16. Shawn
Shawn
It’s getting dark by the time I’m heading back to Sanctuary Lake, so I make sure the truck’s headlights are on and stick to the speed limit, remembering what Blaze said about moose and deer, but I don’t encounter anything on four legs.
I leave the truck idling outside my cabin while I drop off my newly acquired work gloves, protective goggles, and tool belt, then drive back to the main lodge and park in the small lot.
As I head inside and make my way to the ballroom, I realize how ravenous I am. The scent of something savory lures me the way cheddar attracts the bass in the lake.
Also ensnaring me is the sight of Blaze at one of the tables set up near the floor-to-ceiling windows.
He’s talking with Davy, the massage therapist I’ve had a couple of top-notch sessions with.
Marika’s at another table, along with three other people who I think are retreat employees.
A family of four sits at a third table, and a couple is alone at a fourth.
I don’t hesitate before taking a free spot across from Blaze.
“Hey,” I say to him and Davy.
“Hi Shawn,” the massage therapist says with a friendly wave.
“Hi,” Blaze says, smiling but sounding a little less enthusiastic than usual. “How’d it go?”
“I built a stool,” I say proudly, because I am damn proud of myself.
“Where is it?” he asks. “I need evidence.”
“It’s at the shop. We stained them, so they need to dry. I’ll pick it up in a few days.”
“Well, good for you,” Blaze says, but his voice sounds different. Hollow.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, but before he can answer, a solemn man who looks more like a model than the chef he’s outfitted as comes through the kitchen door. The room falls silent. This must be Chef Nolan.
Guests and staff at attention, he announces, “Dinner tonight is Maine clam chowder and rustic sourdough. We eat family style. Enjoy.” He and a young woman wearing a crisp white apron set down steaming tureens on each table, along with baskets of crusty sliced bread and bowls of green salad.
I notice for the first time the wine, beer, and canned sparkling waters lined up on a side table.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask my tablemates. Davy requests a water, and Blaze says, “I’ll have another beer.”
I grab two waters and a beer for Blaze. We help ourselves to the food, and I don’t know why I expected anything less, but it’s the best chowder I’ve ever had. “Is there anything this guy can’t make?”
“Gorp,” Davy says promptly. “I asked him once, and he said mixing nuts and raisins together wasn’t worth his time.”
“I guess that’s more won’t make than can’t,” Blaze says. “Nolan’s a little prickly. But we put up with it.”
“I can see why. This is killer.” I dip the bread in hot, creamy chowder and feel warmed inside and out. There’s a fire in the big fireplace across the way and a lively buzz of conversation coming from the folks at the other tables.
It feels good to be around people again. The group in the woodworking class was small but dedicated, and very forgiving of my endless questions. I left with more energy than I arrived with.
It feels good to be around Blaze, too, even if something’s up with him.
Not that he’s visibly upset, but he seems off. A little distant. I wonder if it’s something I did.
“Your truck is safe and sound.” I fish the keys out of my pocket and push them across the table. “I’ll grab my stuff from you later.”
Davy’s mouth drops open. “You let him borrow your truck?”
Blaze mumbles something incoherent and stuffs a piece of bread in his mouth.
“I was really careful,” I assure Davy, thinking they must know about my recent car issues.
Blaze swallows and chuckles lightly. “I’m sure you were.”
Davy glances between us. “Okay,” they say slowly, as if making sense of something unspoken.
We talk between bites. I tell them how energizing the woodworking class was and how there’s another one in a couple of weeks.
I hadn’t counted on still being here in a couple of weeks, but it’s hard not to want to stick around when every day I’m here I feel more like myself—or the self I didn’t know was me until I took the time to figure out who that person was.
In fact, every day I’m finding out something new about me and, miracle of miracles, each new thing I discover actually makes me like myself more, not less.
One of those things is that I’m the kind of person who really, really wants to kiss Blaze Hardy.
I have no idea how he would feel about that. But maybe it’s enough to know I want to. I don’t have to do it. We can still be friends, and I can still spend time with him while I’m here. No actual kissing needs to be involved. And when I go back home, maybe I’ll find someone else I want to kiss.
“I’m scooting out of here before Nolan tempts me with dessert,” Davy says. “See you later.”
Now it’s just Blaze and me sitting across the table from each other, every morsel of our meals gone.
“I might be too full for dessert,” I say. That’s when Nolan brings out a spiced gingerbread cake with stiff, sweet, whipped cream. I manage to find room for a pitcher’s mound of a serving.
