Page 75 of The Cabin
I don’t know what possesses me to do so, but I dig into my purse and pull out the letter from Adrian.
Read it, more than once.
I pause and reread a specific section several times:There will be more for you to do, in learning to live again, but the important thing for you to hold foremost in your mind, my love, is this: I WANT you to move on. In every way. Please. When I made you promise to live, this is what I meant. Move on.
Love again, Nadia.
Yes, even that.
It hurts, I admit. You’re mine.
But I’m gone, now. And it’s time for you to live again. You have too much love to keep hidden inside. To keep buried under my skeleton.
Dig that up, my love. Dust it off. Try it on, and then, before you feel ready, use it again.
I want you to. I expect you to.
If we meet in heaven and you have spent the rest of your life alone, I shall be angry with you, my love.
Life is for the living. So live.Easy for you to say, Adrian, you’re not the one here left trying to do it.
How do I do that?
I’m not ready.
I’ll never be ready.
But I guess that was his point, huh?
I put the letter away, back in the envelope, back into my purse.
It’s late. Past dark, into the cricket-song night. His porch light is on. I’m not thinking. Not planning. I just let my feet carry me to his porch. Let my fist knock on his door.
I forget how I’m dressed until he answers. My comfiest, tightest, shortest booty shorts, which until recently hadn’t fit; a sports bra, and my T-shirt fabric hoodie, only half zipped. No more protruding ribs, and I’ve even got something to put into a bra, finally. I’d almost forgotten how that feels.
His eyes slide down, back up, and fix on my eyes. “Hi.”
I have no clue what I want to say. “Um, hi.”
Not stellar as far as opening gambits go.
“You think about what you need to think about?” he asks.
I laugh. “No. I just realized I wasn’t getting anywhere, so I gave up.”
He lets his door swing open, revealing his table, where a bottle of whiskey sits half-empty beside a glass, along with his carving materials. “You want to come in?”
It’s the first time he’s asked.
“Uh, we can sit out here.”
“All right.” He glances at his kitchen counter, where a small wrought iron wine racks sits empty. “I don’t have any wine or champagne. Just whiskey or beer.”
“Would you be mad if I asked for lots of ice in the whiskey?”
“No,” he laughs. “I’m not that kind of whiskey snob. I like specific stuff, and I guess it’s true enough I don’t drink cheap shit, but if you like it with ice, you like it with ice. No harm in that.”
He removes a tumbler from a cabinet, reaches into his freezer—it’s an antique, that fridge, avocado colored and half his height—for a white tray of ice. Twists, cracking ice out. Scoops four big cubes into the glass, then a fifth for good measure, and fills the glass with amber whiskey.
We sit on his porch, in the rocking chairs—it must have been a set of four, his two and my two, because they’re nearly identical, but for little differences which only highlight the individual craftsmanship that went into them. The whiskey is smoky and tastes like fire and honey. It’s almost viscous on my tongue, and the ice is cold on my lips as I sip.
“What did you mean by that?” he asks.
I don’t have to clarify what he’s asking about.
“I think it was more just to see how I’d feel not seeing you every day.” I swallow hard— the truth is thick and hard to get past my teeth. “It was getting too familiar, seeing you every day. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a widow and a widower gettin’ to know each other, Nadia,” he says, his voice low and rough. “Not sure a body could take things much slower than we’ve been.”
“I know.” I shake the tumbler lightly, and ice clinks. “I guess it’s that I’m not sure I’m ready for there to be anything to take slowly.”
“Doesn’t have to be that,” he says.
“But it is.” I look at him. “We both know it.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Do you want it to be that?” I ask, watching his reaction closely. “For there to be something to take slowly?”
He nods, and it’s as if his head is heavy, too heavy for his neck. “Yeah, I guess I do.” He sips. Stares out at the lake, which is lit only with slivers of moon behind a ripped blanket of gray fleece. “I said I like you. I meant it. Doesn’t mean it’s not weird, and scary. And hard. Doesn’t mean I know what the hell I’m doing. But I’m not going to pretend I don’t…feel what I feel. If you’re not ready, I get it. I can be friends. It’s all it is right now anyway, right? Coffee on the porch. A meal here and there. A walk around the lake. A drink of an evenin’.” Sometimes he sounds like he’s from a different millennium, an older time.
