by Katy Regnery
“Okaaaaay,” I say, working to control my curiosity. “Can I use your laptop?”
He stops chewing and stares at me. “You want to use my . . . lap?”
“Your laptop. Your . . . computer? I could e-mail them.”
“Oh,” he says, looking relieved as he swallows. “Computers. Right. Um, they have computers in the library over in Millinocket, but I never tried them.”
“You don’t have . . .” I’m staring at him, and I know it’s rude, but I’m in such a total state of shock, I can’t help it. “You don’t have a computer or a cell phone or a landline?”
“What is that?”
“A landline? It’s a phone on, um, you know, mounted to the wall? With a . . . a cord that—”
“Oh,” he says, nodding. “A regular phone. Nope. No phone. Telos Road is four miles away. But there’s no telephone line on Telos Road, because it’s mostly just for logging access.” His eyebrows furrow as he thinks about something. “Closest phone is at the Golden Bridge Campground and Store.”
“How far away is that?”
“About fifteen miles. Three or four miles of bushwhackin’ and another eleven or twelve on logging roads. Telos and then Golden.”
“Bush what?” I ask, almost feeling like we are speaking two different languages to one another.
“Bushwhackin’. You know, riding through the woods. Rough trails. Not on roads.”
“How do you drive if you’re not on a road?”
“I have an ATV,” he says, as if that explains it.
“You have what?”
“An all-terrain vehicle,” he says, enunciating each word like I should know what he’s talking about.
I stare at him, ignoring his tone, my mouth catching flies and my eyes likely turning like pinwheels as I put the facts together.
“Oh, my God,” I murmur. “No phones. No computer. No roads. You’re totally isolated here.”
He nods at me. “Pretty much.”
“Why?” I ask softly. “Why do you live like this?”
The question surprises me, especially because I’ve already resolved not to pick at him. It’s indelicate, and I grimace at the vaguely judgmental note in my tone. I’m sure Cassidy has his reasons for living apart from society. It’s absolutely none of my business, and yet I’m leaning forward, staring into his eyes, my curiosity so sharp, I can taste it like metal.
He stares back at me, his unusual eyes locked on mine. Finally he licks his lips and looks down at his almost-empty plate. “It was my gramp’s place.”
“Oh . . . like a summer place?” I ask.
His cheeks flush, and he shrugs. I’ve made him uncomfortable when I really didn’t want to.
“Are you a prepper?”
“A what?”
“Someone preparing for the end of the world?” I ask, enunciating every word because I figure turnabout is fair play.
He grins at me—caught—before looking back down at his empty plate.
“No, ma’am,” he answers politely.
His smile, born of chagrin, is so beautiful, so welcome, I decide to keep the mood light and tease him into another. “Hey, you’re not on the run from the cops, are you?”
My plan instantly backfires.
His head jerks up, and his face visibly blanches, his smile gone, his eyes wide and unsettled. It’s such a complete transformation from a moment ago, I lean back, a chill slithering over my skin as I process his reaction.
“Oh, God,” I murmur, my hands fisting in the quilt that covers me from waist to toes. “Are you?”
“No!” he says, shaking his head vehemently. “I’m not . . . I’m not in trouble with anyone. Not the authorities. Not anyone. I stay out of trouble. I live quiet. I . . . I can promise you that.”
I know he’s telling me the truth—don’t ask me how I know, I just do—though I sense there’s a much larger story behind his words. Maybe he was accused of something he didn’t do? Or maybe he had a run-in with the cops that ended badly for him? I feel like I’m looking at the tippy-top of a massive iceberg, and my curiosity is so sharp, I’m going to bleed inside from all the questions I want to ask. I opt for one:
“Are you hiding from someone?”
“No. Not really.” His eyebrows crease and he sighs, the color returning to his cheeks. “I just . . . I just like living out here, is all. I won’t . . . I won’t hurt you, Brynn. I’m not some psycho. Not yet, anyway. I promise.”
Again the assurance that he won’t hurt me.
