car. “That’s a very descriptive and thought-provoking story you’re telling. So… do you like him or something?”
“No! I hate him. He’s rude, completely out of touch with reality, a total skeptic, and totally emotionally unavailable.”
“You kissed him, though.” Her words come out like a statement of confusion, which I get given the circumstances.
“I kissed him because I was trying to prove something,” I snap, pacing the room, still angry with myself for coming here in the first place. I should’ve left this morning. I mean, we didn’t talk at all after the kiss. We just rode back in silence.
“Maybe he felt awkward. I mean, he lives alone up there. He probably doesn’t get much action. You said you were trying to prove something, so what is it?” she asks with judgment in her tone. I don’t blame her. I’d be judging me too.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m trying to prove that I can still feel something. I mean, I’ve been so numb lately. Nothing excites me. It’s like I’m going through the motions.”
“So, did you feel something?” There’s gentleness in her voice now.
I stare out the bedroom window at the tree line, desperate for the answer to come riding out on the back of another grizzly.
Did I feel something?
My lips still buzz with the rough memory of his hands on my skin, of his touch. I didn’t expect him to kiss me back. I didn’t expect it to matter, but it did.
“Yeah, I did feel something, but why? He’s a total jerk. I must be sick in the head or something.”
“I don’t know,” she says, her voice rising and falling as though the truth is about to come spilling out.
“You’re into all this spiritual stuff. Maybe you guys knew each other in a past life.
Maybe your spirit already knows his. Maybe you see something in him that reminds you of a part of yourself you need to connect with. ”
Her words hit me hard and heavy like a bell ringing somewhere deep in my chest.
“Did I lose ya?” Lana presses gently.
“No, sorry. Just in my head.” I hesitate, fingers tightening around the phone. “I probably just need a really big piece of cheesecake.”
She laughs softly. “I don’t think sugar’s going to cut through whatever this is.”
I smile, stomach tight, as I watch from the window as Knox treads across the yard with an axe in his hand. He’s aiming for a stump with logs half split near the woodshed.
The mid-morning light catches his jaw, emphasizing the sharp lines and quiet fury. He moves like he’s punishing the wood with each brutal swing. Almost like he’s trying to silence something that won’t stop talking in his head, though I could be projecting on that assessment.
Lana’s voice crackles through the speaker, “You’re watching him, aren’t you?”
I blink, torn between embarrassment and something deeper. “He’s chopping wood.”
She snorts. “Damn. Sounds like one of my books. Tell me everything. Is he carved like granite? Shirtless? Flannel? What’s the deal?”
“Oh my God! Stop! How are things at the bookstore coming along? You guys starting all the Christmas stuff yet? Gets earlier and earlier every year.”
“I don’t know. We’ve got some surprise guest coming in. Apparently, I’m in charge of the hoopla, so I guess I’ll be busy for the foreseeable future, which kind of sucks ‘cause I just got to the good part in the new Hunter Black book.”
“Oh yeah?” I grin, still watching the mountain man chop wood, his flannel unbuttoned, his biceps flexing with each chop. “I’m guessing ‘the good part’ is the smut?”
“Girl, Hunter Black doesn’t write smut. He writes erotic literature.”
“Oh,” I laugh sarcastically, “so sorry. The two confuse me sometimes.”
“Maybe that’s because you’re always so busy reading books about haunted houses and crystals.”
“You mean books filled with useful knowledge on the world around us?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want to call it.”
I glance out the window again. Knox is stacking the split logs now. It’s methodical and silent, like he’s building a wall between himself and the world.
“Anyway,” she sighs, “I’ve gotta run. I’m meeting with everyone this morning to discuss all this surprise guest stuff. Text me later. Love you!”
“Love you more.” I swallow hard and hang up the phone, a little terrified to be alone with my thoughts.
I mean, what am I even thinking about? I’m not here for him. I was never here for him. I’m here for my blog. I’m here to listen to the spirits and find some sign of life beyond death.
Clearly, he’s not torn up over whatever happened. The dude is chopping wood like work is the only thing that’s real. Maybe I should do the same. I glance down at my phone and pretend to scroll my messages, as I also pretend I’m not still staring at the giant outside flexing and swinging that axe.
