The path looks longer toward the big house.I use my sleeves to wipe my face and taste salt that didn’t come from the sea.The fir needles are shedding in a hush that makes me think of theaters between shows.I walk until my walk becomes a stagger, and then something that would look almost normal if anyone were here to grade it.
I stop once, hand on a trunk.Softly as I can manage, I tell the tree, “I don’t belong there, but I want to learn how to stay.”
The tree does not offer suggestions or notes.I want someone to argue.No one argues.
I breathe.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The numbers catch this time because my lungs don’t have better ideas.
From where I stand, I can see the house—glass and timber, impossibly gorgeous in a way that screams Eddie.He’s made a “cabin” into a work of art.I stand in the fire like a stranger who heard there’s a room to rent and might not pass the interview.
The guitar starts again as I walk toward the house.This time, the sound is calm, as if Barret is breathing life back into everything instead of trying to stop the end of the world.Maybe Kit was right—musicians carry a sound that isn’t just notes.It’s the way they let their souls speak without words, the way tiny, stubborn phrases become maps back to a place you thought you’d lost.
The front door is open.Eddie stands there with what looks like a big, fluffy towel, waiting as if holding his breath for me to show.When I reach him, I say, “I went out.”
“Yeah,” he answers softly.
“And I came back,” I add.
“Yeah.”He steps forward with the towel.“May I wrap you in this?You look cold.”
I nod.
He moves with a care that makes me want to cry—his hands are gentle as if he’s worshipping, but his eyes are scanning my face at the same time, trying to confirm this is really me.The towel is warm and smells faintly of soap and cedar.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say, words small.
“Your socks are soaking.Let me carry you to the room.Maybe I can help you with a bath?”His voice is soft in a way that isn’t Eddie-first-command.It’s a tenderness I don’t get to hear often.
The Eddie I used to know would be barking orders, hauling me to the tub, and telling Barret to throw the bath and find some salts and bubbles.That version wouldn’t ask.I admit I liked him bossy.His bossiness was fun, and I wanted to challenge him.He didn’t command to belittle or to abuse—he never did.
“Don’t do that,” I mumble.
“Carrying you?”he clarifies.
“Change for me,” I say.“I’ll take the bath, though.I think I’ve turned into a popsicle.”
Barret’s voice cuts in from the hall.“Don’t ask him not to change.This isn’t for you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.He’s changing for himself.He’s changing because if he doesn’t, he’ll be left alone in one of his castles while the people who love him disappear.”
I’m unsure what he means, but Eddie lifts me anyway, ensuring the towel is snug around my shoulders before he carries me across the foyer.
“B,” Eddie says, one-worded.
“On it.”Barret heads toward the stairs.He takes the steps three at a time, like he’s trying to meet us halfway.
Again, I say, “I don’t know if I can do this, Eddie.”
He smiles at me like I’m the ridiculous woman who always manages to surprise him.“You’re already doing it.”
“I don’t know if I can do us,” I say, the pronoun catching.My mouth trembles.“Not when you two are in love and I’m just—” I can’t finish it.“You should have found someone else to save.”
When we reach the bathroom, Barret kneels at the tub and cups his hands in the water, jaw working like he’s swallowing something big and impossible.He looks at me and manages, “We didn’t save you.You saved yourself, Cleo.The rest is ...we’ll figure it out.Together.”
