Authors: Ever McCormick
He smiled. "F
ewer newly married people, but I prefer them. They stay in their cabins and look out for each other and are generally happy." Having addressed all the bites on one forearm, he moved to the other. I held it out to him to give him better access.
"All newlyweds are generally happy? I guess that makes sense." I was grateful for the small talk as it took my mind off Roadsie. I knew Adam was probably trying to keep me distracted with wine and chit chat, but I didn't mind. He was good at it. And the sweet relief from the constant itching was appreciated. I groaned again.
"I told you to put salt on these bites on your first day here. Why didn't you?"
I shrugged.
"No, not all newlyweds are happy." He grinned and looked down as if he were thinking of someone in particular. "Newlyweds who choose to spend their first days as a couple alone, in nature—the ones who don't need a wine glass hot tub or a heart-shaped bed, the ones who need only each other for entertainment. Those are my favorite guests."
I smiled at that explanation. I suppose it gave me hope in the possibility of my Mr. Right still being out there.
"How come you're not the least bit scared?" I asked.
He shrugged, but appeared to be thinking about an answer. "I know how to protect myself." He nodded to the gun on the counter, and I felt nervous knowing he had kept track of his weapon's location this whole time. It was
as if he thought anything could happen at any instant. I guess it could, but I'd never feel calm if I had to live that way. I’d freak. But because of his courage, I felt safe with Adam.
I wondered if I could talk to him about all of it
—Michael, school, all those ideas I poured into my journal. It felt good to get them out, but I always felt a little unsatisfied after journal writing. I had gotten those ideas onto paper, but then what? I was beginning to see the importance of having someone else, a sounding board, when reflecting. I guess my wandering mind showed on my face because he asked me a question that made me wonder if he could see my thoughts.
"Do you want to talk
about it?"
"What?"
"Him. The other newly single person you used to be in a relationship with." He took the corkscrew to the fresh bottle of wine. Did I want to talk about it? I hadn't yet. I hadn't talked about the breakup with my friends for the same reason I'd never talked about my relationship with them. It was personal. It was between him and me. Michael was my best friend, and you don't talk about your best friend with your other friends. But he hadn't been my best friend after all. You don't cheat on your best friend either.
"He cheated on me," I said. "I wal
ked in on him and my roommate."
Adam's eyebrows shot upward and I felt like a complete dumb ass. Conventional wisdom tells you that you have nothing be ashamed of when you were not the cheater, but the cheatee, but something else, let's call it the urge to blame yourself for everything, keeps whispering,
but what is so wrong with me that he felt the need to cheat?
"Have you ever been cheated on?" I asked.
"Everyone's been cheated on," he said, "but, no, not like that—not in such a serious relationship. Sounds brutal. Did you beat her up?"
I snorted and made a face as the wine burned my nostrils. "No!" I wiped my nose and the table.
"What? I'm surprised. I think under those circumstances you would have been justified."
His
understanding motivated me to keep talking. I got the impression that he wouldn’t have judged me even if I
had
beaten her up. In the back of my mind, I knew why I hadn't talked about it with anyone. My mom, my friends—they had all pressed me to talk about it, but I'd turned them down. I didn't need to say aloud that I'd been—and sort of still was—a blind idiot to realize it was true. Yet, here I was admitting it to Adam.
"You want to know the worst part?"
"Walking in on it wasn’t the worst part? You don't get an image like that out of your head."
I laughed. I actually laughed at something that unti
l now had caused only pain. Yeah, that image, that look on his face, I wouldn't forget. It told me all I needed to know. It said—
I have been lying to you for four years now, and you have been licking up those lies like a hungry dog.
"The worst
part is that I miss him. Could you imagine? Missing someone who did that to you?"
I felt him staring at me, but I couldn't meet his eye
. I was too embarrassed about being a total sap.
"I can
imagine." He sipped his wine and continued to study me. "But maybe you don't miss him. Maybe your feelings were more about you than him."
"What do you mean?"
"Maybe you miss the feeling of being in a relationship more than you miss him. Relationships can be addictive once you’ve experienced the best of them."
I nodded. I did miss being in a relationship
.
I missed the regular text messages asking how my day was going. I missed the feeling that somebody cared whether I lived or died. I started to wonder how someone could survive out here on their own so long. Maybe that was the kind of person I needed to become.
"So how did you get so smart about relationships?" I asked
, finally peeking up at him. "Is there a Mrs. Adam somewhere?"
He looked flustered
and now his gaze avoided mine. I'd hit a sore spot. We were talking about my love life. It seemed natural, polite even, that I ask about his. "I was almost married once," he said. "She left before we could go through with it."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Nothing to be sorry about." He shook his head, his eyes staying on the table. I got the feeling it wasn't something he'd come to terms with yet, and that realization made me trust him, like maybe he could understand all my screwed-up, illogical feelings because he had some too.
"When did this happen?"
"A few years ago."
"She didn't want to live on the mountain?"
He laughed. "No, she most certainly did not, but I didn't live on the mountain yet. I was still in New York City."
My eyebrows shot up. "New York City
to here: now that's a move."
"
I needed a change." He grinned. "I was looking to transform my life, and I did." He looked at me now and I kept my gaze on his.
I took
a big gulp of wine. "Has there been anyone since her?"
