Page 49 of Loud Unspoken Memories

I wake before he does. Which is strange on so many levels. It’s early, because we fell asleep before dark, and it’s cold. Bone-chilling cold. I wrap a blanket around myself and stoke the fire that has burned down to embers. Then I let Bex out, opening the front door just enough for him to squeeze through. I shiver at the gush of frigid air that slaps me in the face.

Standing at the window, shifting my weight from one cold foot to the other, I wait for Bex to do his thing and come back. When he comes through the door, he looks at me expectantly.

I lower down, pat him on the head, and whisper, “Don’t worry, buddy. We’ll play later.”

After pulling on sweatpants, a hoodie, and three pairs of socks, I sift through the coolers. The snow in them has melted, but the water is still very cold. Refilling them with fresh snow can wait until later.

I decide on eggs and pancakes—both of which I should easily be able to cook in the cast iron skillets that fit perfectly on top of his fireplace stove.

It’s nearly impossible not to make noise. And when I glance over at the bed, I see Dallas sitting up, staring at me, looking way out of sorts.

“What is it?” I nod to the pans on the stove. “You don’t mind if I cook breakfast, do you?”

“It’s not that. I slept like the fucking dead.” He runs his fingers through his long hair. “Strange.”

I smile, because I’m pretty sure I know why. I read for hours and hours. I must have gotten halfway through the book. My throat feels raw today because of it. “Yeah.” I nod. “Strange.”

He disappears into the bathroom for a bit, returning just as I put breakfast on the table.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says sharply. “I’m perfectly capable of cooking.”

“Wow,” I say dramatically. “Despite all that sleep, you’re extra grumpy today.”

He doesn’t say anything. He just picks up his fork and shovels food into his mouth.

“You can stop beating yourself up,” I say. “You told me how things were, and I still let it happen. That’s on me, not you.”

His head shakes and he looks all kinds of guilty. “That’s not it.”

That’s not it? So he’s not being a grouch because he regrets last night?I finish my breakfast without another word, wait for him to clean his plate, then I get up to do the dishes. Dallas takes them from me. “I’ve got it.”

This man. He doesn’t talk much, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t speaking volumes. His eyes, the way he moves, even the way he breathes reveals he wants nothing to do with me. It’s the polar opposite of how he looked at me yesterday.

He wipes his hands on a dishrag and turns, catching me watching him. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking at the floor. “I’m not going to be very good company today.”

I grab the throw blanket off the back of the couch and pull it around my shoulders, almost as if it can offer me protection from more than just the cold. “Today?” I raise a brow. “Oralldays?”

I’m not sure why I ask the question. Because in all honesty, I’m afraid of the answer. But I’m a silly, silly girl searching for validation. I’m foolish to think I can find it in this cabin, with him. But over the past few days, no matter how much I’ve tried to deny it, I’ve fallen for him. Fallen for a man who is unattainable. Unreachable. And for all I know, unlovable.

“Forget I asked,” I say after a very pregnant pause tells me everything I need to know.

“Today is…” He scrubs a hand across his jaw and closes his eyes. “I mean, todaywould have beenDJ’s birthday.”

My heart tumbles into my stomach. “DJ is your son.”

He nods, heartbreak weighing down his features.

DJ. Dallas Junior.His son was named after him just like we named Charlie after his father.

“I’m so sorry.” Tears clog my throat. I know how hard these occasions can be. “Can I… can I ask how long ago it happened?”

“Two years. Six months. Three days.”

Wow. That’s… specific. And when I do the math, it seems we both suffered unimaginable tragedies within months of each other.

He puts on his boots. His coat. His hat and gloves. “Thanks for breakfast.” He goes to the door. “Come on boy,” he calls to Bex. “Let’s go chop some wood.” Then, after a moment of hesitation, he looks back at me, his eyes hollow. “He would have been three.”

He walks through the door and closes it.

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