Page 9 of The Space Between
She lifts the old Stanley thermos. “It is now. It was my grandmother’s. She kept it in her classroom for years. Said every bad day could be fixed with strong coffee, a locked door, and a good ear.”
Her grandmother sounds like a good woman.
“Sounds like a woman who knew things.” I grunt.
“She did.” The silence stretches again, and something shifts in her eyes. Not playful this time. Just honest. “She died last fall,” she says. “Right before everything went to hell.”
I wait, but she doesn’t explain further. Just lets that truth hang between us like laundry on the line—soft and worn and still heavy.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
She nods, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Thanks.”
I should stand. I should end this. I should tell her to go home. This is the part where I should remind her I’m not anyone’s fixer or friend. Tell her I’m not someone you lean on, but my lips don’t move.
Neither do hers. She just stays. And I let her.
When she finally gets up to leave, she murmurs, “I’m going to call it a night. Goodnight, Gruene. Thanks for letting me sit.” I don’t respond. I just nod.
Sighing, she leaves the shed. I catch myself watching her walk the gravel path back to her cabin until her silhouette disappears behind the trees.
I don’t realize I’m still holding the damn thermos,herdamn thermos, until she disappears.
Well, shit.
I’m halfwaydown the dock, adjusting the anchor line on the last boat when I hear the shout.
“Hey, Gruene! Do you see the new girl?” Reece calls out, as he adjusts raft straps at the end of the dock, helping people into the river.
“What?” I growl.
“Your neighbor… pretty lady in cabin 2.” He nods back toward our cabins. “She just waded into the river with nothing but her suit on.”
She what? She’s in the river with nothing?
My blood goes cold, and I snap, “When?”
Reece shrugs. “Like sixty seconds ago. I just saw her. No float. No tube. No paddle. She’s just… drifting. You didn’t warn her about the river?”
Dropping the rope, I bolt.
The river’s not angry today. It’s low. Calm. But that’s not the point. People don’t just walk in. Not without a plan. Not without a life vest or a fucking tube. You have no idea what’s under the water. And the flow, the current, shifts. No one goes into the river without someone knowing. That’s just stupid.
Is she fucking trying to get herself killed?
I race down the path toward the cabins. They’re right before the bend in the river where the water curves near the bluff. That’s where currents shift. Where debris gathers. Where youdon’tgo alone. And then, I see her.
Blakelyn.
She’s waist-deep, stepping farther in like the water’s calling her. Like she’s trying to feel something. She’s teetering as the water rushes past her. I can see on her face that she didn’t expect it.
Something dangerous twists in my gut.
“Blakelyn!” I roar.
She freezes and almost falls over. Somehow, she manages to catch herself, but she’s fighting the river to stay upright.
I stalk toward the shore, fists clenched. “What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out of the water!”
