Page 31 of Loud Unspoken Memories

I’ve hiked at a breakneck pace for miles, yet my pants are tightening with a hard-on.

I sit on a tree stump, getting one of the protein bars left in my jacket. I eat it and think about how horribly things could have turned out today. Nobody was coming to help. What if she had died under that ice? Abe dying was bad enough, but Marti? The woman staying in my house? The single mom whose son just lost his father. I’m not sure how I’d have dealt with that big a blow.

Marti and I are too similar. We’re both surrounded by death. I muse that Bex has now joined the club, the three of us making one unlikely trio.

I glance up at the sky, wondering if today is the day it will clear up. Trying to decide if I want it to.

Of course I do. Things need to get back to normal so I can get on with my life.

Normal. It’s a word that hasn’t existed in my vocabulary in well over two years. And getting on with my life—who am I kidding? I don’t lead much of one.

Maybe I’ll keep the dog. He’s obviously a good and loyal companion. It’s kind of been nice having him around.

Just him?

I shove the rest of my snack in my mouth and stand up, ready to add more miles to my hike, wondering just how much distance would make me feel, I don’t know…untethered.

Thunder sounds in the distance. It’s rare, but thunder snow does happen. I take it as a sign that this storm isn’t done with us yet, and I head back, figuring fate has been tempted enough for one day.

It’s well after noon by the time I return. I can gauge the fresh snowfall by looking at my own footprints from hours ago, or lack thereof. The snow today is amazing. Soft and fluffy, not like the wet snow that’s fallen the past two days.

Approaching the cabin, I stop and duck behind a tree. Marti is outside, twirling around like a schoolgirl, looking up at the sky with her mouth open as if she’s trying to catch snowflakes on her tongue. Bex is watching her like a hawk from his perch on the steps. Somehow I get the idea he’ll never again leave her side. A pang of guilt twists my gut. I abandoned her. The goddamn dog is more loyal a creature than I am.

I almost bolt out of the trees when Marti falls back onto the snow. But I don’t. Because she doesn’t appear to be in distress. And what happens next takes my breath away.

She stretches out her arms and legs, moving them up and down, in and out. She’s making a snow angel.

I can see her satisfied smile all the way from here. I stand and watch in fascination, sure I haven’t ever seen sucha beautiful sight. The smile on her face. The joy she’s allowing herself despite everything she’s gone through. Isstillgoing through.

The thought that snow could bring such happiness to her is an unconscionable notion. It surrounds me four months of the year. There’s nothing special about it. In fact, it’s more annoying to me than anything else. For a moment, though, I’m reminded of its beauty. Its innocence. Its imperfect perfection.

I blow out a deep sigh, wondering if the snow is really what I’m thinking of.

Knowing I can’t hide forever, I step out and make my way over. Bex wags his tail and barks once, as if alerting Marti to my arrival.

She turns her head, still lying flat on the ground, and looks up. “You,” she sneers, her entire demeanor changing from giddy schoolgirl to scorned lover.

I walk right past her, up the steps, and into the cabin. If she’s about to chew me out for sleeping with her then bolting, I’m at least going to warm up while she does it.

A second after I’m inside, I hear her stomping up the porch steps. For a small woman, her feet sure can make a ruckus. She rips off her coat and gives me a death stare worthy of Darth Vader. “You,” she says again, wagging her index finger like a pissed off nun at Catholic school.

“You already said that.”

She huffs, the irritated trademark noise of hers coming out even sharper and more forceful than ever. She stomps across the room and gets something off the nightstand. I stiffen like a board when she holds out the last family picture that was ever taken of Phoebe, DJ, and me. “Tell me you did not just make me a dirty mistress.” She tosses the picture frame onto the mattress, which I just now realize is back on the bedframe, fresh sheets and all. Her hands rest on her hips and she booms, “Are you somedouchebag adulterer who keeps this remote cabin as your fuck pad?”

I gawk and try not to laugh. I swear, if I weren’t so physically and emotionally drained, I’d find her spunky attitude a little endearing. But my amusement fades quickly. Because I know in order to answer her question, I have to utter the words I try to avoid at all costs.

“I didn’t make you a dirty mistress.”

She visibly relaxes, her hands falling to her sides. She sits on the bed and picks up the picture. “So she’s your ex?”

A knot of air catches in my chest. “I’m not divorced.”

She looks between me and the picture, confused. “But she has a wedding ring on, and if you didn’t cheat on—” Her words stop immediately and she looks up at me, guilt souring all her features. “Oh, no. Really?”

“Really,” I say flatly.

She stares at the picture. “So, you’re a single dad?”

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