Unloved, a love story

by Katy Regnery

  I feel anger bubble up inside me.

  She should have been able to say goodbye to this Jem, who meant so much to her, who was taken from her so brutally. Instead, she herself was attacked while pursuing that end.

  My rage toward her attacker intensifies by the second until I’m practically shaking with it.

  “Cass?” she says, cocking her head and looking at me curiously. “You okay?”

  I jerk my head in a nod. I need to get control of myself. An emotion like anger stewing inside my body is no good for anyone.

  “Want lunch?” I ask gruffly.

  She nods and I stand up, looking out the windows at Katahdin’s jagged peaks.

  Don’t sit on your anger, Cassidy. Don’t let rage manifest inside you.

  First chance I get, I’m going back up there for that phone so that Brynn can finish what she started.

  ***

  Brynn’s fever hasn’t returned, and I’ve made it a priority to flush and re-dress her wounds every twelve hours. Though she still sleeps for long stretches, she’s definitely on the road to recovery now. I figure I’ll be able to remove the stitches in another week or so. We’ll see.

  Because she likes the company, most nights after dinner, I read in the rocker in her room while she reads in bed. Occasionally we share some funny bit of writing with each other, or some pretty turn of phrase. I’ve come to treasure these quiet moments together, reluctantly leaving her around midnight, once she’s fast asleep and the uncomfortable spindles on the back of the wooden rocker start digging into my spine. She hasn’t asked me to hold her while she sleeps again, though I silently long for the words, willing them to issue from her lips night after night. I don’t know what it is I want from her—I don’t allow my mind to wander to carnality, but have to fight against it heading there on its own.

  I’ve never been with a woman, of course. I’ve never even kissed a woman. And despite those old magazines from Gramp, I’m not totally certain I’d even know what the hell I was doing, given a chance. But I’m a man, not a child, and I can’t help my longings. When I head back to my cold, dark room after a warm evening in hers, it feels punitive somehow—much lonelier than it actually is. An ache rises up, and I have to fight the desperateness of my yearning to be near her. It’s a certain kind of torture, but I wouldn’t trade this time with her. Not for anything. I have a terrible feeling that these moments will be all I have one day, so I am very careful not to jeopardize them.

  This evening, however, I’m not headed back to my room.

  After I pull Brynn’s covers up to her chin and dim the light in her room, I put on my hiking boots and grab Gramp’s old miner’s helmet from the closet in my room, placing it on my head. I fish his watch from the back of my underwear drawer and slip it onto my wrist, grateful that it winds because I wouldn’t have the slightest clue how to get my hands on a watch battery. I set it to the correct time, then head quietly out of my room.

  There is a closet in the hallway, and I open it. Inside are three rifles—mine from childhood, Mama’s, and Gramp’s—all of them oiled and ready. I take out Gramp’s, which is the only one made for a full-size man, and sling it over my shoulder. It’s unlikely that I’ll need it, but I’ll be in the dark forest, and Baxter Park has a good share of wildlife. Night hiking has its risks.

  I look in on Brynn one more time, fairly certain that she’ll be asleep for the next six to seven hours. But just in case, I write out a note:

  Went for a night hike. Back by dawn. —Cass

  I leave it on her bedside table, then take a long look at her. Her chest rises and falls easily, and her closed lids flutter in the throes of REM sleep. She’s peaceful. And I haven’t a second to waste if I want to be back by sunrise.

  “Sweet dreams, angel,” I whisper, backing away silently from her bedside.

  The last time I left her, she was in bad shape when I came home. But I know she’s healing now. I don’t have to worry about her fever coming back. And I know she sleeps pretty soundly once she’s asleep for the night. No tossing and turning. No waking up at three a.m.

  Besides, I need to do this for her.

  And for me. Letting that rage sit and simmer isn’t smart. And the only way to mitigate it is to do something about it. Something real. Something good.

  I take a deep breath and sigh, hoping her backpack is still there to be recovered and knowing it’s going to be a long night.