It has to be the fifth or sixth time he’s said this.
Maybe it’s more than a fear of authority—maybe he’s misunderstood. Maybe he has Asperger’s or a social anxiety disorder. He’s smart, and he’s obviously skilled in living out here. He’s kept himself isolated for a long time.
He’s different, I think, remembering that he carried me to safety on his back. And kind. And beautiful. And I’d like to pull him out of his shell a little, which almost makes me laugh. Me, Brynn Cadogan, self-isolated for two years now, eager to pull someone else out of their shell. Oh, the irony.
I look up at him, and I’m sorry that his face seems troubled. I’ve touched a soft spot, and I’m anxious to make amends.
“Hey, Cass,” I say, reaching out to nudge his knee with the back of my hand. “I know you won’t hurt me. Why would you go to all that effort to save me if you just meant to hurt me again? You don’t have to keep saying it.” I pause as he looks up at me, an inscrutable expression brightening his eyes. It looks like hope, and I have a notion that my words are like the sun and Cassidy is like a sunflower after ten straight days of rain. “I trust you. You’ve been really good to me. Really amazing. I trust you, Cassidy. Okay?”
I’m not sure, but I think he’s holding his breath as I finish speaking, and it’s so touching to me, I feel my heart pinch a little. My words mean something to him. Something important.
“Thank you, Brynn,” he whispers, averting his eyes as he collects our plates. He stands from the rocking chair and looks down at me, his eyes searching mine. “Do you need me to call someone for you?”
“You’d have to drive fifteen miles each way to make a phone call.”
“I’ll do it,” he says, his voice earnest, his face serious, “if you need me to.”
“I can’t ask you—”
“You didn’t. I offered.”
“You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “I can pick up a few things while I’m there.”
Relieved, I nod. “I’d really appreciate it, Cass. I’ll write down my parents’ number.”
“I’ll bring you a pen and paper,” he says, turning to leave. Just before he disappears through the curtain, he turns back to look at me. “Would you like a book or two to pass the time? There’s a lot.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’d love one.”
“What do you like to read?”
Instantly my cheeks flush. My favorite kind of books are romances.
“Um . . .”
His lips twitch again, and I have a sense he’s on to me. “I’ll bring a few to choose from.” And then he’s gone.
A minute later he returns with half a Percocet, a glass of water, paper, a pen, and three books: Then Came You, by Lisa Kleypas; Potent Pleasures, by Eloisa James; and Welcome to Temptation, by Jennifer Crusie.
He sets the obviously well-loved novels beside me on the table, and I eye them as I swallow the half-moon blue pill. Oh, he’s definitely on to me.
“Will that cover you?” he asks with a small grin.
“Mm-hm,” I say, taking the paper and pen he’s offering me and quickly writing down my parents’ phone number. I refuse to be embarrassed about loving romance novels. Anyone with half a brain loves romance novels, and the rest are lying. I hand the paper to him. “Their names are Jennifer and Colin Cadogan. Tell them I’m okay. I’ll call them as soon as I can.”
He nods, taking the paper from me, folding it three times and putting it in his back pocket.
/> “See you soon?” I ask, realizing, for the first time, that I’m going to be all alone, in the middle of nowhere, for the next few hours.
He nods, grimacing, as though he’s just realized it too.
“See you soon.”
Cassidy
I think about her as I ride over the rough terrain between my homestead and Telos Road. It’s not a ride I enjoy most of the time, and I like it even less today. I don’t relish leaving the safety of my hidden homestead, and I’m not fond of dealing with people in general. Plus, leaving Brynn all alone at the cabin makes me uncomfortable, but letting her parents worry about her doesn’t feel right either.
The ride is physically demanding, and I use my whole body to stay balanced on the old quad as I dart through the woods, going faster than I should be because I’m anxious to get where I’m going and then back home.
Over the years of coming and going from my place to Telos Road, a trail of sorts has developed, though, to discourage visitors, I purposely never filled it with gravel or trimmed back the overgrowth. I want it to be hidden.
