Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
CLARA
T he cut isn't life-threatening. I know that. Virgil knows that, too. The problem is my heart doesn't.
Blood runs between his fingers, bright red against skin already darkened by mud and work. My stomach drops so fast it makes me dizzy.
“Inside,” I order.
“Clara—”
“Inside.”
To my surprise, he obeys.
Thunder rattles the windows as we step into the cabin. The kids are already hovering. Luke's eyes are huge.
“Did you lose a finger?”
“No,” Virgil grunts.
“Looks like a lot of blood.”
“That's because it is.”
I shoot Virgil a glare. He shrugs. The movement makes more blood drip onto my floor.
“Sit.” Again, he obeys.
I disappear into the bathroom and come back with the first-aid kit. By then he's already trying to wrap his hand in a dish towel.
“Absolutely not.”
One corner of his mouth twitches. “Bossy.”
“Bleeding on my floor.”
“Technically your floor's already dirty.”
I point toward the sink. He raises both hands in surrender. One immediately starts bleeding again.
“Idiot.” That earns a laugh. A deep one. The sound settles somewhere dangerous inside my chest.
I kneel beside his chair. The first thing I notice is how big his hands are. The second is how many scars cover them. Thin white lines. Old cuts. Burns. Nicks. A lifetime of work written into skin.
The wound itself isn't terrible. Not the way my imagination made it. Still, it's deep enough to need attention.
I clean it carefully.
Virgil doesn't so much as flinch.
“You feel pain?” I mutter.
His beard twitches. “Occasionally.”
“Liar.”
That earns another chuckle.
Outside, rain drums harder against the roof. The sound makes me freeze. But only for a second.
Virgil notices. It shouldn’t surprise me. He notices everything.
“Storm's moving east.”
My throat tightens. “I know.” It’s a lie. I don’t know why I tell it. Maybe because I need to somehow feel in control of this. But that’s not possible, not now, with his warm, rough hand pressed between my fingers.
Not with the world coming apart outside. This isn’t that time. But I still can’t help it. Because somehow, every storm feels like the flood now. Every dark cloud and crack of thunder. Every drop of rain.
My body doesn't care that this isn't the same storm. It remembers anyway.
I wrap the bandage tighter than necessary. Virgil clears his throat. “Hand still attached?”
“Barely.”
Luke giggles. Helen rolls her eyes. The normalcy of it all almost hurts.
For a little while, we sit together in the kitchen while the storm rages outside.
Luke eventually drifts toward the living room. Helen follows with a book.
The thunder continues. Closer.
Then farther away. Then closer again.
I try not to watch the windows. But I fail miserably.
Virgil pretends not to notice. He fails, too.
“You don't have to stay,” I tell him eventually.
The words come out wrong. Because what I mean is: Please don't leave.
His eyes lift to mine. “Cut's slowing down.” His hand clenches and unclenches beneath my newest bandage job as if making a point. It’s soaked pink in spots. But not the angry red of the previous one.
I nod.
The room falls quiet. Neither of us moves. Neither of us seems eager to break whatever this is.
Outside, lightning flashes beyond the ridge. A few seconds later thunder follows. My shoulders jump.
Embarrassment floods me immediately.
Virgil says nothing. Just reaches for his coffee as if he didn't notice. Like he isn't giving me room to keep my dignity.
God help me. The man is infuriating.
The kids eventually drift off to bed. Luke first. Then Helen.
I hear them moving around down the hallway. Teeth brushing. Doors closing. The ordinary sounds of life.
For the first time in weeks, they don't seem haunted. Maybe Ginger was right. Maybe school was the right decision. Maybe Virgil was right, too.
The thought unsettles me. Almost as much as the realization that the cabin feels different tonight. Not because of the storm.
Because of him. Because he's here… occupying space, taking up a chair, drinking coffee. Breathing.
The simple existence of another adult in the house settles something inside me I didn't realize had been frayed.
Eventually he pushes himself to his feet. My stomach immediately knots.
No. Not yet.
Another crack of thunder rattles the windows. The sound echoes through the cabin.
I close my eyes for a second. When I open them again, Virgil is still standing there, waiting. Like he's trying to decide something. Or maybe giving me the chance to.
The silence stretches. I stare at the floorboards. Then the table. Then the rain streaking down the glass. Anywhere but him.
“Would you stay a little longer?” The words leave before I can stop them. My cheeks burn instantly.
Virgil goes very still.
“So you're not alone,” I add quickly. As if that somehow helps. As if either of us believes it.
His eyes soften. Something unreadable passes through them. Then he nods once. “Sure.”
My shoulders relax, pulse slowing.
We move into the living room without either of us saying anything. But the storm sounds quieter there. The house feels smaller and safer. And the couch is comfortable.
Hours pass. Or maybe minutes. I lose track.
The thunder drifts farther away. The rain softens. The fire burns low.
At some point, my head ends up resting against his shoulder. I don't remember making the decision. Only realizing it's happened.
Virgil freezes. I do, too.
For one terrible second, I think he'll pull away. Instead, he settles deeper into the couch, grabbing a blanket folded over the back and wrapping it around me along with his arm, loose though present.
Giving me room… and permission.
Outside, the storm continues its journey east. Inside, neither of us says a word.
The steady warmth of him seeps slowly through my sweater, solid and real. I forgot how much I missed that.
I don't know when my hand finds his. Only that it does. His fingers close around mine immediately. Like he’s been waiting. For weeks, maybe longer.
I swallow hard. The guilt comes. Of course it does. And thoughts. The ones that never fully leave my mind. Of Bryson and the cabin. The promises we made, the life we planned, how fast it was all taken away.
But beneath the guilt is something else. Something quieter and more terrifying.
Peace.
The kind I haven't felt since the flood. I close my eyes for a minute. Just long enough to rest.
The last thing I remember is the steady rhythm of Virgil's breathing beside me. And the realization that for the first time in a very long time, I’m not facing the storm alone.