What was that?
When the snow gets lower, I’m able to contribute more, and we develop this wordless rhythm. He breaks through the packed layers, and I scoop away the loose stuff.
We’re a team again.
Sort of.
When we finally finish, I’m half-surprised we’re both still alive and un-mauled. The mountain lion apparently decided we weren’t worth the effort today, which is either a good sign or means it’s saving us for dessert later.
Emboldened by our continued possession of all our limbs, on the way back we make a quick detour to the food storage area and grab lunch, one sad chicken that we haul back inside.
I melt fresh snow for water without speaking. He builds up the fire in the great room without acknowledging my existence.
I cook the chicken. We eat in silence at opposite ends of the kitchen island. The food is pretty tasteless, probably because I can’t stop thinking about how thoroughly I’ve wrecked this.
Us.
After we’re done eating, we return to the great room.
Gregory sits on his side of the sectional, I sit on mine.
He keeps looking at me. Opening his mouth like he wants to say something. Then changing his mind and looking away.
He does this maybe five times.
I don’t pry.
Don’t force him.
What’s the point?
I already said everything wrong last night. Adding more words to the disaster seems counterproductive.
Still, I can’t help but think I was right.
Because...
This can’t work.
Not really.
So why does being right feel so spectacularly shitty?
Because I didn’t want to wreck things this badly. I didn’t want our last day together to be this frozen wasteland of misery. Maybe if I’d kept my mouth shut last night, waited until today to have the “we’re impossible” conversation, things would’ve been... different. Better.
And let’s not forget the other tragedy here. I could’ve had one last night of mind-blowing orgasms and--
Oh my god, Sorrel. Do NOT go there. This is not the time for your vagina to lodge complaints about missed opportunities.
But it’s true though.
NOPE. Not thinking about that. Definitely not thinking about his hands or his mouth or the way he--
Stop!
I shake my head, and stare at the fire, being very,verycareful not to look at him.
Or eventhinkabout him.