I’d be crazy to go out there to talk. There’s nothing to say. Even if there was, he’s too emotionally clogged to understand what I’m saying, anyway.
A sharp crack splits the air. It’s not the rhythmic thud of axe meeting wood. This is different, like a record skipping tracks.
I look up just in time to see Knox stagger back from the stump, one hand gripping his wrist, the axe dropped at his feet.
I’m out the door before I realize I’ve moved.
“Knox?” My voice is tight, too loud for the quiet yard.
He doesn’t answer right away, just curses under his breath and sinks onto the porch steps, cradling his hand.
I kneel beside him, my heart hammering. “Let me see.”
He hesitates, then lets me take his fist. It’s already swelling.
“You split your damn hand open,” I mutter, inspecting the gash. “What were you doing, trying to fight the log?”
He huffs a laugh, low and bitter. “Must’ve been a ghost.”
I glance up. “Can you maybe stop with the sarcasm for like thirty seconds while I stitch you back together?”
“How else will I cope?” He shrugs his broad shoulders, the soft flannel rubbing against my stomach as he moves.
Shaking my head, I stand from the porch, his hand still in mine as I apply pressure. “Come on, tough guy, unless you plan on bleeding out to prove a point?”
“Could if I had to.”
“Yeah, but letting me stab you with a needle repeatedly will be so much more fun.”
“For who?”
“Me, obviously. It’s payback for all the ghost jokes.”
He grunts, but there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It’s almost a smile, if you squint hard enough. “Glad to know my suffering brings you joy.”
“Immense amounts of it,” I say, grabbing the first-aid kit I saw last night near the sink when I was making dinner.
I pop the lid open and start sorting through the contents, tossing gauze and antiseptic onto the counter like I’m prepping for battle. He watches me, still cradling his hand, still silent.
“You know,” I say, not looking up, “for a guy who acts like feelings are a disease, you sure do bleed dramatically.” I glance at the gash again.
He doesn’t respond, but I catch the way his eyes linger on me like he’s trying to decide if I’m joking or if I actually care.
I grab the needle and thread, holding it up like a threat. “Ready?”
He sighs. “Do I have a choice? There aren’t any ghost nurses lingering around, are there? Maybe one with some bedside manner?”
“Nope. But hey, maybe if you scream loud enough, a spirit will show up with a juice box and a Band-Aid.”
That almost-smile twitches again. “You’re insufferable.”
Now I’m grinning. “And I’m pretty sure you like it.”
He doesn’t flinch when I press the needle to his skin. His eyes watch me quietly, like he’s too tough for pain.
I stitch in silence, the tension between us thick and humming. His hand is warm in mine, steady despite the stinging he must feel.
Why do I like being this close to him? Why do I like feeling his heat, his strength, his size? Why do I like the way he smells, the way he tasted, the rough callouses on his skin? Why do I want him to pull me closer and hold me until I’m lost in his big arms and the rest of the world disappears?
It’s irresponsible, it’s irrational, he’s insufferable, and given the fact that he was friends with my father, he’s off limits. Yet here I am, wanting him anyway.
Therapy is probably my best line of defense.
I make a mental note to check that out when I get back to town.
I wonder if there’s even a therapist on the mountain.
I’ve never heard anyone talking about one.
Heck, the closest I’ve heard of is the psychic up by the river’s bend, but that’s not the same thing, and I’m not even sure if she’s practicing anymore.
Tying off the last stitch and standing back, my heart thudding like I’ve just run a mile, I watch as he flexes his fingers, testing the repair, and winces.
“Thanks,” he says, voice low. “You did a decent job.”
I nod, suddenly hyperaware of the low roughness in his voice, the strength in his shoulders, the way his eyes meet mine. He doesn’t move… and neither do I.
“That kiss earlier,” he says finally, his voice coarse, “I can’t stop thinking about it.”
My breath catches. I swallow hard, the ache in my chest blooming widely. “Then why are you out here chopping wood like it’s me you’re trying to forget?”
He looks at me, eyes dark and tired. “Because I don’t know what to do with it.”
The silence between us stretches, thick and humming. I feel it in my ribs, in the stitched-up space where I held his hand and didn’t let go.
I shift closer, just enough to feel his warmth. “You don’t have to know what to do with it right now. You just have to admit it mattered.”