So it shouldn’t feel any different from before.
Except it does. It did.
I couldn’t sleep last night, not from nightmares, but worrying about her. What if she got sick from being out in the cold? What if the chimney clogged, and the cabin filled with carbon monoxide? What if the reason she was sleeping in her car instead of an actual building somehow followed her here?
What if she was scared? In trouble? Hurt? And I wasn’t there to help her?
At least half-dozen times before dawn, I thought about walking over to check on her, but never actually did it.It would freak her out,I reasoned. Knocking on the cabin door in the middle of the night. Poor Vienna mightreallythink a serial killer had come for her.
Her odd fixation on serial killers makes me chuckle.
The sound echoes in my small kitchen, bouncingoff the empty countertops and barren walls. When I bought the house from my parents, I remodeled the seventies-style kitchen for something to do, replacing the mustard-colored cabinets and ancient appliances with butcher block and stainless steel. But I never got around to decorating, figuring it wasn’t necessary since I’m the only one who sees it.
Leaning over the sink, I look out the window at the cabin in the distance. A good foot of snow surrounds it, save for the path I shoveled from the front door first thing this morning. Unlike last night, the fire in the fireplace is out. Despite the setting winter sun, the windows are still dark.
She hadn’t yet left when I went over to shovel around seven AM. But when I went back over at ten, there were small footsteps on the path and in the snow heading out to the road.
Where did she go? To The Laughing Goat? To Ellicott’s Engines to check on her car? Did she call for a taxi, or did she try to walk the entire way?
I’ve been thinking about it all day, even though I keep trying not to.
But shit. I’m two miles outside town. And that’s if I’m going to The Laughing Goat, which is right in the center of it. If I’m headed to Max’s shop, it’s another half-mile past that. Both manageable distances, in normal conditions. But the roads still aren’t fully cleared. And if Vienna was walking along the side of the road and someone wasn’t paying attention, like that asshole driver last night…
“Dammit,” I mutter. “I shouldn’t be worrying like this.”
Maybe, if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t be. But dammit, I like her.
She’s brave and stubborn and she’s not afraid to say what she’s thinking. Whatever happened that made her end up sleeping in her car, it hasn’t broken her. She’s determined. Her questions about serial killers make me laugh, which is something that I haven’t done in a very long time.
And she’s pretty. Really pretty. It doesn’t matter since I’m not looking to date her, but she is.
Back in the old days, I probablywouldhave asked her out. But now I’m just standing at my kitchen window, wondering where she is, but not actually doing anything about it.
What Ishoulddo is head out to the garage to work on one of my snowmobiles and stop obsessing over a woman I just met. A woman who may or not be coming back to the cabin; a woman I may never end up speaking to again.
Except she works in town. And if I happen to be in the mood for takeout, instead of the subscription delivery service I’ve relied on for years, I could get some from The Laughing Goat. Possibly see Vienna there. Talk to her. See if she wants to grab coffee or a quick drink after?—
“No.” I turn away from the window with an irritated huff. “If she isn’t gone already, she will be soon.”
I didn’ttellVienna that she had to leave. I might be a grouchy hermit, like Enzo called me, but I’m not anasshole. I wouldn’t kick her out when she has nowhere else to stay. In fact, before I left the cabin last night, I told her to stay as long as she needed.
Will she, though? Or is she uneasy about being here and trying to figure out an alternative as quickly as possible?
Which would be better, really. Simpler. Then I could get back to my regular daily routine of working on snowmobiles and projects around the house instead of worrying about her.
And speaking of snowmobiles, I could head into the garage and get in a few hours right now. Put the finishing touches on the Suzuki I’m restoring for Pat Quillian so he can have it before his dad’s birthday. Maybe take a look at the Polaris that just came in, if I have the time for it. And stop looking out the damned kitchen window like a dog waiting for his owner to come home.
I make it halfway across the kitchen before the siren call of the window comes again.Just one more look,I tell myself.Then I’ll actually get some shit done.
Except this time, instead of seeing an expanse of white, there’s a spot of red moving across it.
The same red as the color of Vienna’s coat.
She’s walking down the driveway towards the path to the cabin, her head down and shoulders hunched against the cold. Her gait is slow and uneven, like she’s limping. Wearing one oversized backpack, she looks a bit like a turtle. Her long hair has escaped her knit cap and it’s whipping in the wind.
Shit.
I’m moving before I can think about it.
