Page 63 of Eco-Activist's Mountain Men
“Yes,” I rasp, heart hammering.
Jesus. I wanted to find her, but did it have to be now? Couldn’t I have five minutes to breathe first?
The door swings wider, and there she is. Luna. Shuffling in oversized slippers, somehow managing to look adorable and fragile in Eric’s Oregon State hoodie that hangs nearly to her knees. Sleeves down over her hands. Hair still damp, smelling faintly of vanilla and apricot.
Weird. Fate, maybe.
“Weird,” she says aloud, easing the door shut and limping to a spare stool. She drops onto it with a sigh.
“What’s weird?” I ask, throat dry. I’d been ready to go looking for her. Now she’s come to me.
“That dog—wolf—you know, the gray rug that follows me around…”
“You mean Southpaw.”
“Yeah, that one.”
“What about him?”
“Well, I asked him to find you. And credit where it’s due—he did. Led me straight here. No messing around. I nearly tripped three times trying to keep up.”
“So… what’s the problem?”
“So he scratches at your door, looks back at me like, ‘Happy now?’—then bolts into the jungle.”
“You mean the forest.”
“Jungle, forest, whatever. Point is, poof, gone. Like a gray streak of smoke.”
I shrug. “He does that. He’s not a pet. Comes and goes as he pleases. Sometimes a day, sometimes a week. In winter, he sticks closer. Likes the stove.”
She smirks. “I bet he comes back when he smells bacon.”
I tilt my head, considering. “You’d think so. But he’s an apex predator. Doesn’t need us for food. Comes for his own reasons.”
“Yeah, I bet he does.”
Silence. We size each other up like two wary animals circling. Then, at the exact same time?—
“I came to?—”
“I’m glad you?—”
We both stop.
“You first,” she says.
“No, ladies first. Go ahead.”
Another pause. She shifts on her stool. I right mine and sit.
She clears her throat. “I came to tell you something.”
“Alright. I’m listening.”
Her eyes flicker, nervous. She swallows.
“Look, I know you’ve hated my guts since the moment I arrived, and?—”
