It’s not a yes. But it’s not a no either.
The walk back is easier without the car.
The storm is starting to let up, the snow falling lighter now, the wind dying down. Dawn is still hours away, but I can feel it coming, the darkness softening at the edges.
My mother’s words echo in my head with every step.
Be gentle. Be vulnerable. Be honest. Don’t give up.
By the time I reach my cabin, I have a plan.
The first thing I do is clean. Every surface, every corner, every inch of the space she’ll have to share with me. I scrub down the kitchen. I sweep and mop the floors. I fold the blankets on the couch, fluff the pillows, make everything as welcoming as I can.
Then I cook.
Breakfast for a human. Not for a bear.
It takes practice. I burn the first batch of eggs,scorch the bacon, turn the french toast into soggy mush. My bear grows impatient, but I ignore him and start again.
The second attempt is better. The third is almost good.
By the time I’m satisfied, the sky is starting to lighten. Pale gray seeping through the windows, the storm finally breaking.
I cover the plate and leave it on the table for her. Then I grab my coat and head outside.
The woodpile needs restocking. It’s a good excuse. Physical labor to keep my hands busy, to keep me away from the cabin, to give her space.
She doesn’t want to see my face right now. I know that. So I’ll stay out here, chopping wood, until she’s ready.
And when she is, I’ll be there.
I won’t give up. I’ll be relentless.
Just like my father.
11
IMANI
My eyes are swollen shut.
That’s the first thing I notice. I have to pry them open with my fingers, the lids sticky and crusted from crying myself to sleep. The second thing I notice is the ache in my throat, raw from screaming at him, from sobbing into the mattress until I couldn’t anymore.
The third thing I notice is the smell of bacon.
I sit up slowly, head pounding, and try to orient myself. The cabin is still. No footsteps, no movement, no sign of the man who carried me in here against my will.
My stomach growls, loud and demanding, and I press a hand against it. Traitor. I’m not leaving this room. I’m not going out there where he might be waiting. I’ll starve before I give him the satisfaction of?—
My stomach growls again, even louder.
Fine. I have to pee anyway.
I slide out of bed, still in yesterday’s clothes. My sweater is wrinkled, my pants twisted around my hips. I didn’t even take off my shoes before I passed out. I must look like a disaster.
Not that it matters. Not that I care what he thinks of me.
I press my ear against the door and listen. Nothing. Slowly, carefully, I turn the lock and crack it open.
