“Thanks for bringing my clothes up for me,” Mara says to Dylan. But Dylan looks completely clueless.
“Wasn’t me,” he says, darting his eyes to me. Mara’s eyes follow, conveying her reluctance to thank me, and maybe a bit of surprise that I’d do something nice for her.
Without giving me the same appreciation, she lowers her eyes back to her food looking a little worse for wear. Can she really not bring herself to say something nice to me? Maybe she’s ashamed. I don’t know and I don’t give a fuck.
“So how do I get home?” Mara speaks up again, breaking the uncomfortable silence I was thoroughly enjoying.
Dylan and I exchange looks, his worried, mine exasperated. With just my eyes I try to saythis bitch isn’t getting it.
Dylan translates more politely, “Um, there’s no way to get down the mountain, Mara. I’m afraid you’re stuck here.”
She looks between the two of us as if the answer to all her problems rests somewhere between us.
“No.” Denial. “There has to be a way.”
Nope.
I stand and head for the front door covering the space between the table and the foyer in a few long strides. As soon as I pull the door open with considerable strength, the cold winter blows inside with a few flurries coating the floor and ruffling our hair. My message is clear.If you’re so desperate to leave, then go. The only way down is through the snow and you won’t survive it.
Mara meets my stare with one of her own, all hell breaking loose in her eyes. “Very funny.”
I just wave a hand like a fancy butler to drive the point home. She can freeze to death for all I care.
Then why did you save her?My subconscious antagonizes me.
Her eyes only narrow in response.
I slam the door shut then take my long sleeve shirt off the back of the chair and pull it over my torso with a little more force than necessary.
“What am I supposed to do?” Mara addresses Dylan again, her only advocate. But her efforts at appealing to the sympathetic one are pointless, he can’t get her home any more than I can.
“Help with day-to-day stuff around here, I guess.”
When Mara drops her fork on the plate with a clang, I can’t help but snicker.
“What exactly did you have in mind?” The sarcasm isn’t lost on either of us. But before Dylan can answer, I stomp to the kitchen and pull out our mom’s cookbook, flip to the page I have in mind, and slam it on the table beside her plate of unfinished food.
Mara scans the withered page, considers what I’m asking, then shoots those hazel eyes at me incredulously. “Bread? You want me to be your fucking cook?”
She might think it’s because she’s a woman, but really it’s because cooking takes too much time out of our days. If she were to maintain more of the household tasks, Dylan and I would have more time to work.
After moving to the cabin, Dylan and I started a fabrication business. We mainly build custom firearms for guys with money across the country. But we also take on the occasional odd jobs such as custom parts for cars or other specific mechanic requirements. Since we don’t have internet in the winter, we take all of our orders in the fall and when we run out of work to do towards the end of the season, we design new pieces to post for sale when spring rolls around.
“If I’m stuck here I’m not going to be a fucking kitchen wench for you.” Even though she’d also be cooking for Dylan, Mara directs her insults at me. “Give me something else to do. I don’t mind helping out around here, but I’m not going to be a slave to house chores just because I’m a woman.”
That’s it. I’m sick of her bullshit and disrespect. If I’d known she would be this much of a pain in the ass, I might have left her in her car in the snow bank.
Before she can protest, I hoist Mara over my shoulder fireman style and head out the back door toward the shop. She kicks and screams the whole way as if she’s afraid I’m going to feed her to a bear. I don’t give a fuck that my sneakers are getting wet. I don’t give a fuck how cold it is. I barge my way through the ever-growing pile of snow outside until I reach the shop.
Once inside, I lower Mara back to her feet amidst her anger and protests. As soon as she’s steady, she slams a fist into my chest and yells, “What the fuck was that?”
Taking her forcefully by the shoulders, I spin her around and point at the CNC machine in the shop. She looks between the stainless steel machine and me trying to decipher my meaning.
“You want me to operate it?” I nod in response. “I don’t know how to use that. What does it do?”
That’s what I thought.
So I point back toward the house just as Dylan catches up to us, looks like he took the time to put on his boots.
