Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Knox
I woke to silence.
Pale morning light filtered in through the window. It was the quiet aftermath of a storm that had torn through the mountains and left everything changed.
Including me.
Anniston was still in my arms. Warm and soft, her back pressed against my chest, our legs tangled together under the blanket. My hand was still laced with hers, resting against her stomach.
I didn't move.
I lay there, breathing her in and memorizing the weight of her against me. The way her hair smelled like my soap. The slow rise and fall of her ribs under my palm.
I’d actually slept and it had been nothing like the shallow, restless half-consciousness I'd been surviving on for months. I’d gotten some real sleep. Deep and dreamless.
Because of her.
I pressed my lips to the back of her shoulder without thinking and felt her stir.
Then stiffen.
I knew what was happening before she moved.
She was pulling away.
She slid out from under my arm carefully. Like she was trying not to wake me. I let her go and kept my eyes closed.
The bed frame creaked. Then her feet hid the soft wooden floor. She was padding toward the bathroom.
The door clicked shut.
I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling.
This was what I'd told myself would happen. She'd wake up, realize what she'd done, and retreat behind whatever walls she'd been living behind before she'd stumbled into my cabin.
One night. That's what we'd agreed to.
So why did the sound of her closing that bathroom door feel like a door closing inside my chest?
I got up and pulled on some clothes. Then I started brewing coffee because it gave me something to do.
The percolator was gurgling when the bathroom door opened behind me.
I turned.
She was dressed. Not in my clothes, her own. She wore the blouse and slacks she'd arrived in, dried overnight on the shower rod. They were wrinkled but wearable. Her hair was smoothed back.
She looked like a different woman from the one who'd fallen asleep in my arms.
This woman looked polished and distant.
Like she'd put on armor along with her clothes.
"Morning," she said. Her voice was pleasant and controlled. The voice of someone who'd had a lot of practice pretending everything was fine.
"Good morning."
She moved to the table and picked up her purse.
"The storm's passed," she said, while digging through her bag. "The road should be clear."
"Probably."
"If you could point me in the right direction, I can walk back to my car. I’m sure I can flag a passing car. I don't want to impose any more than I already have."
Impose.
The word hit like a slap.
"Your ankle—" I started.
"It's much better. The wrap helped." She tested her weight on it. Barely winced. "See? I'll be fine."
She wouldn't look at me.
Because if she looked at me, the mask would crack. And she knew it.
"Anniston."
"I should get going. The sooner I can get back to the car, the sooner?—"
"Anniston."
She stopped. Pressed her lips together. Still looking at her purse.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Getting ready to leave." Her tone was light. And completely false. "One night. Storm passes, I go."
"That's not what I'm asking."
She finally looked at me. Those hazel eyes were guarded. Careful. Every wall she'd let down last night rebuilt and reinforced.
"What do you want me to say, Knox?"
"The truth."
"The truth is that last night was..." She swallowed. "It was wonderful. But it was a storm. It was two people who were lonely and scared and?—"
"Don't."
The word came out harder than I intended. She flinched.
I set down the cups I’d been grabbing and moved toward her. She took a half step back.
"Don't do that," I said, stopping. Giving her space even though everything in me wanted to close the distance. "Don't reduce what happened to proximity and bad weather."
"What do you want me to call it?"
"I want you to call it what it was."
"And what was it?"
"You know what it was."
Her jaw tightened. I could see the struggle behind her eyes. The war between what she felt and what she thought she was supposed to do.
"It was one night," she said quietly. "That's what we said. One night."
"Yeah. That's what we said."
"So—"
"So I was wrong."
She blinked.
I took another step closer. She didn't back away this time.
"You think that was just a night?" I asked. "Some storm hookup you can pack away with your wrinkled clothes and walk off this mountain like it didn't happen?"
"Knox—"
"Because it wasn't. Not for me." The words came from somewhere I didn't know I still had access to. Somewhere I'd locked down and boarded up and told myself I'd never open again. "I told you last night—if I touched you, it was going to mean something. And it does."
Her eyes were bright now. Glassy. She was holding on to her composure by a thread.
"This isn't real life," she whispered. "This is a cabin in the woods in the middle of nowhere. This is?—"
"It is now."
She stared at me.
"This is real life." I closed the distance between us slowly, giving her every chance to stop me. "Right here. You and me."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough." I stopped in front of her.
Close enough to touch but not touching. Not yet.
"I know you walked away from a life that was suffocating you.
I know you knocked on a stranger's door in the middle of a storm because you'd rather face the unknown than go back to something safe and empty.
I know you're stronger than you think you are.
And I know that last night, when you were in my arms, you weren't pretending. "
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly.
"What are you asking? What do you want from me?"
"Stay."
The word hung between us.
"Stay?" she repeated.
"Not forever." I exhaled. Ran a hand through my hair and tried to find the right words when words had never been my strength. "I'm not good at this. I've been alone for a long time and I chose that because it was easier than?—"
I stopped. Started again.
"You walked through my door last night and I didn't want you here. And now the thought of you walking back out makes me feel like I can't breathe."
She was crying now. Silently. Tears tracking down her face while she held perfectly still.
"I don't need you to have it figured out," I said. "I don't need you to be perfect or polished or whatever you think people want from you. I just need you to be honest with me. Right now. Tell me what you want."
"What I want doesn't make sense."
"Tell me anyway."
She looked at me for a long time. Long enough that I thought she might not answer.
"I want to stay,” she finally said.
Four words. Barely audible.
I reached for her and cupped her face in both hands. My thumbs brushed away the tears.
"Then stay," I said.
She laughed. Broken and watery and real. "Is it that simple?"
"It can be." I pressed my forehead against hers. "If we let it."
Her hands came up to grip my wrists. Holding on like I was the only solid thing in her world.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"Yeah." I kissed her forehead. "Me too."
"You don't seem scared."
"I'm terrified."
She laughed again. Stronger this time. And then she kissed me.
Soft. Slow. Tasting like tears and coffee and the beginning of something I didn't have a name for yet.
When she pulled back, she was smiling. Small but real.
"We should probably take care of my car," she said.
"Probably."
"And I need a phone. And clean clothes. And to figure out where I'm going to live if I'm not going back to Charleston."
"One thing at a time."
She nodded, then looked around the cabin. At the rumpled bed. The dying fire. The small space that had held an entire world last night.
"Will you bring me back here?" she asked. "After?"
"Yes."
"Promise?"
I laced my fingers through hers and squeezed.
"Promise."
She picked up her purse and slipped on her ruined shoes.
I grabbed my jacket and my keys before opening the front door.
Morning light poured in. Clean and golden. The storm had scrubbed the world new. Everything smelled like pine and wet earth and possibility.
She stepped onto the porch and stopped. I watched her look out at the mountains stretching green and endless under a clear sky.
Then she looked back at me.
"Ready?" I asked.
She took my hand.
"Ready."