Page 33 of Gravity
There's an iron wood-burning stove on the left, something you might see in turn-of-the-last-century homesteads. This little log building might have been a settler’s lodge way back when, then converted to a gas station anddépanneurwhen the road was built. The roof is low to trap the heat, and on the walls, moose and deer mounts watch over everything, mingling with decorative snow shoes, old skies, lanterns, and other eclectic country furnishings.
An older man in a button-down flannel shirt and overalls leans on the counter next to an antique cash register. “Bonjour,” he says. His voice is rounded and loose with a deep Quebecois accent that swallows the ends of his words. “Quelle tempête, eh?”
Bryce agrees, and they converse in French for a minute before Bryce switches to English and gestures to me. “Monsieur, is there anywhere to stay nearby? We were caught on the highway and we’re stranded.”
“Everyone has been off the road for a long time. They’ve been warning of this storm for days. You are lucky you caught me while I’m still here. I filled Lemaire's generator a half an hour ago, but got lost in the game.” He points to an old boxy television at the end of the counter. A static-choked hockey game—Boston versus Winnipeg—is tied in the third period.
“We were on the river,” Bryce says. “We lost track of time. I didn’t realize a storm was coming. We've been… away.”
The old man purses his lips. He looks from Bryce to me and then back to Bryce. “My trailer is too cramped for three. It's a drafty piece of shit, too, but it's home. But, you both are welcome to stay here tonight. I have food, beer, a fire. There are some sleeping bags and blankets in the corner—” he points to the modest selection of camping gear stacked on a shelf “—and you are welcome to use them.Désolé, I cannot offer you more. But this is a good place, and you will be warm and safe.”
“Merci beaucoup.” Bryce smiles. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
* * *
The old man,Guy, helps us pull down the sleeping bags and blankets and even digs out a dusty air mattress someone bought and returned a decade ago, claiming not to have used it. The giant duct tape patch he found on the inside fold said otherwise, but the customer—“American,” he grumbles—was long gone. It’s a double mattress, so either Bryce and I are going to arm wrestle for it, or we’re going to be cuddling.
The third period of the Boston-Winnipeg game ends, and Guy flips theOpensign toClosedand turns out the neon beer signs. It’s full dark outside, pitch black save for the swirling snow. Guy’s trailer is twenty feet away, and the back door of thedépanneuropens to a straight shot walkway to his trailer door. Still, he dresses like he’s on an excursion to the North Pole.
“Hopefully you do not find me dead in the morning,” Guy says with a grimace. “Frozen in place on this walkway.”
Then he takes both of Bryce's hands in his. Guy's knuckles are bony and gnarled, swollen and arthritic. “Allez Montréal,” he says softly, looking Bryce in his eyes. “Vive les Étoiles, mon fils Québécois.”
Bryce bows and touches his forehead to the back of Guy’s hands. His shoulders are trembling as he kisses Guy’s fingers, whispering, “Merci, merci.”
Guy nods, gives me a gruff smile, and heads out into the storm.
ChapterThirteen
Bryce
Snow and wind batter the walls and windows, but Guy is right. This little store is sturdy and solid, and Hunter and I are both safe and warm.
We sit together on the edge of the air mattress and share cans of Vienna sausage, crackers, and bars of chocolate washed down with beer.
“This isn't how I imagined having dinner with you again,” Hunter says. His voice is soft, like he's sharing a secret.
“You wanted to have dinner again?”
“Yeah.” He stares into the fire and rolls his beer bottle between his palms. “I've wanted to for a while.”
Dangerous territory. I’m supposed to be putting this away, not feeding my hopes. After today, I can breathe around Hunter, but if he says things like that, the little pieces of my heart I still have will crumble, and I will have nothing left to rebuild from.
I rise and search the walls. I swore I saw something earlier, when we first walked in—
Yes, there it is. Between the stuffed beaver and the crossed snowshoes.
The guitar is hopelessly out of tune when I pull it down and take a first, careful strum. I spend twenty minutes tightening and finagling and plucking, and finally, the worn wood and catgut strings hum with a beautiful sound. I strum a chord, and then another, and close my eyes as the notes fill the little log room.
“You play the guitar?” Hunter sounds shocked, like he’s just learned I’m not really from Quebec, I’m from Saturn.
“Un peu.” My fingers move automatically, plucking strings like I’m pulling on memories. My father played the guitar, and his father, and he and my grandfather used to make up songs for us boys when we were young and needed to be corralled. If my childhood days are colored by the river and a game, my childhood nights carry the sound of a guitar and my father’s husky, mine-darkened voice. He taught me on his knee, holding his hand over mine, moving my fingers carefully over each fret, singing a song one word at a time. I’ve never had lessons, and I’ve never played for anyone but my father and myself.
Firelight curves around Hunter like a caress. He's heartbreakingly beautiful, and try as I might to push this away, Ican't.
My fingers move, and notes from a song I sing to myself when the nights get too long and gloomy fall between us. I am no songwriter or musician. This is only the sound of my broken heart.
I never knew I was chasing something
