I nod. The chickens have wandered away, no longer finding me interesting, but Cheese comes over and sticks her head under my hand, as though she’s jealous of the petting the chickens have been getting.
“He had a stroke. I… I wasn’t there when it happened.”
I can’t bring myself to look at Rowan, so I just forge ahead, forcing myself to continue talking, to push through the awkward moment. As I get older, it feels less fraught, but it’s still unexpected. And I’m still constantly labeling myself as the girl with a dead dad.
“He wasobsessedwith hiking. Said that walking in nature was the best way to heal your soul. He was never mad at me, but I swear steam would come out of his ears when I tried to bring headphones on the hikes. Sometimes, I wanted to listen to podcasts or music. But he thought that was ridiculous, that I should listen to the sounds of nature.”
“Sounds like a smart guy,” Rowan says, and I nod. It’s not often I’m at a loss for words, and I think I might sit here in the chicken yard until Rowan wanders away. Maybe I can become a wild forest woman, eat tree bark and domesticate the birds, rather than continue on this conversation about my dad.
And then, to my surprise, Rowan picks up the conversation, not letting it peter out like he has so many times before.
“You’d go hiking all the time with your dad,” he says slowly, “which is why you’re not really outdoorsy now?”
When I meet Rowan’s eyes again, I try to communicate through my gaze my gratitude for the question, while at the same time brushing the whole thing off, like it’s not a big deal that I’ve shared this.
“I don’t know,” I say as I pet Cheese, thankful for something to do, something to focus on. “My dad was never like that before. We all lived in Manhattan. He was some big business guy.”
Something dark passes over Rowan’s face, and I file it away for later.
“… but after the divorce, it was almost like he was trying to drown himself in nature. Like he had to find a life that was completely different from the one we had together. It kind of scared me. I mean, the thing is that my dadgrew upin Manhattan. And he always used to tell me that the only good thing about that city was my mom. So, when stuff fell apart, it made sense that he left, but it also felt like I couldn’t see myself in him anymore.”
“Lola,” Rowan says softly, crouching down in front of me, the chickens wandering around us aimlessly, and I realize I’m crying.
“Shit, sorry,” I say, wiping at my face with the stinky leather glove. All it does is smear the tears around on my face, and I laugh at how stupid I’m being. “Youclearlydon’t want to hear any of this?—”
“You have noideawhat I want, Lola.”
Rowan reaches out and takes one of my hands, and the breath catches in my lungs at the gesture. At the words. The truth there — I don’t know what he wants.
I know that he doesn’t want me. At least, not enough to come to me, when I’m practically willing him to in my mind before I fall asleep.
“That sounds hard,” he says, and then, quietly, as though he wasn’t quite expecting himself to really say it, “And I get it. I mean, my parents are gone, too.”
It’s the first time he’s ever willingly shared something like this with me. A little clue about who he is, his past.
“Well, shit.” I laugh after a second, raising my eyes to his. His expression morphs from sad to confused to amused in the matter of a single second. “You didn’t have to one-up me like that.”
CHAPTER 12
ROWAN
Lola Kennedy is going to be the death of me.
Maybe not the death, but definitelyanotherdownfall. I’ve already had so many, and this time, I thought that I had fool-proofed myself. Moved far enough out into the wilderness, set up enough barriers around myself and the outside world that nothing would get in.
And yet, here I am, walking alongside her on one of the trails, savoring each time she reaches out and uses my arm for support, for balance.
The trail is almost completely dry now; we have the high winds up here to thank for that. I need to reposition one of my trail cameras, and Lola offered to accompany me.
I don’t know if she’s just nosy, doesn’t want to stay at the cabin on her own, or likes spending time with me.
Having her here over the past few days, bedtime has been an effort in restraint. During the day, at least there’s something to do with my hands, like making more bread — more bread thanI’d ever eat, for the simple sake of showing her how to do it, from beginning to end — or fixing the wobble to the table.
All the time, we chat. About our lives, mostly, and occasionally about our parents. She tells me about her awkward relationship with her mother, and her non-existent relationships with her half-sisters, who are much cooler than her.
I tell her what I can, in a roundabout way, about my exodus from the city. The peace I found up here, instead. And I spend some time convincing Lola that,yes, I have read every one of the books on the shelf. And that,no, I am not one of those freaky fast readers.
“People think reading a lot means you read fast,” I countered, plucking one of the books from her hand before she could put it in the wrong place on the bookshelf. “But it’s about spendingmoretime reading. If you spend half your free time scrolling on your phone, and the other half in front of a TV, of course you’re not going to get a lot of reading done.”
