by Katy Regnery
Something intense and exciting crackles between us. It’s chemistry. Intense, combustible chemistry. But now isn’t the right time to test it.
Not here. Not now. Not during this conversation.
His arms, which have been holding me close, lower, and he nods. “I understand.”
The strangest thing is, I know he does.
Even though he doesn’t have the experience I do, I know he understands why we have to stop touching each other right now. And even though I lost my lover and he lost his mother, I know he understands exactly what I’m saying about my farewell to Jem.
What surprises me is the peace that starts in my stomach and warms my whole body like the summer rays of the sun. There is such profound relief in being understood—in finally being known in the inexplicable way that can come only from empathy, from one broken person fathoming the grief of another.
It binds us together in that moment as the sun crests over Katahdin, illuminating his mother’s room—my room—with warm, golden light. As my lips tilt slowly up into a smile, his do the same, and I feel like I am looking at my reflection, except Cassidy isn’t me and I’m not him. We are bound through understanding. We are bathed in grace.
Finally he looks away from me, taking a deep breath. He sighs, leaning his head to the left, then the right. He must be exhausted after walking all night, but when he looks at me, his face is easy for the first time since our emotional conversation began.
He’s still smiling at me. “Hungry?”
I nod, wiping away the last of my tears and smiling back at him. “Yes.”
“I’ll make us some breakfast,” he says, standing up from my bed.
“Cass,” I call to him, just before he leaves my room.
He turns to look at me.
“Thank you for doing that for me,” I say. “It means . . . it means the world to me.”
He looks like he wants to say something, but instead he nods.
As I hear the sound of cracking eggs and a whisk, I turn my eyes back to Katahdin.
“Goodbye, Jem,” I say softly. “Goodbye.”
Then I close my eyes.
And for the first time since that terrible night so long ago, I breathe easy.
Cassidy
I’d do anything for you.
The words circled in my head when she thanked me, and I thought about saying them, but something held me back. Something, but . . . what?
As I whisk eggs for the skillet, I decide that it’s confusion.
My emotions are in a tangle, and I need to unravel them before I say things I don’t mean, can’t mean, wish I could mean.
So what, exactly, are my feelings?
Well . . .
I was jealous of Jem when she called out for him in her fever, but then I knew a fierce longing to give her what Wayne had taken away—the chance to make peace with Jem’s loss, the opportunity to say goodbye the way she wanted to and needed to.
So I was deeply frustrated by failing in my mission to her. I wanted to find that phone and deliver it safely to her. I was angry with myself when I returned home this morning; ashamed to look her in the eyes, lest she see the full extent of my defeat.
But my heart changed direction again when I saw her tears because I cannot bear to see her unhappy, and I ran to her bedside, desperate to right whatever wrong was hurting her . . . only to learn that she wasn’t crying out of pain or unhappiness. Not in the way I’d assumed. She was crying because, despite my unsuccessful efforts, she’d managed to say farewell to Jem on her own.
And then?
Then I knew only desire.
Near paralyzing.
So strong, I should have burst into flames while I held her.
When she touched my face so tenderly, placing her hand on my cheek, part of me wanted to die . . . because I knew my life would never get any sweeter than it was in that moment.
But even that moment was surpassed by another—by the communion of two hearts that have broken and kept on beating. By the keen and consummate sympathy that is born only from surviving something that almost broke you and recognizing that journey back from hell in someone else’s eyes.
And that’s when I learn something new about myself:
My feelings for Brynn are only deepened by the way she makes my blood run hot and my heart beat out of my chest with desire. My body aches for hers, but I am fairly certain that the crux of my growing affection for her is less physical and more profound. The essence of it, despite the chasm of differences between us, lies in understanding. And that meeting of hearts and minds makes her feel far more familiar to me than she should after only a week’s acquaintance.
I don’t know that I’ve ever mulled the idea of God custom-making one person for another. But if I had wondered, meeting Brynn would almost be enough for me to turn the corner from conjecture to conviction.
The sound of screeching brakes in my brain makes me flinch.
Porter!
Your name is Cassidy Porter.
Your father was Paul Isaac Porter.
I blink at the eggs, which hiss and pop in the frying pan.
She was not custom-made for you, Cassidy.
No one was made for you.
My heart lurches in protest, wanting so desperately to refute this dark claim, but my mind, carefully conditioned for decades, won’t allow it.
You cannot love her, I remind myself sternly. Because no matter how strong your connection or how deep your feelings, you cannot have her. Ever.
Especially if you actually care for her.
My chest aches with the terrible injustice of it as I slide the eggs onto two plates. Then I brace my hands on the kitchen counter and force myself to lean into the bleak truth and accept it before I pick up the plates and walk back into Brynn’s room.
***
I close my book and set it on the coffee table before us, picking up my mug and taking a sip of tea.
For the last two evenings, Brynn has insisted on reading in the living room instead of in her bedroom. At first I protested that she needed to stay in bed, but she argued that she could relax and heal just as well on the couch. Envisioning us without an end table between us made me give in a lot faster than I probably should have, but my misgivings weren’t warranted. It’s worked out fine.