During the bumpy ride, my conversation with Brynn weighs on me. It illuminates how isolated from the world I have become. Heck, when she asked to use my laptop, I thought she was asking to sit on my lap for some reason, and imagining her there made my adrenaline rush so fast and furious, I felt weak for a hot minute. But apparently, a laptop is some sort of computer. And a landline is a regular phone, like the one we had in my house when I was little. And I know what e-mail is, because I spent a few hours at Millinocket Memorial Library last fall, and I saw signs about it over by the computers, but I wouldn’t have the first clue how to use it.
What really jarred me, however, was her asking me if I was on the run from the law or in hiding. I know she was kidding. I could tell by the tone of her voice and by the fact that she was smiling when she said it, but it still felt a little too close to home. I mean, I’m not on the run, but I surely am hiding.
I dodge trees and brace my body for roots as I race through the woods, hating the very thought of . . . hiding.
Like I’ve done something shameful when I haven’t.
I haven’t given much thought to the way I live my life; I’ve just accepted it as a truth. I made a promise at age fourteen to live quiet, and I never really reconsidered that plan.
Now a part of me—the part that desperately hates being the son of a madman—wonders if there is any option other than hiding.
Loving a woman? Being loved by her? Having a family with her? Absolutely not. All impossibilities for me if I have any sense of morality, which I do.
But do I have to live alone in the middle of nowhere? Do I need to hide?
Maybe—just maybe, and I’ll have to give the matter a lot more thought after I’ve said goodbye to Brynn—I could use some of Gramp’s money to move away, to set myself up somewhere different, somewhere new. I could change my name, couldn’t I? Sure I could. Legally, I don’t have to be Cassidy Porter. I could go to the courthouse and change my name to Cassidy . . . Cassidy . . . Smith. Yeah. Cassidy Smith. If I was Cass Smith, I could move to Boston or New York or North Dakota or China. Heck, I could move anywhere. I’d be someone new, with a last name that meant nothing, far away from Maine, where no one would ever make a connection between me and my infamous father.
For a moment, hope—like I’ve never felt before—fills my chest. I can almost feel the shackles on my wrists cracking open from the force of it. I could be free. I could be free. I could be . . . free. My heart swells so big, it just about aches with longing.
There is a problem with this plan, whispers a voice in my head. I recognize the tone and texture of this voice. It’s my conscience, and we’re old friends. The problem is . . . you’re not Cassidy Smith. You’re Cassidy Porter, Paul Isaac Porter’s son. And you can never, ever forget it.
As I near Telos Road, all that marvelous hope disappears like smoke from a pipe dream, because my conscience is right.
What if I somehow tricked myself, after a time, into believing that I actually was Cassidy Smith? What if I decided that Cassidy Smith was allowed to live his life in ways that Cassidy Porter was not? What if Cassidy Smith became the very person I have fought my entire life not to become?
Being me—being Cassidy Porter—is, in part, what keeps me in check.
My blood is my father’s, and so is my name. And I am my father’s son.
I am also my grandfather’s grandson and my mother’s son.
And if I become someone else, it will be a different sort of hiding: instead of hiding from the world, I’ll be hiding from myself. Sure, there would be a certain type of freedom in leaving this life behind and starting another. But it would be a life built on nothing—on air, on wind, on nothing substantial, on willful self-deceit. Such a fake, impermanent freedom would betray the promises I made to myself and to those I loved—to those who loved me.
Only a man without character would build his life on a lie.
Only a bad man would risk the lives of others for his own pleasure or cheap-bought freedom.
I pause about six feet from the road, hidden by thick brush, letting the engine idle. I listen carefully for oncoming traffic. I want to be sure the road’s empty when I pull out.
After several minutes of silence, I give the FourTrax a little throttle and engage the clutch, shifting into first gear and making my way up the sharp embankment and onto the dirt road.
I look behind me as I shift quickly into second, third, and fourth, heading south toward Golden Road. I should make it to the store in twenty or thirty minutes. I glance over my shoulder at the thick forest I’ve left behind, hoping I’ll be back home in about an hour.
