Page 2 of Jessica and the Jarhead
By the time I got off the plane in Denver, a full-blown migraine had set in from the tense position I had held myself in for the entire flight. I spilled out of my seat and rushed to the door just to get some fresh air. I didn’t care who I pissed off.
My anxiety didn’t ease once I got into the rental car. I didn’t know how to drive in the snow, and I was in a race against nature to make it to the cabin before I had to test my skills.
The first fat, wet flakes fell just as I had rounded the last bend on the road that would take me to the cabin.
I should have stayed home.
I shouldn’t have come.
This was a mistake.
My hands were white on the steering wheel as I took the last dirt road as slowly as I could. The car slid a bit on an icy patch, and I was grateful to be alone. The scream I let out wasn’t pretty. I narrowly avoided hitting a tree as I rounded the last bend, and the cabin where I would stay the weekend, where my grandmother manipulated me into going, came into view. Years of therapy and I still couldn’t ignore the slight guilt that accompanied any thoughts of not going.
The cabin was small and cozy looking, with a pitched roof and smoke winding its way out of the chimney. The light inside was inviting in this storm and I imagined a fire crackling in a small wood stove, the scent of pine and fir filling the place, and the warmth of the fire driving away the biting cold.
It was the perfect setup for a romantic fairytale.
I bet my grandma somehow arranged that, too.
My lips curled in anger and disgust. How dare this place be so inviting?
I sat in my car for a moment. The smoke and light meant only one thing: Charles was already here. I didn’t see his car, but that was likely because I simply stopped in the middle of the road rather than try to drive around to wherever was appropriate to park. I was certain, though, that it would be fine. After all, technically, I owned the place and could therefore park wherever I wanted.
The terror of driving in the snow cleared my head a bit and helped me focus on what was important, finishing this weekend so I can be done with it forever. I could do this. It was only a weekend. It didn’t matter what he thought of me. I wasn’t here for any reason other than to meet the terms of Grandma’s will so I can sell the place. Then we could go our separate ways and never see each other again.
My heart stuttered at that last thought. It was old and soft by now. Something I had experienced frequently enough in the time after our breakup. Dwelling on it had never done any good, but the image of him on his knees begging me to stay ran through my head, anyway. We were so young and so much had happened that I just couldn’t share with him. How could I tell him everything I had gone through? How could he ever understand? His family, his life, everything was so perfect, so easy. He didn’t need the burden of my life. If he found out now how messed up I had been, he’d run screaming. He certainly didn’t need that pressure at eighteen when I broke up with him.
I dragged my suitcase through the snow and ice to the front door of the cabin, eager to get out of the cold, but when I tried the handle, I couldn’t get in. That’s on me for thinking the lights and smoke coming from the chimney meant I would have a warm welcome. I dug around in my purse for the key on the large golden heart key chain the lawyer had given me. Way to be obvious, Grandma. I had to abandon the things in my hand on a nearby log-turned-table to dig through my purse better.
“Stupid bag,” I muttered to myself as I propped my cell phone on my shoulder for light. The keys had probably slipped through the hole in the lining. That’s what I get for buying a used bag just because it was cute. My migraine had worsened on the trip up here and now nausea was rolling through me. The altitude was probably to blame, but all I could think about was getting in the cabin and going to sleep. Hopefully, a night at this height would sort me out.
“Need help?” A deep voice asked from behind me. I startled, sending my bag careening to the ground, spilling the contents of it all over the wet porch.
“Dammit,” I muttered as I clutched my racing heart. I refused to turn around. I couldn’t look at him right now.
“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” Charles said as he jogged up to me and bent down to help me put my bag back together again.
“What the hell?” I probably should have been more polite, but my migraine got worse. My things had scattered across the snow-lined porch when I jumped, and we were in the middle of nowhere with who knew what creeping around in the dark woods. “Why aren’t you inside?”
I couldn’t look directly at Charles when he produced his key right as I found mine. I focused on his hands instead. They were large and calloused, the nails blunt and the fingers wide. I was afraid to look at the rest of him if his hands had changed somuch. In them were his keys. The heart on his was a dark metal with a matte finish. So dramatic.
I gathered all my stuff and straightened myself out, as best I could, while Charles unlocked the door. His broad back was to me and I thought it would be safe enough to look now. He had filled out in the years since I’d seen him last, which made sense. He was a grown man now. His shoulders looked strong and wide and his pants looked too damn tight. He was not dressed for the weather, wearing only jeans and a flannel coat, but he didn’t seem cold.
Meanwhile, my rumpled and damp clothing clung to me and rubbed in all the wrong places. I couldn’t do more than change my shirt since being sandwiched between the Too Much Cologne guy and the Not Enough Showers guy on my connecting flight. I was freezing and couldn’t wait to get inside with the fire.
Of course, he smelled like pine and wood smoke and something that was just his. A smell I remembered from high school when I was free to curl into him and drink my fill. Of course, he showed up looking like a male model and lumberjack all rolled into one, highlighting how insignificant I really was. I just wanted to get out of the cold and go to bed.
He finally unlocked and opened the door while I was still in the middle of trying to straighten out my clothing and smooth back my hair. He turned to look at me. I was not ready for it. The familiar hazel color sent a bolt of longing through me. They were a brown-lined green that I used to think looked like grass after a heavy rain.
“And your eyes are the storm,” he would say. “A perfect match for me.” I loved that thought once upon a time. That we were such a perfect match that even our eyes complimented each other.
I was caught in his gaze, standing there looking like a fool. His hand was outstretched to mine, and I had the urge to twine my fingers with his. I clutched my phone tighter instead.
“Here,” he said as he leaned towards me. “Let me help. It’s cold. We shouldn’t be out here long.” It took another minute for my brain to catch up before I could look away from him.
Refusing to let him play the chivalrous hero to my damp damsel, I dragged my suitcase, large purse, phone, drink, key, and a bottle of migraine medicine I had picked up on the way into the small entryway of the cabin.
It didn’t occur to me at that moment that I could have easily stashed most of that away in my purse. He’d always done that to me, rattled my brain enough that I could barely think straight. In the years since our breakup, I waffled between blaming that stupidity for my actions and knowing that it was because I was a coward.
