“Been told that,” I chuckle again.
Shaking her head, her grip tightens on the bag instead of pushing it away. A few seconds pass before she quietly opens it and checks the contents again. “I don’t even like marshmallows.”
“Then you can judge me silently while I eat them,” I toss back. “Or you can have some chocolate. It’s a healthy coping mechanism.”
That earns me a huff, one close enough to classify as amusement, but we don’t talk after that. The silence is different now, less coiled and sharp. As she leans her head again the window, I note her eyes to be half-lidded. I don’t comment on it or slow down, though. I don’t change the radio station when static creeps in, either.
I just drive.
Toward the cabin.
Toward morning.
Toward whatever version of this ends with her still upright.
CHAPTER
FIVE
ALMA
The cabin sits deeperin the forest than I expected, tucked into the dark between giant firs. By the time we reach it, the temperature has gone down at least fifteen degrees, and the sky overhead is thick with stars.
Crew wastes zero time as we breach the small porch. Unlocking the door, he steps inside first and silently moves through the space. Living room, kitchen, what I presume is the bathroom…
Did he…did he think someone might be in here already?
I don’t ask, remaining firmly in place. When he makes it back to the main area, he presses one of the shovels into my hand, his fingers brushing mine only long enough to transfer weight.
“I’ll be back. I’m gonna go check on the pit. When you hear three knocks, you’ll know it’s me. Don’t answer for anyone else,” he states clearly.
And then he’s gone, shutting the door behind him before I have the opportunity to utter even a single word.
I stand there for a moment death gripping the shovel as I try to understand how quickly life can tilt off its axis. This morning I was making coffee and hoping Lance would just sign the fuckingdivorce papers. Now he’s dead and I’m holed up in a cabin, armed with a weapon in case Sasquatch knocks on the door.
How is this my life?
Because you killed your husband,my brain reminds me.
After what feels like a century, there’s three measured knocks. He said there would be, and still I find myself looking through one of the windows just to make sure. His eyebrows pinch together when he spots me on the other side of the glass. I barely flip the lock before he comes bursting in.
“Everything’s fine.” He’s cool as a fucking cucumber as he says this, setting own the other shovel beside the door. “We’ll go back in the morning. If there’s any bones floating, we’ll scoop them out.”
Scoop them out—like fucking ice cream.
I almost throw up in my mouth.
Part of me wants to ask how he knows how to do this—anyof it—but I don’t. I just nod and watch as he shuffles through the space. He sets all of our stuff by the door, turns on the heater, grabs pillows and a blanket from a closet somewhere. Then he leads me back outside with nothing but a tip of his head.
The fire he builds is small and deliberate, contained by a ring of stones of all shapes and sizes. Clearly, even with experience, he doesn’t trust the flames to behave without a boundary. I sit beside him on an overturned bucket he pulled out of his proverbialMary Poppinsbag, the cold of the plastic pressing through my leggings as the heat of the fire warms only one side of me.
Despite the fact I told him I don’t like marshmallows, he hands me a stick anyway. I take the proffered makeshift skewer, and within a couple minutes, the sugary pillow stabbed through the end is already lopsided.
“Rotate it,” he chuckles softly.
“Iamrotating it.”
“You’re holding it directly in the flame and hoping for the best.”