***
When I see the bright green roof of the log cabin–style Golden Bridge Store up ahead, I get butterflies in my stomach, like I always do.
I try not to come here more than once every two or three months. And when I do, I always wear my hat low and try not to call attention to myself. I don’t buy anything out of the ordinary. I don’t make conversation. I don’t want them to remember me. I want to blend in with every other transient hiker on the AT. Nameless. Faceless. A wanderer.
I pull the quad into the dirt parking area and cut the engine, taking off my helmet and placing it on the seat. I grab a nondescript ball cap out of my back pocket and mash it on my head with the brim low.
When I open the door to the store, it’s a mini assault to my senses.
It’s jarring, as always, to be here.
To be anywhere that hums with humanity.
Inside, the air conditioner is blasting, and it smells of French fries, which makes my mouth water. This is how it is when I brush elbows with the world sometimes—it makes memories from my childhood come rushing back, and I remember little things, like sitting in the back seat of Mama’s car while we go through the McDonald’s drive-through. McNuggets and fries. It’s been two decades, and my stomach still groans wistfully at the memory.
Grabbing a shopping basket by the door, I step quickly to the left and into a grocery aisle. I wasn’t lying when I said there were a few things I wanted. Butter is a luxury I don’t have very often, so I grab some from a dairy case. I get a six-pack of beer too. I don’t use deodorant, but now that Brynn’s staying with me, I probably should, so I grab a small canister that says “Old Spice,” like the one Gramp used. They have a good stock of batteries, and I buy six packages of D’s. Sixteen D batteries will power the portable TV and VHS player through two movies, and though my selection isn’t great—Jurassic Park, Forrest Gump, The Sandlot, Groundhog Day, Home Alone, and Toy Story—and I’ve watched each at least a hundred times, maybe Brynn would like to watch one sometime while she’s staying with me.
I sigh heavily, pausing to stare down at the deodorant and batteries, and remind myself that she’s not my girlfriend, and we’re not having some kind of demented courtship in my off-the-grid homestead while she recovers from stab wounds. Christ.
Don’t
start acting like Cassidy Smith, I tell myself, reaching into the basket for the deodorant so I can put it back on the shelf. But at the last minute, I drop it back into the basket, grab her a toothbrush, and move on to the next aisle.
I pick up some Crisco and olive oil for cooking.
I browse the aisle that has cooking supplies, but don’t end up getting much. I have flour and sugar, which I use sparingly. Mixes that make brownies and cake are expensive luxuries I don’t need.
Looks like Doritos has some new disgusting flavor that I need to try, so I grab a small snack bag and toss it into the basket.
They have a good selection of fishing supplies, and I decide to gift myself a new lure. I’m behind on my fishing and need to get up to Harrington and McKenna Ponds over the next week or two. I try to eat a lot of fresh fish in the spring and summer since ice fishing, though a skill set I have developed, is not one of my favorite activities. I’d just as soon go vegetarian every winter than sit on a frozen pond hoping for a bite.
I go back to the aisle where they have the deodorant and toothbrushes, and although I am well stocked with medical supplies at home, I pick up a few more things: a large bottle of alcohol, iodine, some nonstick bandages, medical tape, and a small bottle of ibuprofen. I figure Brynn should stop taking the Percocet in another day or two, and she might be glad to have control over her own painkillers.
My basket is pretty full by the time I get to the cashier. Luckily, it’s a man working. I find women are much more likely to try to make conversation with me, while men just want to check me out and keep moving. Impulsively, I add two candy bars to the pile, pay up, and take my change.
As I’m about to lift my two sacks from the counter, I remember that the entire point of this trip was to call Brynn’s parents and I’ve almost forgotten.
“You have a phone?” I ask.
“Ain’t you got a cell?”
“Um. Broken.”
“Hmmph.” The cashier turns toward the restaurant and yells, “Maggie, this guy’s cell’s broke, and he needs t’make a call.”
