I push Cheesecake to the side with my leg, stepping past her and into the hallway, feeling her hot breath on the backs of my calves as we move together to investigate.
When I flip the light on, I feel righteous, discovering the woman, still in her ridiculous hiking outfit, standing in the hall. Just to her right is a little in-set shelf of my things, but she’s not looking at it.
“What are you doing?” I ask, stepping toward her, voice icy. More importantly, why was I stupid enough to leave those things out? Pictures, some old awards. None of it matters now, and yet I cling to it, keeping it out on the wall. Stupid.
“I—” When she turns to look at me, there’s something on her face that’s decidedly un-curious. Instead, it’s tentative, a lot closer to fear. “I’m sorry. I was going to the bathroom, and then?—”
A boom of thunder shakes across the trees outside the cabin, and she jumps hard enough that her hand flies out, catching one of the little awards and sending it tumbling from the shelf. I reach out, catching it, watching her as she clutches the blanket around her shoulders a little closer to her body.
“S-sorry,” she says, her jaw looking like it’s wired shut. “I wasn’t trying to— I wasn’t?—”
“Are you afraid of the storm?”
“No—” She’s cut off by anotherboom, her body jolting again like the lightning struck her, rather than a random spot out on the mountain.
My defenses start to lower. Maybe that’s a bad idea. Maybe it doesn’t make sense to let her in just because she has an irrational fear of storms, but there’s something in my chest that’s already softening toward the sight of her like this, her golden blond hair mussed, the terror shining in her glassy eyes.
“All right, it’s okay.” I reach out to put a hand on her shoulder, and I’m surprised when she steps in, curling her body against mine in a hug instead. This woman doesn’t know me — not really — and yet, her fear of the storm is strong enough to propel her into my arms.
She smells like rain and mud, sunscreen and bug spray, and faintly, of lilacs. My body goes rigid as I try to remember the last time I touched someone else like this.
It must have been Hannah.
“Come on,” I say, because what else am I supposed to do? Leave her to her fear, alone? As much as I don’t like her prying eyes, the way she seems to look directly into my brain, I can’t bring myself to do that.
Ten minutes later,we’re standing in the kitchen together as I go through the motions of making tea. She stands about a foot away from me, her body trembling, her blanket wrapped snugly around her body.
She’s still in her hiking clothes, those little brown shorts which, I can’t help but notice, make her legs look amazing. But she must be cold.
“Your name isn’t really Lemon Meringue, is it?” she asks, watching me as I light the wood stove, fill the kettle.
I glance at her, knowing it’s a bad idea to share my name with her, then wondering if holding back might make me look more suspicious. Regardless, Iwantto tell her my name. Which is bad, actually. “Rowan.”
“I’m Lola,” she says in return, and I think,of course you are, because shelookslike a Lola. Fun and bright, which I could see from the video on that drone. In fact, now that she’s said it, I remember seeing her registration information in the data I pulled from the drone.Lola Kennedy.
The name is fun, and it fits her. Lola looks like the kind of woman who lives life to the fullest, and if I had internet out here, I might have already looked her up. I imagine her social media is full of vibrant shots, her wide smile, that dimple on the left side of her mouth popping.
If I had a signal, I could probably spend a lot of time scrolling through her content.
But I don’t. And I won’t.
There’s no look of recognition on her face, no sense of putting the puzzle pieces together, and that quiets something in me. At least she’s not already figuring this thing out.
We let the names hang in the air. I put a tea bag in each mug, then pour out hot water over each. I carry them, and we move quietly together back toward the living room. It’s kind of nice to hear the shuffling of another person here with me, to smell that faint trailing of lilacs around her.
Once again, I’m reminded of the strangeness of this situation. A woman I don’t know is turning to me for comfort in the middle of the night. I’m making a mug of tea for a stranger while my dog trots around our feet.
But I can’t deny that there’s something magnetic about her. Something that makes me want more, to get closer.
It’s not until we’re sitting down in the living room together that thunder booms again, and she jumps. I’m glad I’m the one holding the mugs of tea, and I set hers on the coffee table carefully before settling back into my recliner.
“It’s hot, but I think it will help.” I know it will. There are studies linking warm drinks and soothing chemicals in the brain. Butmost people don’t want science spouted at them when they’re upset. What do people want when they’re upset? “Do you want to… talk?”
She nods and leans forward to pick the mug up. I notice her trembling fingers, how she quiets them around the sides of the mug, lifts it to her. “Sorry. This is so embarrassing.”
Is she only talking about her fear? Or also the fact that she snuck onto my property, nearly fell to her death, and managed to sprain her ankle and trap herself here?
“It’s not,” I say, and then, because I apparently have no self-preservation instincts, “I used to be afraid of thunder, too.”
