Dad kept Mom alive in his head after she left. I called it weakness. But he chose to keep her memory. And like him, I’ll choose to keep this.
Her.
The wind’s been building all evening, coming off the peaks in gusts that rattle the windows and tear through the pines.
The cabin shakes. The whole mountain groans, coming apart. Something will break tonight.
Probably me.
nine
. . .
Rosalind
Spool abandonsme when a big gust hits the window, leaving me alone as the cabin groans. I press my face into the pillow as the storm batters the memory of men before.
Not many. The boyfriend in college who touched me with a hesitant, almost apologetic hand and spent two years making my body feel like a problem he was generously helping me work around. An ache settles in my chest.
Twenty-eight years old, a virgin. What do I do with the wanting?
He’s real and scarred. Closed off, yes, but he stares at me like he’s holding his breath and sees straight through me. And the way he looks at me... I feel myself come undone, and he with me. Enough. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, the mattress protesting, and get up in my tank top and the borrowed boxers. As I reach for the doorknob, my hand trembles.
In the living room, the ember glow from the fire casts the room in dim orange light. Jace sits in the armchair with McCarthy open on his knee. Spool lies on the floor.
I sit on the couch, pull my knees up, and open the Mary Oliver where I left it. “Can’t sleep.”
We read. As the wind presses into the walls, pages turn. The stove ticks. Every sound he makes cuts through the weather outside. The shift of his weight. His breath.
I finish the book and place it on the cushion beside me. “I’m going to bed.”
He stands, a quick, almost automatic movement. The distance between the couch and the chair is narrow. He’s two feet away. Maybe less.
The heat from his body reaches mine. He smells like woodsmoke and pine. His flannel shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. The scar catches the light, a raised line of shadow down the left side of his face.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Fast. Then back up.
My pulse surges in my throat, vibrates in my wrists, and pounds behind my knees.
Say goodnight. Walk down the hallway. Close my door.
But I’m done waiting.
I rise on my toes, grab a fistful of his flannel, and press my mouth to his.
He freezes, his body rigid. His mouth doesn’t move. His hands remain at his sides.
My stomach drops.
Then his hand cups the back of my neck, his fingers in my hair. His other finds my waist. His mouth opens, and a rough sound tears from him.
His kiss devours me. I grab his shoulders. His body is solid, dense with muscle, warm through the flannel. He backs me up two steps. As my shoulders hit the doorframe, wood presses into my spine. His body pins me, and this is it.
His mouth moves to my jaw. My neck. The spot below my ear. He inhales on my skin, and his whole body shudders. I moan.
“Rosalind…”
“Yes.”
