But out there in the Colorado mountains, it felt like being on nature’s turf, surrounded by it on all sides. When the rain came down, it left me with the sense that my dad and I might get washed away. That his little chicken coop, the horses, the dogs and the cabin might all just rinse down the side of the mountain, nature taking back what was rightfully hers.
The thunder felt like an angry god, pounding against the ceiling of the cabin.
And Dad tried, but he didn’t really understand my fear. He tried explaining it away, telling me that it would pass or that the oddsof being struck by lightning were fairly low. The assurances did nothing to quiet my active imagination.
Those reactions are part of the reason Mom didn’t want me living full-time with my dad. So I had to shuttle back and forth between the two worlds — summers in the mountains, amongst nature and animals, and everything else in the city, walking in my pea coat. Feeling like an imposter no matter where I went.
Missing my mom, order, and curry at the dial of a phone when I was out in the mountains. Then, missing the wide-open, the calm, the peace and my dad when in the city. No matter where I went, it felt like I’d left a piece of myself behind.
And that first summer with my dad was the stormiest they’d seen on the mountain in a while. It stuck with me, and ever since, hearing thunder has made me sick, jumpy. Torn in two.
But now, the anxiety has passed.
Maybe it’s the soothing taste of chamomile on my tongue, or maybe it’s the weight in my lap, the warm, soft lump that moves slightly when I start to wake up. When she swings her big head, running her tongue over my cheek, I laugh and push her away, blinking against the light.
“Morning,” someone — Rowan — says, and I jump, turning from my slobber assault to see him holding out a mug to me. “You drink coffee?”
I nod gratefully, and Cheese hops off me, shaking herself out before going to wind herself around Rowan’s legs. Sitting up, I take the coffee from him, sighing in gratitude.
And, without thinking, I put weight on my left ankle.
“Ah, shit!”
Rowan turns, his eyes darting to the mug. “That bad?”
I laugh. “No, sorry — this ankle. Not the coffee.”
Silence falls between us, and I wish for the gooey comfort of last night, rather than the harsh reality of this morning. Rowan is looking at me again like he doesn’t quite trust me, and I’m starting to feel the grime of sweat and dirt on me from the night before.
Rowan clears his throat. “It’s still storming.”
“Right,” I agree, glancing at the window, where the rain isn’t coming down quite as hard as the night before, but still hard enough that you’ddefinitelyrun into a building in Seattle.
“Well, I’m going to see if I can find your things, so you can change, shower.”
“I stink that bad?” It’s a lame mirror of his joke about the coffee.
The corner of his mouth quirks up, but it stops at that. Last night, he smiled fully at something I said, from ear to ear, and I wish I could have that again. Now he’s much more reserved.
“Really, you don’t have to,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to sit up more, wincing at the pain. “I’ve obviously overstayed my welcome.”
“You’re not going anywhere on that ankle, and definitely not with the rain like this,” he says, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair, which falls lazily back onto his forehead. He sucks in a deep breath and blows it out quick, very much sounding like a man who’s about to do something he doesn’t want to do.
Why does it hurt my feelings so much? Of course he doesn’t want me here. Already he’s had to catch me in a fainting spell, make me tea in the middle of the night, and talk me through a thunder-induced panic attack. We’re not friends, as much as I was starting to think so last night.
As much as I don’t want to be further indebted to this guy, I can’t deny how good it would feel to have a change of clothes. To change into something more comfortable than theon-brandclothes I put on for the clips I took last night.
So, I take out my phone, which is nearly dead, and read him the instructions for where to park my car. He nods and pulls on a raincoat as he listens. After letting Cheese out and feeding her, he promises me he’ll be back and that we can have breakfast when he returns.
The door shuts behind him, and I sit in the quiet for a long moment, nothing but the crackle of the fire and the sound of my breathing around me. Cheese chomps noisily on her food in the other room.
Last night was surreal and full of connection, and now I’m uncomfortable in my skin, feeling wholly out of place. An intrusion on his life.
Standing, I try to remember if it’s a good idea to put weight on a sprain or not. Wanting to move, to shake off some of the feeling hanging on me like a shroud, I limp around his cabin, poking in the corners I couldn’t before when he was here.
On the far wall is a tall bookshelf, filled with a wild collection of books — thrillers, historical-fiction, and shelf after shelf of non-fiction on a variety of topics, ranging from technology and medicine to sociology and nature. I run my finger along thespines, intrigued by his reading, picturing him sitting here in his chair, turning the pages.
It seems peaceful. Cozy.
