We haven’t been together since before the fire. I’ve been sleeping alone since Kaleb left.
I dry my hands as he takes a sip of coffee.
“Another storm’s coming,” he says.
I nod, staring past the trees. It’s starting to get dark.
“Has he ever been gone this long?”
I hate that I asked, but I’ve wanted to ask every day. It’s been over two months. Has he ever missed Christmas? Does he ever stay in this long?
“No,” Jake finally answers.
“Aren’t you worried?”
He pauses, his voice quiet as he explains. “I’m not taking you that deep into the woods in the winter. And we can’t leave you here alone. If he isn’t back by the time you leave, then I’ll go in.”
By the time I leave…
For the first time, it hits me. I may not see Kaleb again.
“Tiernan, I want you to take Noah with you when you leave here,” Jake says.
I turn. “What about you?”
He’s relenting? Noah’s desperate to leave. When did he finally come to terms with it?
And Kaleb’s gone. If I take Noah, then Jake will be alone.
He simply looks down at me, a resigned half-smile playing on his lips. “I’ll be okay.”
I blink away the burn in my eyes. I don’t want Jake to be alone here. If Kaleb has survived in there this long, he may never return. Picturing Jake alone this time next winter… It aches.
I reach up on my tiptoes and wrap my arms around him, feeling his hands reach around me, too.
Holding his head, I bury my nose in his cheek, a sob lodged in my throat. I open my mouth, nearly going for his. I want to kiss him. I want to take care of him and give him love, because he’s going to die up here, never sharing his life with anyone.
I can make him feel good.
His mouth hovers over mine, and I know he wants it. His fingers dig into my waist.
But the hair at the back of his scalp is too short. It scratches my hand, not like Kaleb’s soft black hair.
Slowly, I drop my arms, and he pulls me in, hugging me instead.
I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes. I can’t leave him alone. Either, Noah stays, or Jake comes, too, or…
I don’t know.
I wander back upstairs alone. What’s going to happen when the roads open in eight or so weeks? It’s not much time. Is this how it ends?
Standing at the bottom of Kaleb’s stairs, I look up at his door. I haven’t opened it since December. No one has, but nothing has changed, I’m sure. Still cold, but probably a little dustier.
I climb the stairs.
The faint light out of the window casts the room in twilight, and I close the door behind me, rubbing my arms against the chill. I walk over to the fireplace and take a couple logs, laying them inside with some kindling. Swiping a match on the mantel, I light the fire and watch as the flames grow, warmth and light immediately drifting toward me.
The soft glow flickers across the floor, and I take the match, lighting a few candles he has set on the mantel and one by his bed.
Kaleb has candles. Heh.
I flip on his old iPod dock, an Amber Runsong starting to play as I walk over to the bed and fan out the blanket and sheet, freshening them up. I fall on top, lying down and staring up at the ceiling as I reach around and caress my cheek.
Like he did when he carried me to his bed.
My heart aches.
I close my eyes, tears hanging at the corners. Mine. He’s mine. He should’ve stayed and fought with me.
I lie for a while, staring off and letting my mind wander. The room darkens as the sun sets, but it warms with the fire, and I don’t know where the time goes, but finally, I hear a knock on the door.
“Tiernan?”
I blink, wanting to be left alone. But I sit up. “Yes?”
“Dinnertime,” Noah says.
He must’ve searched everywhere before finally realizing where I was.
“I’ll be down later,” I tell him. “I’m tired.”
I don’t even look at the clock, but it has to be around six. I don’t feel like a movie tonight.
There’s silence on the other side of the door, but after a few moments, the stairs creak with Noah’s footsteps.
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow.
But I feel something hard and move my hand, gripping the object inside the case. What is that? I lift my head up and reach inside, pulling it out.
I hold a worn, brown hardback book and peer at it in the dim candlelight, flipping it over to read the spine.
Don Quixote Vol. II
I smile and sit up, shaking my head. He’s such a surprise. He reads.
Of course, his shelves to my right are filled with books, but I kind of thought they might’ve been stored here, and he was too lazy to move them over the years.
Sitting cross-legged, I pull the book into my lap and fan through it, the smell of the old paper, tinged yellow, wafting over me.
I open it to the middle, hearing the spine crack.
I almost laugh. I thought so.
Although aged, it’s not broken-in. He’s not reading this.
So why is it in his bed?
I let the pages fan closed but spot something right as the book goes to close. I catch it, opening up the cover again and bringing it closer to read the black writing.
It’s funny how women come to me so easily now, it reads. They used to say that I was stupid in school.
Stupid.
Stoooopid.
Stoopid.
I narrow my eyes, making out the scratchy handwriting inside the cover.
I am stoopid.
But they sure like to fuck me.
A lump lodges in my throat, and my breathing turns shallow.
Kaleb?
Hurriedly, I flip through the pages again, checking inside the back cover, but I don’t see any more writing, and I sit there, excited and shocked. Are these Kaleb’s words?
I jerk my head to the bookshelf, the mountain of texts strewn about, stacked in the shelves, and overflowing. Jumping out of bed, I rush over, picking up a book. Any book.
Drawings of a cabin line the flyleaf at the beginning of the book, and I flip to the back, my heart about stopping when I see more handwriting.
Deep. I always want to be there. I hate it here. I want to be there. In the valley, where the river creeps and the wind rushes me. Surrounded by the creaks. It smells like deep. Tastes like deep. I want the world to be smaller.
I hate it here.
I barely notice the tears spilling as I pull books from the shelves, frantically searching for more.
He doesn’t read the books. He’s writing in them.
After sifting through a few empty ones, I find another with scribbles and markings carved into the paper so deep, it’s like he sliced the page with his pen.
Fuck, he writes.
FUCK.
And more scribbles, violent and dark as if the page is hemorrhaging ink. When did he write this? What had happened?
I open another text.
Saw her smile today. I like having a girl around.
I read it five more times, searching for more on the pages, but there’s nothing else. No dates. Is he talking about me or…?
You only yell at me now, he writes in another. I know it’s my fault. I know I can’t speak. I can. I just can’t. I… I’m not here. This is all I have and all I am. I can’t. I’m not here.
I notice the bookmark he’d placed there. I flip it over and see a picture of Jake with the boys. Noah can’t be more than five as he sits on a dirt bike, his dad behind him.
Kaleb is around six, his hair much longer as he stands off to the side, staring off. He’s always somewhere else.
I dig more books from the shelf, finding one with scratched-out marks over most of the writing, but I can still read it.
Mr. Robson asked us what we wanted to be today. I had so many answers.
Was Robson a teacher?
I want to be outside, he goes on. I want to be in a tree. I want to be wet. I want to be on the forest floor as the rain hits the leaves above. I like that sound.
I want to be warm. I want to hold something. I want to talk to my dad. I want to be tired, so I can sleep more, and I want to walk.
I want to be in love. I want to be safe.
I want to be over.
I want things in my head to be gone.
But then all of that is scribbled over, leaving one simple line.
I want to be everything she sees.