He pushes me in with a gentleness that doesn’t match his uncivilized edges, and when I glance up, his eyes catch mine, hard and unflinching, as if to say,Eat.Stay.
We sit across from each other, passing platters and sampling the decadent flavors.I don’t ask where he learned how to cook like a gourmet chef.He grew up in a self-sufficient homestead in the Arctic Circle.I imagine he’s mastered a great many things that most men have never even attempted.
He watches me eat, chewing his bites slower than usual, methodical, as if he’s buying time.His hand shakes when he lifts his glass, but he steadies it quickly.
“You seem… Different.”I eye him over a heap of potatoes.
“Better or worse?”
“Better.Clearer.”I set my fork down.“What happened today?”
He leans back, long legs sprawled, eyes darting away.“I fought some demons.Didn’t win.Didn’t lose.Just stopped letting them own the place.”He taps his temple.
Silence settles, magnifying the clink of cutlery.It’s not uncomfortable.Just heavy.
When the plates are mostly empty, he slips into the living room and returns with the books from this morning.
“You wrote your story?”I wipe my hands on a napkin.
“A lot of it.And I left a lot out.”He sets the books on the table.“But I need you to hear it all.Maybe not tonight.Probably not in order.I figure we can read it together, Frankie’s story and mine, and I’ll fill in the blanks as we go.”
“Okay.”I stroke his hand, humbled by his bravery.
“But if you’re too tired—”
“I’m not.”
He studies me, making sure.Then his lips tip in a crooked smile.
We clean the dishes side by side, fingers brushing as we pass plates.
“You always this domestic?”I ask.
“Only when I’m trying to trick someone into liking me.”
“It’s working.”I rinse a glass and set it in the dishwasher.“Barely.”
He flicks water at me.I shove his elbow with my shoulder.It’s silly and so normal my chest hurts with it.
When the counters are clean and the stove is wiped, he turns off the overhead and leads me to the couch.
As we settle in, he sets the books between us.I tuck my legs under me, heart heavy, readying myself for the pieces of hell he’s willing to hand me.
He rests his splayed fingers on the cover of his book, one last pause.His arctic blue eyes lift to mine, brighter than I’ve ever seen them.
Then he opens the past, and we step off the ledge together.
Sixteen months ago
The Fall
The hills of shivers and shadows recede until nothing remains but the edge and the ache.
And Frankie’s shout.
“Wolf!”She races toward me like a flare in the dark.Too loud.Too bright.
“Stop screaming.”My voice is flat.Final.It doesn’t belong to me.“The entire Arctic can hear you.”
