Chapter 7 Lola
LOLA
Iwake to the sound of thunder cracking, but this time, it doesn’t bother me quite as much as it did last night.
Last night, I was reminded of the storms out at my dad’s place. Loud and consuming, oppressive. In the city, when a storm comes through, it’s almost quaint. Maybe muffled by the other buildings, or just by the feeling of there being other people around.
But out there in the Colorado mountains, it felt like being on nature’s turf, surrounded by it on all sides.
When the rain came down, it left me with the sense that my dad and I might get washed away.
That his little chicken coop, the horses, the dogs and the cabin might all just rinse down the side of the mountain, nature taking back what was rightfully hers.
The thunder felt like an angry god, pounding against the ceiling of the cabin.
And Dad tried, but he didn’t really understand my fear. He tried explaining it away, telling me that it would pass or that the odds of being struck by lightning were fairly low. The assurances did nothing to quiet my active imagination.
Those reactions are part of the reason Mom didn’t want me living full-time with my dad.
So I had to shuttle back and forth between the two worlds — summers in the mountains, amongst nature and animals, and everything else in the city, walking in my pea coat.
Feeling like an imposter no matter where I went.
Missing my mom, order, and curry at the dial of a phone when I was out in the mountains. Then, missing the wide-open, the calm, the peace and my dad when in the city. No matter where I went, it felt like I’d left a piece of myself behind.
And that first summer with my dad was the stormiest they’d seen on the mountain in a while. It stuck with me, and ever since, hearing thunder has made me sick, jumpy. Torn in two.
But now, the anxiety has passed.
Maybe it’s the soothing taste of chamomile on my tongue, or maybe it’s the weight in my lap, the warm, soft lump that moves slightly when I start to wake up. When she swings her big head, running her tongue over my cheek, I laugh and push her away, blinking against the light.
“Morning,” someone — Rowan — says, and I jump, turning from my slobber assault to see him holding out a mug to me. “You drink coffee?”
I nod gratefully, and Cheese hops off me, shaking herself out before going to wind herself around Rowan’s legs. Sitting up, I take the coffee from him, sighing in gratitude.
And, without thinking, I put weight on my left ankle.
“Ah, shit!”
Rowan turns, his eyes darting to the mug. “That bad?”
I laugh. “No, sorry — this ankle. Not the coffee.”
Silence falls between us, and I wish for the gooey comfort of last night, rather than the harsh reality of this morning. Rowan is looking at me again like he doesn’t quite trust me, and I’m starting to feel the grime of sweat and dirt on me from the night before.
Rowan clears his throat. “It’s still storming.”
“Right,” I agree, glancing at the window, where the rain isn’t coming down quite as hard as the night before, but still hard enough that you’d definitely run into a building in Seattle.
“Well, I’m going to see if I can find your things, so you can change, shower.”
“I stink that bad?” It’s a lame mirror of his joke about the coffee.
The corner of his mouth quirks up, but it stops at that. Last night, he smiled fully at something I said, from ear to ear, and I wish I could have that again. Now he’s much more reserved.
“Really, you don’t have to,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to sit up more, wincing at the pain. “I’ve obviously overstayed my welcome.”
“You’re not going anywhere on that ankle, and definitely not with the rain like this,” he says, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair, which falls lazily back onto his forehead.
He sucks in a deep breath and blows it out quick, very much sounding like a man who’s about to do something he doesn’t want to do.
Why does it hurt my feelings so much? Of course he doesn’t want me here. Already he’s had to catch me in a fainting spell, make me tea in the middle of the night, and talk me through a thunder-induced panic attack. We’re not friends, as much as I was starting to think so last night.
As much as I don’t want to be further indebted to this guy, I can’t deny how good it would feel to have a change of clothes. To change into something more comfortable than the on-brand clothes I put on for the clips I took last night.
So, I take out my phone, which is nearly dead, and read him the instructions for where to park my car. He nods and pulls on a raincoat as he listens. After letting Cheese out and feeding her, he promises me he’ll be back and that we can have breakfast when he returns.
The door shuts behind him, and I sit in the quiet for a long moment, nothing but the crackle of the fire and the sound of my breathing around me. Cheese chomps noisily on her food in the other room.
Last night was surreal and full of connection, and now I’m uncomfortable in my skin, feeling wholly out of place. An intrusion on his life.
Standing, I try to remember if it’s a good idea to put weight on a sprain or not. Wanting to move, to shake off some of the feeling hanging on me like a shroud, I limp around his cabin, poking in the corners I couldn’t before when he was here.
On the far wall is a tall bookshelf, filled with a wild collection of books — thrillers, historical-fiction, and shelf after shelf of non-fiction on a variety of topics, ranging from technology and medicine to sociology and nature.
I run my finger along the spines, intrigued by his reading, picturing him sitting here in his chair, turning the pages.
It seems peaceful. Cozy.
Cheese follows me as I walk from corner to corner, turning his knickknacks over in my hand.
It’s nosy, sure, but I’ve always been like this; wanting to know what kind of toothpaste someone uses, leafing through their newspaper, wanting to see what they’ve circled, whether or not they’ve done the crossword.
Nearly an hour passes like this, with me limping around, considering each thing on his shelves, until I reach the door that leads to the back porch. It’s still raining, but it’s cut to a light drizzle now. Maybe I’ll be able to leave today, after all.
Quickly, before the rain can pick up again, I step out onto the back porch. When I walk over to the rail, my heart catches in my throat.
The porch juts practically off the side of the mountain, leading directly to a scraggly, rocky decline nearly one hundred feet down. It makes me dizzy and slightly sick, and I step back from the railing, thinking of how it could have gone when I went sliding off the roof of his little hut.
Then, without much thought, I pull out my phone and start a recording. I want to remember how far down this is, be able to picture this moment in the future. I raise the phone and turn in a semi-circle, recording through the trees.
Rain dots the lens, making the whole thing hazy, but I like the effect. From here, I can make out the mist across the mountain, the breathtaking beauty of the rain at this altitude. Even with my drone, I never would have been able to see something like this from my campsite.
When the door behind me opens, I quickly drop my phone and tuck it back into my pocket. Rowan looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Lola,” he says, and I realize he’s breathing hard, his eyes finding me with an intensity I wasn’t expecting. His eyes dip down to my phone, which sticks halfway out of my hiking pants. “What were you doing out here?”
I swallow, then smile. “Enjoying the scenery.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then something changes in his face. “Well, come back inside.”
“Right.” I laugh, hobbling over to him. “Don’t want to add a cold to my whole situation.”
When I get to the doorway, he doesn’t quite move fast enough, and as I try to slide past him, my chest ends up brushing his. Our eyes catch, and the moment holds.
Everything with him seems to change so quickly. The look he gave me a second ago is much different than the heated one he’s giving me now.
“That’s not how colds work,” he says, finally, breaking the spell, looking away from me and clearing his throat. “I’m more concerned about you slipping. Again.”
“Touché,” I mutter, and much to my disappointment, it does not make him laugh.