“How do you know whatscrollingis? I thought you were a caveman.”
“…Lola.”
So, during the day it wasn’t so bad. Even if there were moments in which all I wanted to do was press her body to mine, there was something about the sunshine that made it feel impossible.
But each night, when the sun starts to set, and we have dinner together, let Cheesecake out one last time, it almost feels like we’re dancing a familiar dance toward a certain end. Like how could two people be in a place like this alone, together, with the sparking chemistry between us and not end up touching?
And yet, every night I force myself into my bedroom. I imagine a lock on the outside of the door that’s been turned, keeping me from venturing out. I don’t even let myself get up in the night to go to the bathroom, out of the fear that I might find her already awake, or bump into her, or even, maybe, standing right outside my door.
Besides, she’s a woman alone with a strange man in the middle of the woods. It only makes sense that if she wanted something to happen, she would come to me. To make sure I wasn’t pressing her farther than she wanted to go.
“Rowan!”
This time, when Lola grabs my arm, it’s not for balance. It’s to show me something, which draws me out of my thoughts and brings me back to the present. In the Cascade mountain range.
Where, less than fifteen feet from us, a bear cub is scrounging through the brush, its nose buried in the plants. My blood runs cold, and my first instinct is to take a careful, slow step back.
But that isnotLola’s first instinct. No, she — apparently having no survival instincts at all — releases her hold on my arm, points toward the cub, and starts toward it.
“It’s so cute!” she says.
“Lola,” I hiss, trying to reach for her, but it’s too late. She’s already headed in the cub’s direction. The little bear freezes, lifts his head and looks at her.
“What?” she asks me, turning back for a moment. I scan wildly in the woods behind her, knowing the mama bear can’t be too far away from her cub.
“Walk toward me,” I say, keeping my voice low. She seems to finally register the trepidation on my face, and the smile falls away from hers.
“Oh, shit,” she whispers, her face falling. “That’s a baby.”
“Right.” I nod, watching her remember, surely, what she must have learned as a kid in Colorado, hiking with her dad. We’re lucky that it’s a black bear, and not a grizzly, but unlucky that it’s a cub.
Because any time there’s a cub, there’s a mother nearby. And they’re far more likely to be aggressive when they think you might be a danger to their offspring.
“Just— walk toward me,” I say, keeping my voice low. I still don’t see the mother anywhere behind Lola, which is making me think it might be somewhere behindmeinstead. “Move slow. Away from the cub.”
Lola does as I say, holding her breath and walking toward me, wincing when a twig cracks under her heel.
Five minutes later, we’re far enough away from the cub that Lola lets out a long breath, bringing her hand to her heart. “I have no idea why I did that! It was so stupid!”
“Yes,” I grind out, still thinking about how close that cub was to her. How I never actually saw the mother, just prayed that she wouldn’t charge on us. “It was.”
“Whoa,” Lola says as we near the front door of my cabin, her eyes cutting to me and the smile falling from her face. “Relax. Nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened?” I can’t stop myself from glowering at her as I close the door, ignoring Cheese dancing around my ankles,begging for a pet that I’m not going to give her. “You basically gave the mother bear an invitation to attack you.”
Her eyes go wide. “Iforgot! And it was cute! That’s not a crime, Rowan. Even if you think you need to live in this grouchy, stick-up-your-ass—” She waves her hands around her head, as though searching for the word. “—head spaceall the time! You don’t!”
I’ve taken several steps into the living room now, and I whirl around, advancing back toward her. All this time — since the first night she came to my cabin — I’ve been careful about not spooking her, not startling her. Not making her think her allegations of me being a murderer might be true.
“You could have beenmauled, Lola!” My voice is raised, but I’m not quite shouting. We’re close enough now that each time her chest — which is rising and falling rapidly — brushes mine, it sends a jolt through me, my hands twitching to reach out and grab her, pull her to me, make sure she’s really, really okay.
“Why doyoucare? You can’twaitfor me to leave, right? Or is it that it would have been a big mess for you? You would have had to call someone, and then the mafia or whatever the fuck you’re hiding from?—”
I really, really shouldn’t, but I kiss her.
Or actually, I don’t. I wrap my hands around her waist, pull her in close to me, intending for the entire two seconds that the movement lasts to plant my mouth over hers and swallow those words, because they’re all wrong.
I’m not waiting for her to leave.
