by K Larsen
Meghan’s hands were shaking. She had a mind to ball up the shitty missive and throw it into the fire. Use the photo for target practice with two thumb-tacks stuck in Julie’s eyes. No wonder he’d run away and wanted nothing to do with people. He’d been shit on in the one moment in your life, when you have to hand absolute trust over to another human.
God, poor Tristan. She could barely imagine the heartache and the shame.
“Well, Julie, he is happy you good-for-nothing wench. I hope you’re haggard as hell chain-smoking next to an empty swimming pool in a pay-by-the hour hotel with mildewed shag carpeting,” she said to the ceiling. She’d ruined his spirit. Julie was the reason this beautiful man walked through life looking like a blown-out candle. He didn’t turn the light on inside of him because of his mom, and because of fucking Julie. And here she was letting him down too with her insidious snooping.
“Tristan, I promise I’ll never let you down!” she asserted to the exposed beams. She felt like a crusader on a mission to restore not only Tristan’s faith in humanity, but his trust—in women.
Did he wait at the altar? Was it Tristan himself who had to turn around and announce to all his guests that Julie had ditched him. The cake, the wilting flowers, the band zipping up their instruments with an unexpected night off. It was all too sad to imagine. Handsome Tristan walking around, head down in a tux.
It was strange how a place that seemed innocuous and sweet, charming even, could become claustrophobic-morph into something sinister. Meghan likened it to the basement in the house she’d grown up in. Laundry with her mother was near magical domestic bliss. The smell of detergent and fabric softener, the grace with which her mother hung the clothes on the line that ran across the ceiling, her pouch of wooden clothespins at her hip.
But going down there alone to fetch flour or potatoes—even when her parents were home upstairs listening to public radio or jazz was another universe. The minute she descended those steps, Meghan could think only of murderers, monsters, and dead things. The dark corners were to be avoided, but even when she pulled the string to click on the bald light bulb, she expected to see blood-covered walls and bodies hanging from hooks. Who knows what the darkness hides or what the company of others minimizes. Light uncovers the darkness, but it can also be blinding.
Tristan’s cabin was becoming too small for her wild imagination. The guilt from being more meddlesome than she had a right to, had led her to the uncomfortable position of knowing his most intimate heartbreak. That, along with the gory amputation of her blackened toe, was weighing heavily on her conscience.
With Tristan, the space had been homey, fire ablaze, hot soup simmering on the stove. Alone, it creeped toward nightmarish. Home was definitely an expression of the people in it and not the foundation or the piling.
All she could imagine alone was her impending death, Tristan never returning, herself slowly starving in the wild. Out here Tristan was in charge, so capable and fearless. In turn, Meghan knew how to run the PTA board and be team mom for soccer practice. She felt about as useful as a can opener in a garden.
Lunch came and went and she nibbled on saltines while elevating her foot like he’d told her to. She watched the fire wane and knew she should do something about it.
He’d showed her how to start a fire before he left: make a little teepee of kindling and fill it with balled-up newspapers, add a dry log only once it was producing substantial flames.
“Best to keep it stoked and not let it go out in the first place. Don’t forget to latch the door.”
He taught her to be useful and to Meghan it meant he was invested in her as a person. Bruce never taught her to do anything because he never believed her capable.
She wrung her hands and fingers trying to block out the anxious thoughts. She had no reason to doubt him, he’d be back soon and the goblins would slide back into the cracks where they’d come from. No wonder the man watched romcoms, a horror movie up here could be the final ingredient to push you over the edge in a recipe for madness.
How difficult it must be to survive a winter here with so little human contact, alone with your thoughts, no one to warn you if you’d gone off kilter and entered dark places. She’d lose her mind—maybe she already had. She wondered why he didn’t keep in contact with his younger sister. How’d they lose touch? Did they ever speak—did he ever go visit her?
Meghan picked up a broom and began sweeping to give herself something to do. The cabin was pretty immaculate despite the firewood and soot, but she tidied up anyway until her toe protested and became tight in its bindings.
When the sun started to move lower in the sky, Meghan began checking the time and the window relentlessly, pacing the floor. He wouldn’t leave her, he was too kind-hearted to be so cruel, plus if anyone knew the devastation abandonment brought, it was Tristan, thanks to one Julie Balanchine who’d ditched him at the altar. She had to lie down, the bindings were irritating her and she had a muffin top on her ankle where the ace bandages stopped. She popped another Tylenol, guzzling the water that tasted sharp with iron and minerals. She remembered that Tristan said they could melt snow for drinking water if necessary and she liked the idea that she was consuming snowflakes or raindrops, instead of chemically treated municipal water.
When the sun set and Tristan still wasn’t back, Meghan wrote down the directions he’d told her and stashed the compass in her pocket.
Her worries grew bigger, rolling in like storm clouds. He could have gotten lost and never even made it to town. The thought sent a wave of fear-induced nausea swimming through her bloodstream. Maybe Tristan was stuck in the snow under a darkening sky and this time he needed a savior. And all she had was a bum foot and a compass.
