She opened her car door. Rain on her face. Fogged glasses. Auburn hair plastered to her neck. Her shape was still too much. I had to look away before I could get a sentence out.
I dug my nails into my palm.
Don’t.
But I did.
I drove her to the cabin. Didn’t speak. Showed her the guest room. Closed my door. When was the last time a woman had been in this house?
Not since before my accident.
My grandfather built the cabin. My father lived here after I finished school. I’ve lived here since the accident.
No woman has ever stood in that hallway with a wet cardigan clinging to her body and Spool pressed against her leg as if she had arrived just for him.
Mydog.
One sniff and he was gone. Two years of loyalty disappeared in thirty seconds.
I don’t blame him.
I start the saw again. Drop another section. Stack the rounds. The physical work helps. Swing the axe, haul the timber, and load the truck. My body knows what to do.
She’s a guest. The road is out. She’ll be gone when they clear the pass.
I say it to myself three times between trees. It doesn’t help.
My mother left on a Tuesday morning in November when I was nine.
I came home from school, and the house was the same, except for one fewer person in it. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table holding a cup of coffee that had gone cold. He saidYour mother isn’t coming back,and then he got up and put another log in the stove.
Dad never said her name again. He fed me, kept the roof patched, and taught me to swing an axe. It wasn’t until after he was dead that I understood the lesson he lived: Need no one and their leaving can’t leave a mark. I’d built my life on it.
After my accident, the woman I’d been seeing stopped returning calls. Friends at the tavern looked past my face, then looked past me. The world got smaller, and I let it.
It worked until last night.
The pass opens. She leaves. That’s how it’ll go. How it always goes.
I work until dusk. Drive home with the bed loaded, my shoulders rigid, and my face tight.
That word stops me.Home.I haven’t used that in four years for the place I sleep and keep my books.
The cabin light is on.
I sit in the truck for ten seconds. Remind myself this is only temporary.
I get out.
When I open the door, it’s warm. The stove is lit. She’s been feeding logs. The cabin smells like woodsmoke and dinner: onions, garlic, and basil.
She’s at the stove with her back to me. Auburn hair in a messy knot. Glasses pushed up on her head. A dry cardigan too big for her.
Rosalind hums. It’s a melody I don’t recognize, but I enjoy the sound.
She hasn’t heard me come in.
I should say something. Move. Take off my boots.