I glance at the chef, who’s joined Marika at her table. He’s tasting a small portion of his own cake, and I can hear the moans of appreciation from the other guests as they partake. He’s got a small smile on his face.
“The guy gets off on this, doesn’t he?” I ask.
Blaze nods. “He feeds on it—like a narcissistic vampire.”
“But he feeds us in return,” I say. “With gingerbread and salted caramel.”
“Win-win? I guess when you’re exceptional at something, you might as well get recognized for it.”
“That can feel pretty good. But I’m beginning to understand you have to be satisfied with yourself without external praise. Otherwise, you’ll always be hungry for validation and never filled up.”
“You’re probably right,” Blaze says, hazel eyes warming. “You’re pretty smart, you know?”
I blink. “I am?”
“Yeah.” He frowns.
Again, something seems off with him. “Did something happen? You seem down.”
He glances at me, surprised. Did he think I wouldn’t notice? “Yeah. It’s my sister.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s okay. She’s fine. She told me some news today.” He fiddles with his spoon, half his cake left uneaten on his plate. Clearly something’s up, but he doesn’t say any more.
“You want to talk about it?”
He rolls his shoulders and looks at the remains of his dessert. I remember how easy he was with me up on the mountaintop. Maybe that’s where we should go—not on a hike exactly, but outside.
“Come on.” I stand up from the table and take our dishes to the tub provided for the purpose.
“Where are we going?” he asks when I motion for him to get up and join me.
I push out the side door, and after making sure he’s following me, walk down to the dock.
It’s chilly and fully dark, but that’s perfect.
I look up and stars wink back, a spray of light over the inky black blob of the water and the jagged ring of trees.
“Cosmic insignificance therapy.” I gesture to the stars and know he understands.
Beside me, he lifts his face to the sky.
He exhales one long breath; it sounds as if he’s been holding that breath all day.
The lap of the water against the wooden pilings of the dock is the only other sound I can hear.
I glance over, imagining I can see the light of the stars reflected in his eyes.
We’re silent for a while, and I let my spine go slack.
I’m tired from the work I did today, unaccustomed to the rhythm and motions of measuring, sawing, sanding.
I take a dose of perspective for myself, worry and doubt falling away like stones settling at the bottom of the lake, leaving me grateful for everything else.
“Thanks. I needed this,” Blaze says.
“Just returning the favor,” I say, wrapping my hands around my elbows, because my hoodie’s not really adequate for the chill coming off the water. But I wouldn’t move now even if it were twenty degrees colder.
“What happened to your hand?” Blaze asks, concern in his voice.
I look down at the bandage across the outside of my left hand. I’d forgotten it was there. “It’s nothing. Got carried away with the belt sander and forgot to put on my gloves once. Scraped the side of my hand a little.”
Blaze does the most remarkable thing then. He reaches out, touches the pads of two fingers to the back of my injured hand. I feel them, featherlight and a brand all at once. “Does it hurt?”
It takes me a beat to realize he’s asked a question. I’m stuck on the fact that he touched me, that he’s still touching me, because I release my grip on my arm and hold out my hand for him to inspect the Band-Aid Joe slapped on at the workshop.
“It doesn’t hurt much,” I say, but Blaze doesn’t seem convinced. He traces the edge of the bandage lightly. It’s almost like we’re holding hands.
“Did you wash it and put on some antibacterial cream?”
I swallow. We established yesterday that his hands are a little smaller, but they’re strong. He’s got dark hair on his knuckles. No rings on his fingers. I stop my inspection to make myself answer. “Yeah, Joe took care of it.”
“Good.”
I hesitate. My gaze is fixed on our hands, still brushing together.
I can’t see his face, so I can imagine this moment is as fraught for him as it is for me.
If I look and he’s unaffected, that’ll be that.
But if I look and I see, well, anything in his expression, any kind of awareness of me…
of us, I promise myself in this split second that I’ll do something about it.
Slowly, I raise my gaze to Blaze’s face. His eyebrows are tilted toward each other, as if he’s asking a question. I’m not sure if he’s asking it of himself or of me, but I’m finally ready to give him an answer.
I glance at his mouth, which is parted slightly. At this distance, even in the dark, I can see the individual hairs of his beard, some brown, some lighter, a few even seem russet-colored. His lips are the color of new raspberries.
“Shawn?”