In his drawers, Tristan had plenty of long wool socks; Meghan carefully pulled on two pairs over her perpetually cold feet that had never made it past mid-thaw. She helped herself to another sweater and a weatherproof jacket. Found snow goggles and a rain poncho in the tiny mudroom pantry by the door. She looked like she was donning a Halloween costume and not protective gear to go retrieve her lover.
“If he’s not back in the next hour, I’ll set out and go after him,” she tried to convince her own reflection in the mirror. In the dark, with no snowshoes, and little survival gear. But she felt like she had no choice—go find Tristan or stay in the cabin and watch her own sanity slip through her fingers.
Twenty-Seven
Tristan
The sun had set at least an hour ago. Tristan’s skis were tied to his pack along with one pole. The other he used as a walking stick in his good arm. His shins were bruised from walking in ski boots for so long. He’d fallen and had to rest three times, certain he would black out again. The pain in his arm had him doubling over or losing his breath as he made the trek.
Meghan was probably freaking out. Worried sick. He knew the feeling. Understood what it was like to be left with no explanation. To wait and wonder and feel the terror and shame of being abandoned. He pushed the past out of his mind, locked it away where it belonged—in history. The wind had picked up and nipped at his exposed cheekbones. Every step felt slow and sloppy. He wasn’t even sure his muscles were working any longer. It felt more as if his brain was forcing all his extremities to do their job through sheer force of willpower.
He trudged forward, Meghan’s face no matter the expression, his reward. He wouldn’t cause her to worry overnight. He didn’t care what he’d walk in on; he’d take her angry, distraught, relieved. He’d take her any way he could. He pictured her smile; straight white teeth. Her eyes; soft and framed with long lashes. Those curves; small waist, soft hips, the feeling of her breast beneath his palm. He’d take a slap across the face; so long as it came from her.
He’d make it back to her. He just had to make it back and everything would be okay. At least that was what he chanted to himself as he wrangled his body through thigh deep pockets of snow. Every so often he was able to stay atop the snow because of the layer of ice at the to
p, but each time he broke through—it took longer to get going again. His body was stiff, frozen feeling. The bump on his head seared from just the pressure of his hat against it.
He wasn’t equipped to survive the night. He knew that. His shoulder thrummed with pain and his heart palpitated. Still he pushed forward. He pushed his hat from his eyes with the back of his forearm. There was a hint of smoke in the air. An owl screamed somewhere close. That damn owl. That perfect fucking owl. He loved that thing.
It had saved Meghan. It had dissolved their kiss earlier, and here it was, reminding him he was close. The moon lit up the night sky with the help of thousands of stars against the velvet backdrop. He was close.
Another five minutes and he could see the glow of the windows from the cabin. His energy waned. Left, then right, he chided. Just keep moving. Don’t stop now.
At the door he let the backpack slide off into the snow behind him. With his teeth he pulled his gloves from his good hand. The injured one hung limp at his side. He clicked the latch handle and all but fell into the cabin. He groaned in pain as he connected with the wall and slid to his butt. He sensed shuffling nearby. Heard the scrape of a crutch. The last of whatever lingering adrenaline whooshed out of him and he listed left until he was lying on his side. Her face came into view, mouth moving.
“You said lunch time! I was worried sick!” Meghan’s voice was the last thing he heard before his eyes fluttered closed and the cabin grew black.
Twenty-Eight
Meghan
Holy Christ, he wasn’t dead, but something terrible had happened to him. He was bloody and frozen, and seemingly exhausted from whatever he’d been through. She tried to drag his body farther into the cabin, but he was a deadweight, so she secured the door instead and began to pull off his outer layer of clothing. She removed his boots and felt his feet—which were surprisingly still warm. That was good, because she didn’t want to reverse roles and cut off his toes. When she lifted his pant leg, she found blood on his shin. She dabbed it with a warm compress and touched iodine to the open spots with a Q-tip. It was Tristan’s shoulder that was lacerated, and she couldn’t figure out from what, imagining zombies, and ax murderers and crazy people with knives. She cleaned that wound too and liberally applied iodine. Meghan held a tin cup of room temperature water to his lips from the basin in the kitchen. When she lifted his head so he wouldn’t choke, she felt a giant bump that was either the result of a fall or Tristan had managed to get into a bar fight on the way home.
She put a compress to his brow after warming it on the stove. With his head in her lap, she peppered kisses up and down his jaw bone. Once again, she tried dragging him closer to the woodstove and was more successful, achieving at least his upper torso maneuvered into the living room. She pillaged all the pillows from his bed and devised a makeshift resting place on the floor that kept his head above his chest.