  Brynn

  When I wake up, the first thing I do is check for Cassidy in the rocking chair, but he’s not there, and the house is quiet. The sun is higher than usual, so I’m assuming it’s about seven o’clock, but I don’t smell coffee brewing or eggs frying.

  Stretching my arms over my head, I take a quick inventory of my body.

  Face? Not hurting at all anymore.

  Hip? Not hurting as much, though a dull ache persists.

  Gingerly, I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Bracing my hands on the mattress, I lift my body, wincing a little at the pain. I know how to move around now to keep my discomfort at a minimum, but big movements, especially standing up or sitting down, still hurt.

  As I steady myself for a moment, I realize there’s a note on the bedside table. I pick it up. Hmm. Cassidy went out last night, but it’s well past dawn, and I don’t think he’s home yet.

  “Cass?” I call.

  Nothing.

  I walk to the doorway and call again, a little louder. “Cassidy?”

  Not a peep.

  Trying not to blow his absence out of proportion—he is entitled to his freedom, after all—I make my way to the bathroom, pee, wash my hands and face, and walk back into the living room.

  Up to now, I’ve always just returned to bed after using the toilet, but the house is so still, I pause in the living room, looking around.

  Over the couch, the portrait of Cassidy and his parents is gone, as are any other framed pictures, which I find curious. He must be really protective of his past, and I tell myself not to pry, no matter how much I want to.

  Taking a few steps into the room, I pass by the coffee table and check out the books lining the three long shelves under the picture window, starting at the far left and scanning to the right.

  The top shelf is nothing but books on biology: Your DNA and You, The DNA Files, Heredity and Genes, Tracing Your Genealogy, The DNA Challenge, Nature vs. Nurture: The Eternal Showdown, The Secret of Life, Untangling Your Genetic Code, and on and on. A whole shelf, maybe twelve feet long, with every book on genetics that you could possibly imagine.

  Are these Cassidy’s books? His mother’s? His father’s? Was one of them a doctor? Or a geneticist?

  I let my eyes drop to the next shelf, which is just as long and packed with books, but this time, it’s all fiction. Romance is on the left, with a small space open where three books—no doubt the three in my room—are missing. Science fiction. Fantasy. General fiction. The shelf ends with a collection of hardcover books by John Irving, including my favorite, A Prayer for Owen Meany. Reaching forward, I take it from the shelf, flipping through the worn, dog-eared pages. There is so much wisdom—so many beloved quotable lines—in this book. I hold it against my chest, determined to read it again.

  The bottom shelf is not as organized as the top two. It’s covered with a mix of genres—some poetry and hiking books, a few Old Farmer’s Almanacs, and half a dozen books about Maine. And at the far end, there is a collection of videocassettes in puffy plastic boxes. When I was little, we had a VCR, and I had all the Disney Princess movies in similar boxes. I check out Cassidy’s small collection, wondering which is his favorite. One of mine, The Sandlot, sits on the very end. I tug it from its place, flipping it over to read the back of the box.

  But tucked between the clear plastic covering and the back cover beneath is a faded newspaper photo. The caption reads:

  Seven-year-old Cassidy Porter, son of Rosemary and Paul Porter, of Millinocket, Maine, is carried on the shoulders of his teammates after
he hits the winning run, leading the Millinocket Majors to the Maine State Little League playoffs.

  I tilt my head, drawing the box closer, looking at the face of the little boy raised high above the heads of the others. He is smiling joyfully, arms over his head in triumph. He seems well liked by the other kids in the photo, which contradicts my possible theory that Cassidy lives out here because he suffers from social anxiety or awkwardness.

  So why does he live out here? I wonder for the umpteenth time.

  Why does he keep himself so isolated from society? From the rest of the world? What is he hiding from? Or running from? Or—

  Wait.

  I think about my words: Why does he keep himself so isolated? What is he hiding from? Hmm.

  I’ve been assuming that Cassidy moved here on his own. He told me this was his grandfather’s place, and for whatever reason my mind decided that he inherited it as an adult and moved here.

