Page 8 of The Cabin

When have I ever proven I can be normal?

In a rush I bend to grab my shampoo, squirting an obscene amount into my hands and rubbing it through my hair as quickly as possible. My need to wash the dead carcass smell off of me suddenly seems way less important than my need to get out of this shower. I rinse it out, adding conditioner now so it can sit and do its magic while I wash the rest of my body. I bend down again to grab my body wash and hear a sharp intake of breath. Standing upright and turning towards the noise, I come face to face with Grayson, making very pointed eye contact through the curtains. He freezes. It is taking all of my strength and willpower to keep my gaze on his face. To not look down.

“Um, sorry, tight muscle... from all the… chopping...” he says lamely, and I nod, briefly losing my battle of only looking at his face as I whip back around.Oh god, oh god, oh god.It’s so impressive. And he’s hard. I swear on my life he was hard when I caught a glimpse during my one-eighty spin. That’s totally normal. Has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I’m naked and he’s definitely watching me. A regular, everyday shower boner. That’s something people get, right? Shower boners? And why the fuck wasn’t he facing the other direction?

He coughs and my body tenses. “I wasn’t, uh, looking or anything...I just had to grab some soap. I swear I didn’t see anything.”

“It’s fine!” I squeak, running my sudsy hands across my body in a frenzy. I risk washing more delicate areas in hopes that he’s turned back around. I consider turning to check, but think better of it.

I basically sprint out of the shower, briefly slipping, but catching myself on the wall before roughly dragging my towel across my body in a race to get dressed before he finishes. His shower. Before he finishes hisshower. When I hear the water turn off, I beeline for the front entrance, deciding to wait for him on the benches by the parking lot.

He comes out of the doors a few minutes later, hair still wet. God, this would be so much easier if he was ugly. Well, actually it would be a lot creepier, wouldn’t it? Is that rude? Would I have even showered at the same time as him if he was ugly? Oh my god, I am so shallow.

“Ready to go?” he mumbles, looking anywhere but my face.

“Yup!” Manic. So freaking manic. Remember when I said he had a calming presence? Yeah, I take that back. Big time.

The grocery store is another fifteen-minute confessional ride from the YMCA. I choose to stare blankly out the window, trying not to over-analyze what happened in the shower. I mean, it was an accident, right? I heard a noise and it was a natural response to try and figure out where it came from. I didn’t mean to see anything, and he said he was just grabbing his soap. I should feel relieved that he was a gentleman. But, for some reason, all I feel is disappointment. There was a completely naked woman right in front of him and he didn’t even sneak a peek? Am I that undesirable? I’ve been ogling him for days and he hasn’t so much as even looked in my direction. And then I’m on full ass display for him, very literally, and he wasn’t even remotely interested? I’m literally the only pickings around, however slim…

Not that it matters. I’m not here to get wrapped up in another man. I’m here to heal. To grow. To find myself, or whatever other bullshit I’d been spewing. What do I care if he looked at me or not? Men are the farthest thing from my mind these days. I am a beautiful, independent woman who is taking time to figure out my place in the world. And that place certainly isn’t to be stared at in run-down YMCA shower rooms by hot lumberjacks. I am an educator who teaches children. I am a daughter. I am...

Who am I, really?

“Did you have stuff you needed or did you wanna stay in the truck?” Grayson’s words shake me from my spiral, and I’m surprised to find we’re already at the store.

“I’ll come in.”

He grabs a cart and starts walking through the aisles. I follow, grabbing things for the cabin that don’t need to be cooked or refrigerated. I’m feeling dumpy, and can’t wait to get back to my shitty cot and wallow.

When we reach the checkout line, I begin putting things on the belt, trying to keep my stuff separated, but Grayson takes away the little divider and shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”

“I can pay for my own stuff,” I huff, shoving the divider back down a bit more forcefully than necessary.

“I’m sure you can, but I’ve got it,” he argues, grabbing the divider again, this time holding it above his head instead of putting it back.

“Real mature.” Shoving past him, I stick my card into the reader.

“Do not accept that,” Grayson rumbles at the cashier, a young teenage boy watching us like a tennis match.

“My card is perfectly acceptable, thank you very much. This card reader is lucky to have it.” I put in my pin and rip the card out as soon as the screen reads, ‘APPROVED.’ Ah ha! Feminism for the win. Strong, independent, beautiful woman: 1, sexy lumberjack: 0. This feels like a really great metaphorical middle finger to the world. Take that! I may be ugly and unwanted, but at least I can pay for my shit!

I walk ahead of Grayson to the truck, momentarily abandoning my feminist movement as I make him carry all of the bags. When I hear the door unlock, I climb in and lay my head back on the rest. I am miserable. And over what? A stupid, three-day old crush. Because the truth of the matter is, I have value and worth as a single woman. But, there is no amount of lying or denying I can do to myself that will undo the fact that I still want to feel wanted. I want to feel sexy and cherished and loved. I hate always having to feel shitty and alone. I hate how low my standards and self-worth are that I let a man like Brian ruin me. I hate how broken I’ve been ever since. And I hate that I have this undeniable craving for intimacy and connection that can’t be satisfied with scrolling or meditation or coloring or reading.

We drive back in more silence and I am relieved when my shabby, equally undesirable cabin comes into view.

All of our purchases are mixed together in the grocery bags, so Grayson and I start trying to sort through them. “This would’ve been a lot easier if you had just let me keep everything separated,” I huff, shoving things haphazardly from one bag to another.

“I was just trying to do something nice for you.” I’m handed a box of cereal.

“I don’t need you to do anything nice for me.”

“Noted.” He pushes my bags over to my side of the cab. I grab them, looping them up my arms up to the elbow, determined to make one trip and show him who’s boss. The cabin’s front door slams behind me and I hear the truck’s tires crunch over stones as Grayson leaves.

Dropping my arms, I let all of the bags slip off my arms and crash to the floor. I will deal with them later. Right now, all I care about is attempting to suffocate by shoving my face into my pillows.

I lay in my bottom bunk for a long time sulking. After a while, I start sulking even harder when I realize my ‘escape’ has become extraordinarily similar to what being at home looks like. Moping in bed, feeling sorry for myself. All that’s missing is the wine.

At some point, I drift off to sleep, because I find myself waking with a start, the cabin now dark, a sharp banging coming from the door.

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