I insisted that she still lie down, and she asked if I minded having her feet on my lap.
I think there will be very little in my life that I mind less than Brynn’s feet on my lap. While I am supposed to be reading, I study them: the delicate lines of her bones and the light blue rivers and tributaries of her busy veins.
Since my mental reminder in the kitchen, two days ago, I’ve worked hard to reframe my feelings for her into a more manageable context. She is my guest. She is my patient. She is recovering at my house, and when she is fully recovered, we will say goodbye. When I think of things in this way, it’s not that it’s necessarily easier to accept them, but it’s tidy packaging that forces my mind to move on from fruitless wishes for what can never be.
“Did you finish already?” she asks, looking up from A Prayer for Owen Meany, which she has almost finished.
“Yep.”
“Wow! You were on page one last night!”
“It’s a fast book.”
“How was it?”
I’ve read every story in Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House at least a hundred times. “Good. As always.”
Her face is thoughtful as she places Owen on the coffee table beside Kurt.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
She glances at the bookshelves under the window, then back at me. “One whole shelf is devoted to genetics.”
I nod. I already know I don’t like where this is going.
“Was one of your parents a geneticist?”
“No.”
She stares at me, and I know she wants to ask more questions, but I’m hoping if I don’t volunteer any more information, she’ll choose a
different topic.
“When did you move here?” she asks, switching gears.
“When I was nine,” I say.
She nods. “I figured.”
“How did you figure?”
“That portrait of you? The one that used to be over the couch? With your mom and dad? That was taken in—”
“The man in the picture was my grandfather,” I blurt out, my voice sharper than I intended. But something won’t allow her to believe that the face of a man I loved was my “dad.”
“Oh,” she says, leaning back a little, her eyebrows furrowing. “You lived here with your grandfather?”
I don’t want to talk about this. Truly I don’t. But I get the feeling that if I keep hedging her questions, they’ll only multiply.
“I moved here with my mother when I was nine. My grandfather already lived here. My father was . . . gone.”
“Gone?”
“Passed away.”
It’s a slight falsehood. He wasn’t killed by another inmate in prison until I was ten, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Her face registers instant shock. “Oh, no! Cassidy, I’m so—”
“It’s fine,” I bite out, standing up and placing her feet back on the couch cushion. I run a hand through my hair before catching her eyes. “Do you want more tea?”
“I shouldn’t have asked,” she says, screwing up her face, feeling sorry. “I’m just curious about you.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she repeats, looking up at me in surprise. “You saved my life; you nursed me back to health. You live alone here, in the middle of nowhere. You’re kind but quiet. You’re well-read but soft-spoken. You manage this whole place with a little solar power, some propane, and batteries. You’re interesting. I . . . I don’t know. I’m curious about you. I want to know more about you.”
I gulp, my heart unaccountably swelling from her words. From her interest in me.
“I tell you what . . . I’ll get us some more tea, and when I come back, you can ask me some questions, okay?”
She grins up at me. “Any questions?”
“I don’t promise to answer them all,” I say. “But you can ask.”
I leave her for a moment, stepping into the kitchen to pull the still-warm kettle from the stove and add water to our cups. I don’t know why I decided to answer some questions for her, but maybe it’s because I want her to know me. Not all of me, of course. Not who I really am. Not whose son I am. But she’s still going to be here for a couple more weeks. I don’t blame her for wanting a few answers from her host.
When I sit down again, I pull her feet back onto my lap and look at her expectantly.
“What do you want to know?”
“Okay, first, why did you and your mother move here?”
I breathe deep. “After my father was gone, my mother didn’t feel comfortable living alone in town. We moved here to be with my grandfather.”
“She didn’t want to remarry?”
“It wasn’t really an option.”
She looks curious, but doesn’t pursue this answer, and I’m grateful.
“Why did your grandfather live all the way out here?”
“He was . . . disillusioned with society after fighting in Vietnam. He wasn’t treated well when he returned. And, well . . .” I grin, just a little, remembering Gramp’s fiercely independent nature. “He didn’t want to be told what to do. He wanted to be . . . free, I guess. He wanted space and peace. He found it here.”
“I get that,” she says slowly, her eyes locked on mine. “After Jem died, I just wanted to be left alone. It’s . . . it’s hard for people to understand that, isn’t it? They want to help. They want to be there for you. But sometimes all you need is quiet. Space and peace. And time.”
I reach for my mug and take a sip of tea, silently agreeing with her.
“When did your grandfather pass?” she asks.
“Ten years ago.”
“And you stayed here? You didn’t want to move to a town?”
I shrug. “Not really. I have everything I need here.”
“Well, not everything,” she says quickly, maybe more to herself than to me.
When I glance at her over the rim of my cup, I see two spots of red color her cheeks. “What am I missing?”
“Well, um . . .” She laughs softly, averting her eyes. “I mean . . .” She clears her throat. “Companionship?”