He shook his head and his gaze returned to the tabletop. The remnants of our beautifu
l meal still sat on the table. We’d killed one bottle of wine already and he made sure to keep my glass filled at all times. I tried to picture Adam as a New Yorker with trendy clothes and a messenger bag over his shoulder. I tried to imagine how he might look without a tan, without the facial hair. I couldn't imagine him shuffling paper and tapping the keys of a computer instead of swinging an ax and hiking trails. I might as well have tried to picture a bear surfing the Internet.
"I suppose," he said after I had figured he was done speaking on the matter, "that part of why I chose t
his place is because the chance of getting into another relationship here is low."
I laughed in agreement. "True. Not very likely you'd meet someone here, unless you're into squirrels."
"No, the chances that an attractive woman whose attitude I could stomach would come to my mountain—without a companion—are low." His eyes flicked to mine. "The chance that she'd fall in love with me is—" He took a long swig of his wine and leaned toward me. "This is not a place to pick up a lover. Maybe that's why you chose the mountain, too. Maybe, subconsciously, you know what you
don't want
."
I swallowed and thought of Jamaica, where all of my friends
were getting ready to travel soon. The whole island would likely be swarming with young, scantily clad people my age looking to hook up. It was the perfect place to start over, if by starting over you meant banging your recent breakup off your mind and out of your heart—a method I wasn't wild enough to employ. Well, I wasn’t wild enough yet. Adam had me considering the option.
"Maybe," was all I would allow myself to say.
7
We talked for a while longer, pausing only when we heard the beeping on the radio signaling another update was about to come through, but the updates only said there was no new news. The prisoner still hadn't been found.
I excused myself at one point to use the bathroom, and when I came back, he was setting up pillows and blankets on the couch. He managed to make th
e couch look inviting, but I pouted when I thought about the beautiful bed waiting empty at my cabin. But it was fine. I wouldn't likely get much sleep worrying about the prisoner all night even in that great big beautiful bed.
"Thanks for
letting me sleep on your couch," I said. He turned around, holding a sheet in his hands.
"You can have my
bed," he said. "This is for me." He nodded to the impromptu sleeping space.
"No, I can't take your bed!"
"I insist. I put fresh sheets on this morning, and I want to sleep by the front door. If I hear anything outside, I’ll check it out." He nodded to the gun, which now sat on the end table by the couch, right next to his pillow.
I couldn't miss the trace of anger in his voice, not at me, but at the idea that someone might have the gall to be sniffing around his cabin late at night.
"Thank you."
He stretched out the sheet on the couch and I watched his muscles move as he worked. As I stared, my body reacted, tingling with the
knowledge of how close we’d be sleeping to each other. I felt disappointed as if it weren’t close enough.
After he finished
making a bed of his couch, he cleaned up our dishes on the table. He didn't argue when I helped by rinsing off dishes and stacking them in the drainer. As the night moved on, we talked more. I took another bathroom break—during which he called to me that I was welcome to use any of his stuff. I laughed because the only thing in the bathroom appeared to be the generic white bar of soap on his sink. Guys.
In a tiny lull in
our conversation, I yawned, and Adam smiled.
"It’s getting late," he said.
"Suppose it’s time for bed."
My stomach sank
. I couldn’t ignore my obvious physical feelings of not wanting him to leave my side. I could barely ignore the running commentary in my head. He was so sexy I kept getting distracted by stolen glimpses of his skin. I couldn’t ignore how safe I felt in his presence despite the mystery of what was going on outside.
His bed, I was more than pleased to see
as he walked me to it, was just as luxurious as the one at my cabin. His room was simple and didn't include any art or pictures. Come to think of it, I hadn't seen one single photograph since I'd arrived. I stared at the pile of books stacked up on his bedside table. He had a romance, a Dickens novel, a suspense thriller: no allegiance to one genre as far as I could tell.
He pulled the cover back and nodded to the exposed sheet, so I would get in. I slipped between the soft sheets as he pulled the soft blanket up to my neck. I stared up at him in wonder.
"What?" he asked, noticing my thoughtful gaze.
"Nothing. Will you be able to sleep with…everything going on?"
"Probably not." His eyes traced the form of my body under the blanket. "Will you?"
I shook my head no, and my hair splayed against the pillow. I pushed the blanket down slightly and let my bare right leg snake out from under the covers. He glanced at the bare leg and then back to my face, his stare lingering a
bit too long.
“Definitely not,” I whispered. Blood and wine rushed through my veins. While
the alcohol dulled my thoughts, it amplified my sense of touch. My toes could distinguish every fiber of the sheet.
Adam leaned closer to me. I could smell his manly scent and I
brushed my hand slowly against the sheet, wishing it were his skin.
"Do you want m
e to lie down with you until you fall sleep?" His eyebrows raised, his stare bore into mine. I felt as if the look said he wanted more than what he was asking, but he needed to move slowly, like someone relearning basic movements after an injury. I swallowed and nodded.
He walked to the other side of the bed, lifted up the blanket,
and slid in next to me. I turned on my side to face him and he did the same. Eyes wide open, we stared at each other while our bodies didn’t touch. His dark hair and skin contrasted with the dove-white pillow case.
"Does it get easier?" I asked him. All night, our discussions veered into different subjects and then returned to our broken hearts. I didn’t need to explain what I meant.
"I don’t know yet," he said. He reached out and grabbed my hand, and I closed my eyes. I squeezed his hand and then released it. I began to stroke my fingertips slowly, softly across his palm. He didn’t say anything, but his breath slowed and evened out, and I fell asleep to the rhythm.