“Nope.”
A longer pause. “He take off?”
“Yes. Didn’t even make it to our first anniversary. He joined up with that militia group too.”
“Damn. No wonder you hate ’em so much.” He repositions himself on his bed. I hear the mattress and sheets rustle. “He hurt you too?”
“Only by leaving. He treated me decent otherwise.”
“Why did he leave you here alone then?”
“He wanted me to come with him, and I wouldn’t go. So finally he just left on his own. He wasn’t… he wasn’t as strong as I would have liked, but he wasn’t a bad man.”
“Leaving his wife all by herself in these woods to join up with assholes sounds fuckin’ bad to me.”
“He was scared.”
“Join the club.”
For some reason, his grumpy tone makes me giggle. “He never really opened up to me. He always just went along with what I wanted.”
“That was his first mistake.”
Still trying not to laugh, I continue, “But I understand what happened with him. He was trying to make it work because he wanted to stay with me. But he got scareder and scareder as the world got worse and worse. Until finally he couldn’t take it anymore. He thought it’d be safer with a big group than out here on our own. He wasn’t wrong about that. Being alone makes you vulnerable.But there are different kinds of safety. And hooking up with a militia group like that one isn’t really safe at all.”
“It sure as fuck isn’t. If he’s gonna run like a rabbit at the first sign of danger, then you’re better off without him.”
“I think so too. I’ve been fine here. Me and Molly have been just fine.”
“You seem fine. Damn impressive that you’ve made it this long and this well on your own.”
The compliment is slightly gruff, but it sounds sincere. The pleasure from it washes over me.
We lie without speaking for a long time. At least fifteen minutes. He’s so quiet I wonder a time or two if he’s fallen asleep, but then I’ll hear him shift or cough or rearrange his blanket.
“What were you like as a kid?” he asks without warning.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“It’s just a weird, random question.”
“So what? I want to know the answer.”
Shaking my head with a huff of amusement, I tell him, “I was quiet. Reserved. My home life never felt safe or secure, so I was always on guard. Even with other people. I did pretty well in school. I was planning to get through college—starting in community college since it was all I could afford. My teachers all liked me. I did my work and never got into trouble. But it wasn’t because I cared aboutgood behavior. I cared about surviving long enough to get away.”
“What did you want to do with your life when you got away?”
“I didn’t know yet. I was planning to major in business and get any sort of decent job I could. I really loved music, but I was too smart to try going into that. I needed money. Music wasn’t the way to do that.”
“What kind of music did you do?”
“I sang. When I was little, I had dreams of being a pop star, but I was too smart to take them seriously. I also played the piano and the flute and was passable on the guitar.”
“Wow. You could do everything. Sing something for me.”
“What?” My cheeks flush for no good reason.