“I have Annie and the girls.”
“Um . . .” She chuckles again. “That’s not what I mean.” She takes a deep breath. “I mean . . . a girlfriend. A wife? Unless . . .” She cocks her head.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you don’t want that.”
We stare at each other, deadlocked for a moment. Finally I look away. It’s easier to lie when you’re not looking someone in the eyes.
“I’m content with things the way they are.”
“But you’re so . . .”
My neck snaps up. “So what?”
She takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it go. “Aren’t you lonely, Cass?”
I shrug, looking out at Katahdin as the setting sun streaks the sky with purple and gold. I’m getting upset because her questions are hitting way too close to the truth, and I’m a bad liar.
“I’m just not much of a people person, I guess.”
“But—”
“But what? I don’t need anyone!” I bark, the strain of lying to her and talking about my past finally getting to me.
I’m instantly sorry for yelling. I can feel her hurt and disappointment, flat and awful in the air between us, even though I’m not looking at her. I hold my breath and tell myself it’s better this way. The fewer conversations we have about my past, the better it will be for both of us.
After a long silence, she speaks again. “When do you think I’ll be ready to go home?”
Her question slices through my heart like a hot, sharp knife. I let it bleed for a moment before answering.
“You’re healing well. I should be able to take the stitches out this weekend,” I say. “But the only way out of here is hiking or taking the ATV over four miles of rough ground. Either way, you’re going to need another week or two for those incisions to heal.”
“So two or three more weeks,” she says softly.
Her voice is so sad, I can’t help myself. I turn to face her. With tears brimming in her eyes, she looks back at me, and it hurts so bad that I upset her, I almost don’t know how to bear it.
“Brynn—”
“I . . . I don’t mean to be such a b-burden to you,” she whispers, looking away as she reaches up to swipe at a tear.
A burden? A . . . burden? It reverberates in my head like a dirty word because nothing could be further from the truth.
“I’m sorry,” she says, trying to pull her feet off my lap.
But I drop my hands to them, holding them where they are, my breath catching as I feel the skin of my palm press deliberately flush with the skin of her feet. I sink into the feeling of touching her—the warmth of her, of those busy blue veins moving her blood, of the birdlike bones and soft skin cradled in my rough, calloused hands. She is an angel, while I harbor the devil inside. But in this moment—in this finite, stolen moment when I should push her away—all I can feel is reverence and gratitude.
A burden?
The minutes I’ve spent with her are the greatest gift my quiet life has ever known.
I draw her foot up to my face, closing my eyes and pressing my lips to the arc of the soft instep. I rest there for a moment, ignoring the burn in my eyes, surrendering to worship. Her sole. My soul.
“I wish things were different,” I murmur before placing her foot back on my lap. When I open my eyes to look at her, she’s staring back at me, her lips parted, her eyes shocked.
“Cassidy,” she says, her voice breaking on my name.
Gently I lift her feet, place them back on the old, nubby couch, stand up, and walk alone into the dar
k, cold night.
Brynn
Here is what I know for certain:
I am falling hard for Cassidy Porter.
When tears sprang to my eyes last night, it wasn’t because he’d yelled at me and pushed me away—it was because I have only two or three weeks left with him. Being here, in his rustic hideaway, I can feel myself healing, strengthening, the pieces of my jigsawed life coming back together. In the quiet hours while he is working outside, I read his books, yes, but I have had more space, peace, and time to think than I have ever had before. And in this retreat-like sanctuary, with no modern distractions, I am finding myself all over again.
I think about my life before Jem, and my life with him. I think about the pain of losing him, and I think about my decision to come here and say goodbye. I think about everything Hope said, and I think about my parents and my friends back in San Francisco. I think about the future and what I want out of life. And I think about Cassidy.
No matter how hard I try to impose order on my thoughts, in fact, they always return to Cassidy.
I am in awe of him in a way that I can’t seem to compartmentalize. If I was sixteen, I’d call it a crush. But I’m a fully grown woman, and I know it’s more than that. I’d be lying if I tried to paint it as less.
So I can’t get him out of my head, and I’ve just about stopped trying.
There is just so much about him that speaks to me, that draws me to him, that I like, that makes my toes curl.
There’s the way he carried me down a fucking mountain and sewed up my wounds. And the way he consumes books the way other men consume sports statistics. There’s the way he plays the guitar, so soulfully, you’d swear he was twice his twenty-seven years. Or the way he spent an entire night hiking through darkness to find a phone with a little smudge of blood just because he thought it would help give me closure. He says so little, but still manages to make my heart go berserk with a word or touch.
And then—a warm pooling sensation in my stomach makes me moan softly as my eyes flutter closed—there’s the way his body looks while he’s chopping wood. His back muscles in motion are mesmerizing: the way they flex and bunch, stretch and release. I want to lay my palms flat on them as they move so I can feel the power underneath. He’s brutally, scorchingly hot—an actual, real-life Adonis—and my long-neglected girl parts go a little wild watching the sun shine down on his tan, sweat-soaked skin.
