Page 91 of Snowbound
So I head back up the hill, through the half-melted snow, trudging through the muddy path between the small cabin and mine.
But when I get there, the house feels empty. It’s too quiet without her.
My neighbor Patrick’s been keeping an eye on the dogs. He meets me outside.
“You got snowed in, son?” he asks, concerned, his leathery, weather-worn face drawn in worry.
“Aye, but all’s well. Thanks for taking care of things here,” I tell him.
“Course. Anytime,” he says, tipping his hat.
Inside, my two dogs are curled up by the hearth, fat and content. Their tails wag in greeting, and they whine with excitement to see me.
But their greetings don’t warm me the way they normally do because she’s not here.
I check the video feed of the little cabin that I put in place before she got here. I expect to see her curled up with a book. Or pacing. Or staring into the fire with that faraway look.
But she’s not in the cabin. She’s not anywhere.
“Emma?”
I walk around like some fucking lost puppy, waiting for Emma to show. Hoping. Pacing.
Did I take it too far?
No. Fuck no.
I wouldn’t undo a single thing.
I love Emma, and she’s mine. She just doesn’t get it yet. She’s still clinging to fairy tales like they’ll save her from what’s coming.
I glance at the security feed again. Relief hits me straight in the solar plexus when I see she’s back on the couch again, sitting cross-legged—laptop in her lap and legs tucked beneath her.
She types a few words, pauses, scowls. Types again. Stops. Backspaces. Then she slams the laptop shut and buries her face in her hands.
I groan. Poor girl. She can’t write a damn book when her heart’s in ruins.
I know that, but I— My phone rings obnoxiously. I know the ringtone and answer immediately.
Colm McCarthy.
“Yeah?”
We’re friends. Roommates once. He knows me better than most, knows when I’m hiding something.
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” he demands. The Undertaker’s losing his feckin’ mind not hearin’ from you.”
“Personal business,” I mutter. I drag a hand through my hair. “Got snowed in. No cell service.”
Not really a lie. “What’s going on?”
“The boss has a job for you. It’s time sensitive.”
He starts rattling off details, names, locations. But I’m only half listening. I’ve lost focus.
All I can think about is the girl with a sparkle in her eyes and a dimple in her cheek—curled up on the couch, broken. Trying to write when her world is crumbling.
“When do you need me to go?” I ask, finally. “Next weekend?”