  But now I back up in my mental process, piecing together what I know to create a timeline of Cassidy’s life.

  First, there was the portrait that Cassidy removed. I recall that it was taken in 1995, when he was five. It was of him, his mother, and his much-older father.

  Second, there is the photo of his Little League triumph, when he was seven. And the caption mentions his parents living in Millinocket, so they hadn’t moved here yet.

  Third, I know that Cassidy’s mother died thirteen years ago, when Cassidy was fourteen. Since I’m staying in her room and wearing some of her clothes, I think I can safely assume she lived here when she passed away.

  So he didn’t move here as an adult. He moved here when he was still a child—sometime between the ages of seven and fourteen—presumably with his parents, but definitely with his mother.

  Which means . . .

  Cassidy wasn’t the one who chose this lifestyle.

  He just chose to stay.

  Still hugging A Prayer for Owen Meany to my chest, I turn away from the books and head back to my room, wondering why he never returned to the world . . . and wondering why his mother left it.

  ***

  I am on chapter four when I hear the front door open and close, and I’m surprised by the shot of adrenaline I get. I’m so happy, I feel like a firefly at dusk, bright from the inside.

  Cassidy’s home.

  I hear him place something on the coffee table in the living room before appearing in my doorway, his body covered with dust and dirt, a mining helmet on his head.

  “You’re awake,” he says.

  “I am. You’re back.”

  “I am,” he answers grimly.

  “How was your hike?”

  He sighs. “Okay, I guess.”

  “What’s the benefit?” I ask.

  “Of what?”

  “Hiking at night.”

  “It’s quiet. Peaceful. I don’t know.” He shrugs off the question, looking irritated. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Fine. Better every day.” But he seems out of sorts. “Everything okay with you?”

  “I need a shower,” he says, turning away. “Then I’ll make you some breakfast.”

  “I’m feeling better. Really. I can help.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says over his shoulder, already walking away.

  I watch him go, but I don’t get the usual thrill from watching his tight ass saunter away. He’s upset about something, and I find that bothers me a lot more than I would have expected.

  Then something terrible occurs to me:

  Maybe I’ve become a burden to him. Maybe he wishes I wasn’t here.

  Having to care for me means he doesn’t have the freedom to come and go as he wants. He has to be back here every few hours to check up on me, and I’ve been here for a while now. How long? Four days? Five? Hmm. Three days unconscious. Three more since the fever. Plus today . . . Seven. Seven days. I’ve been here for a week, which means that today is—

  “Oh, God,” I murmur.

  Today is June 26.

  Today is Jem’s thirtieth birthday.

  I close my eyes and breathe deeply through my nose, filling my lungs as much as I can without pulling the stitches.

  When I open them again, Katahdin stands tall and strong before me, and I am surprised by the deep sense of peace I feel staring back at it. Yes, my eyes are teary, but my breath doesn’t catch and my heart doesn’t ache.

  Jem is gone. But I am still alive.

  What happened with Wayne was horrifying, but being in a life-threatening situation made me realize that I want this life. I want it very much.

  And I am grateful to Cassidy for preserving it.

  I feel tears slide down my cheeks, but I let them fall.

  Goodbye, Jem, I think, staring at the soft peaks of his favorite mountain. I wish I could have left a part of you up on Katahdin, but I know there will always be a part of you there. Your spirit will find its way back to the place you loved above all others.

  “Brynn?”

  I turn to see Cassidy—wet hair, bare feet, and a clean change of clothes—standing in the doorway. He scans my face, and his instantly registers distress.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, covering the distance between us in two steps, his mismatched hawk eyes scanning mine. “Why are you crying? What happened? Are you okay?”

  “It’s Jem’s birthday today.”

  “Oh.” He sighs, sitting down slowly beside me, careful not to nudge my hip. “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too,” I say, tracing Cassidy’s face with my eyes.

  He clenches his jaw, his gaze stormy as he turns away from me. “I went to look for it. The backpack. The phone.”

  “What?” I say, leaning forward a little, my breath catching, my heart racing.

