Page 84 of The Cabin
I never turned on a light, and I realize I’m sitting alone in the darkness, lost in my thoughts.
Wondering what would have happened if I’d stayed at the restaurant. If I’d opened the door for him.
Everything; nothing. The impossible—the inevitable?
I am drowning again. I was doing better, but one date, and I’m lost again. Did I really think by simply driving separately and paying for my own part of the meal that it would be less of a date? Less romantic, less intimate. Less meaningful.
I enjoyed it. It was beyond mere companionship, when I’ve been so lonely. Even with Nathan to talk to and hang out with, there’s a loneliness in holding your heart aloof. In keeping people out. I’ve kept even Tess out, to a degree. Kept her from seeing how destroyed I am. She knew, but I wasn’t showing her. With Nathan, I’ve kept the shell of ice around my secret heart, and that date melted it. That armor of uncaring cold melted in the candlelight and sunset warmth, in the glow of his smile and easy conversation, in the delicate complexity of good wine and the savory satisfaction of good food.
Now that secret, broken heart of mine is bare, unarmored, exposed. And I am absolutely terrified.
I make it to my bed, fall in fully clothed and lie there, unsleeping, staring at the ceiling for hours. Maybe I should just leave. Go home. But something in me shies away from that. I went a week not seeing Nathan and I honestly hated it. I kept the depth of feelings buried under the ice, but it was lonely and not as fun and I missed him.
Now that I’ve had that date with him, it’d be even worse. I miss him right now, I hate that I’ve hurt him, made him sad, made him feel rejected.
I could feel it on the other side of the door.
I feel it from here.
I have to talk to him.
I don’t know what I’ll say, but…I have to see him.
I’m out the door before I realize I’m even on my feet. The weather has turned—a strong wind blows, whipping my hair and bending the trees, stirring the lake into frothing waves. There’s rain on the wind, drops here and there portending a downpour.
His lights are off, but I see a flicker of orange, smell smoke on the air; he’s lit a fire in the fireplace.
I don’t knock. I just open the door and walk in, like I have every right to, like he’s expecting me. He’s sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, bare feet presented to the flames, wearing only his jeans. Bare chest, spackled with dark curly hairs, some silver here and there. Heavy chest muscles, heavy shoulders. Broad arms. Huge, leathery hands.
He has a book in his hands.
“Nadia,” he murmurs. Stands up. “Hi.”
I swallow. Not sure what I’m doing here. “Nathan, I…”
My eyes go to his hands. To the book held open by a big thumb. I can read the spine.
Redemption’s Song.
By Adrian Bell.
I know every book he ever wrote, including the half-begun, abandoned projects, the deleted chapters, the partly finished short stories and unpublished novellas and experimental sci-fi outline. That is not one of his books.
Yet there it is.
In Nathan’s hand.
“What is that?” I ask, my voice a hoarse whisper.
“Um…” He’s flummoxed. “I, it’s—” A sigh. “His last book.”
“Why do you have it?”
“That’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Try.”
“He…” Nathan trails off, licks his lips. “Shit.”
“Nathan, why do you have a book written by my dead husband that I’ve never heard of?”
“This is the only copy.” He slips a receipt out from between the last two pages, sticks it in his place and closes the book. Crosses the floor between us in a few long strides. “Here.”
He hands it to me. Turns away, goes back to the fireplace and grips the mantle as if it’s all that’s holding him upright. The fire plays on his bare chest. I never really realized exactly how big Nathan is until now. Easily twice my size, and then some. So much power in him, but he’s so gentle.
Right now, all that power seems taut, the wires pulled tight. As if he’s barely containing everything boiling inside.
I hold the book in my hands. The cover is something I can tell he did himself, with public domain images and some design software. It’s matte, and the colors are all pastels, an out-of-focus flower made into abstract art. Just something to use on the cover, since no one but Nathan, apparently, would ever see it. The title on top in an all-caps script, his name on the bottom in a sans serif font. I open the cover, and there are two individually folded packets of paper, letters, from a very familiar yellow legal pad.
“Might as well read those too,” he mutters. “Get it all out there.” A sigh. “Read the longer one first.”