What surprised her, was how much she cared, enough to exercise her heart like fireplace bellows, squeezing and tugging, deflating with concern so rapidly she feared she too might pass out. So much emotion amassed over the span of a few days, and here she hadn’t thought herself capable of loving again. But the turmoil in her heart told a different story, and she’d already begun to picture herself and Tristan against the world—together—united as a team, a couple, or even two survivors who looked out for one another. If she thought she was lonely before, she wasn’t prepared for the gaping vacancy of having Tristan unconscious in her arms. She pulled a blanket over the two of them, applied pressure to the wounded shoulder, poured water in his mouth even though most of it ran down his neck and into his shirt.
“A few days ago, I didn’t know you, and now I can’t even picture my life without you,” she said. He couldn’t hear her, but she spoke to him anyway, stroking his hairline and his jaw, kissing the tip of his ear. Perhaps they would survive and she could take him home with her like a puppy she found behind the school. Her spine felt effervescent when she imagined introducing the strapping Tristan to Bruce. She even pictured the raw expression of envy on Principal Hall’s face when she realized she was stuck with Bruce and Meghan had become the real winner in their sick little game. Because Tristan was perfect and she had fallen in love with him.
It was easier to imagine revenge and scenarios of coupling than deal with the reality of Tristan being hurt and unconscious. He was breathing, his heartbeat seemed normal, his fingers and toes were warm, but he must have hit his head really hard to have a bump like he did. Meghan snuggled into his big body and pulled his arms over her in a blacked out embrace.
Meghan woke hours later to the soft sounds of Tristan groaning. The fire had gone out and she could see her breath when she exhaled. She sat up quickly and pulled the blankets back over them. She felt his pulse, which seemed fine and checked his forehead for fever. While she was fussing over him, Tristan blinked open his eyes.
“Hi,” she said softly.
“You let the fire go out, Prometheus,” he said. His face was graced with a smile and his voice was gravely from sleep.
“Oh!” Meghan flung herself into his arms and began crying in earnest. “I thought you were dead. I thought we were both going to die!”
He soothed her and stroked her hair and chuckled a bit.
“We’re going to be fine, we just have to delay our plans a little bit.”
“Who hurt you? Are they coming for us?”
“A she-wolf bit me for crossing into her territory. She was out teaching her pups and some dumb skier stopped to take a break near her den. She could have done worse. I’m lucky—this was more of a warning.”
“A real wolf? Like a real freaking wolf?” Meghan sat up straight in their floor nest.
“I mean, I hope so. I didn’t know there were other kinds,” Tristan shook his head playfully at Meghan and grimaced as he pushed himself halfway up supporting his weight with his arms. He groaned and cursed as he struggled to fully stand, Meghan handed him her crutch to brace himself with.
“I think you must have hit your head when you fought with the wolf.”
“Lucky I didn’t lose consciousness out there. That could have turned out pretty gruesome. Let me get a fire started. We don’t need any more close calls.”
“How will we ever get out of here if there are hungry wolves on the trail?”
Tristan tuned toward her and his face was set sternly.
“We will be fine,” he said resolutely. “Wolves do no harm to humans, it’s the other way around. I missed their tracks on account of the fresh snow.” He seemed determined to blame the incident on himself. Meghan wasn’t going to argue with him, she was too happy he was safe.
“What about infection? Aren’t animal bites dangerous?”
“Can be. We both need to be seen by a doctor.”
He staggered over to the woodstove and Meghan followed him. While he finessed the kindling, she dragged over logs from the rack.
“Maybe you should get off that toe,” Tristan said. He blew on the lit paper and as the flames caught they bathed his face in warm light that Meghan found mesmerizing.
She didn’t miss the pained expression he wore as he worked.
“You’re using your arm.”
He shrugged, sat back on his heels and stared into the fire that ignited enthusiastically, making ash of the thin newspaper and popping the bark on the logs, spitting when it hit resin and enveloping them in the musky scent of wood-smoke.
“I spent the whole day missing you.” Meghan had decided to be bold. Grab the bull by the horns and tell him how she truly felt.
Tristan smiled, his face a little guarded.
“Ditto,” he said and tossed some stray pieces of wood into the roaring fire. He laughed a short exhale from his nose. “Came all the way out here to get away from people. Guess that’s not possible.”
She wasn’t sure if it was an insult or a compliment. She was bursting with emotion for this man and he wanted to sequester all he had to offer away from society—her
included. She wasn’t going to let him. He couldn’t hide from her. No way, no how.
“Are you wearing my clothes?” Tristan asked her. He seemed amused, just coming around to noticing her get-up. She still had ski goggles pushed up on her head like sunglasses, the rubber seal clinging to her hair which was likely standing on end.
“I was going to come find you,” Meghan said in defense. She watched his eyebrows lift in surprise that anyone would care enough to strike out to look for him. She could tell he wanted to laugh, but was desperately holding it in.
His few days with Meghan had lost him his hermit status, his ability to be an anonymous missing person. She wasn’t sure if he completely understood what she meant, decided to let it slide since it had been awhile since he’d been in a relationship or even communicated with another person for that matter.