  “That’s what I was doing last night,” he mutters. “But I . . . I failed you.”

  My chest is so tight, so full, as I process this knowledge, I don’t know what to do. My fingers dig into the sheets, curling like they’re trying to keep themselves from . . . from . . .

  “You failed me?” By doing something so insanely kind and thoughtful? “How did you fail me?”

  “It was gone,” he says softly, looking up at me with bleak, haunted eyes. “I looked all over—all over the lean-to and in the woods surrounding it. Underneath branches and leaves. I . . . I wanted to find it for you. I wanted you to be able to—”

  My fingers fly from the sheets, and I lurch forward, flinging my arms around Cassidy’s neck and pulling him against me. I am undone by the hugeness of his heart, by the unselfishness of his spirit.

  “You w-went b-back?” I sob, close to his ear.

  His arms wrap around me, holding me close, and I lay my cheek on his shoulder. My breath fans his neck as I cry.

  His throat rumbles close to my lips, and I feel the vibrations of it as he speaks. “I . . . I went . . . I mean, I climbed back up, but it wasn’t . . .”

  “Oh, Cass,” I whisper, closing my eyes, because now I am crying in earnest, my tears wetting his T-shirt. “You didn’t have to d-do that!”

  “I wanted to,” he replies.

  “Fourteen m-miles?”

  “No. About twelve, round trip. I had to go a safer way when I was carrying you, and that added miles. The way I went last night was steeper. But faster.”

  “T-twelve m-miles,” I say, my voice breaking. “For m-me.”

  His arms tighten around me, and we hold each other as to a lifeline. His face shifts slightly, and I think he is pressing his lips to my head, but I’m not sure. The thought makes a sharp sensation rip through me, and I clench almost-forgotten muscles deep inside, a wave of pure, carnal desire for him making my head spin, making me dizzy.

  I want you. Like I’ve never wanted anyone before.

  “You didn’t f-fail me,” I say, the words breathless and emotional.

  “I didn’t get the phone. It was gone.”

  “Cassidy,” I say, leaning away so I can look up at his face. My eyes get caught on his lips, an
d I stare at them, timelines converging. If he came to this cabin when he was so young, has anyone ever kissed them? Has anyone ever loved them? The thought of being his first kiss is so arousing, I whimper softly before skimming my gaze to his eyes.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I swallow as I nod. My breathing is rapid and shallow.

  If he is truly that inexperienced, he doesn’t need me kissing him right now while we’re discussing Jem. Cassidy’s first kiss shouldn’t be shared with memories of another man.

  I take a deep breath to calm myself, but it makes my breasts rasp against his chest. I feel my nipples pucker and bead under my T-shirt, scraping against his rock-hard abs through two layers of cotton. Can he feel them? Does the touch of them affect him like his body is affecting mine?

  “Thank you for trying to find it,” I say, reaching up to cup his cheek.

  His eyelids flutter for a moment, then open. He is staring at me so intensely, it should make me pause, but all I want is more. More of this look. More of Cassidy.

  His jaw tightens as he sucks a whistle of breath through clenched teeth. “I’m sorry—”

  “No,” I interrupt him. “I won’t accept an apology for kindness.”

  “Failed kindness,” he says, flinching like he’s done something wrong.

  “Cassidy, listen to me,” I say earnestly, my palm still flush with the dark blond bristles on his cheek, savoring the warmth of the skin underneath. “No kindness is ever wasted. Not on me.”

  “But how will you say goodbye?”

  “I already did,” I whisper. “I didn’t need to bury him here. I just needed to be here.”

  Hope’s words come rushing back to me:

  Saying goodbye doesn’t mean forgetting. Moving on doesn’t mean you never loved him. I’m telling you to let go. I’m telling you that you’re allowed to be happy.

  I run my knuckles over Cassidy’s cheek, and he lets his eyes close this time, leaning into my touch, his breath shuddering as I touch him. I can’t help running my fingers through his thick, damp hair, but when he opens his eyes and they’re so dark with desire, I let my hands fall away from his body and lean back a little so he’ll release me.