by Elaria Ride
We’d held a big memorial for both of them soon after, although I have no memory of it. As a kid who was already pretty isolated, the whole ceremony was a more soul-crushing, traumatizing experience than I can put in words. I’m told I was a pallbearer for one of their caskets, but photographs are the only proof. Even today, there isn’t a single part of me capable of remembering what happened that day. Sylvie calls that compartmentalizing; I call it survival.
Losing your virginity, having your heart broken, and then losing the would-be love of your life is a lot to process in a week. Especially for a kid without zero coping skills. I hadn’t been able to reconcile the vile, bubbling feelings in my stomach… like the grief, over both of their deaths. The guilt, over wishing Sarah harm. The regret, over allowing them to drive away. And worst of all, the horrid, bitter sense of relief — because at least she hadn’t ended up with Joey, after all.
Like I said, I’d been a seriously fucked-up kid; I don’t pretend to be proud of any of those feelings, but they’d been there, plain as day… and after the accident, each passing day on Biggal Mountain only made me feel worse.
Even today, my guilt is compounded by the fact that I know I’ll never face a fraction of the pain felt by Sarah and Joey’s parents. I’m sure that’s the type of pain that still throbs in their hearts, over a decade later. It’s the type of pain that may look different as time passes, but will never fully disappear. The wildlife at the park is the closest I’ve ever gotten to having children, but I’ve been absolutely gutted on the rare occasions when an animal has passed under my watch. I can only begin to imagine what it must be like for Sarah’s parents and Joey’s mom, who can’t simply care for another animal to ease some of their heartache.
So after the memorial, I retreated into myself. I stopped talking. I barely graduated, scarcely summoning the energy (and the credits) to walk across the stage with my class. In retrospect, I realize that this incident sparked the birth of Automatic Asher — and in truth, the only thing that kept me from ending it all right there was the dream of getting as far as possible the second I could.
A week after graduation, I informed my parents I’d be flying across the country to hike the entire Appalachian Trail. Mom and Dad had been — in equal parts — horrified and concerned… but neither of them had seemed terribly surprised: I’d always been the hippie.
My decision to spend the next year on the East Coast was the best choice I ever made. I hiked from Maine to Georgia; I made my own meals; I pitched my own tents; I’d been forced to take care of myself… and though the circumstances had been terrible, I needed that time to find out who I really was.
I’d considered hooking up with a few girls I met along the way, just to prove that I could sleep with someone else. But deep down, I’d known that would leave me feeling emptier than before. For months, the very thought of sleeping with another girl conjured a haunting image of Sarah’s face. I was broken and raw and grieving — and I still felt guilty for having the audacity to be heartbroken over a break-up text, of all things.
By the time I reached Georgia, I’d realized two things: one, that I absolutely need to work in nature.
And two, that I do not hook up.
The latter might make me old-fashioned or stuffy or boring, but honestly I don’t care. My time on the Appalachian Trail taught me that I’d rather be alone than in another ‘relationship’ like the one I’d had with Sarah. It’s taken me years to accept that I’m still allowed to be angry with her for breaking my heart.
Yes, she’d died — and tragically. Yes, she’d been robbed of life — which I’ve gotten to experience. But I’m allowed to feel both anger and sadness, both heartache and remorse. For me, the hardest part has been knowing how to shut these off; when I allow myself to wallow, things go to shit. So while I was hiking the trail, I learned how to turn those emotions off… for better or worse. And folks? That’s why I’m the fucked-up person I am today.
After I got to Georgia, I finally reached out to my parents again. Even though I’d gone months without contacting them, they’d jumped at the chance to find me an actual job, to help me find the purpose I’d been lacking. Fortunately, my family has connections: The Senior Park Ranger of Biggal Mountain National Park was retiring, and after Dad put in a good word, I’d nabbed an entry-level position.
I’d taken all of this as a sign. I’m not meant to marry a woman; I’m meant to marry a job.
So at age 19, I’d returned home with a new job and a new lease on life — and home is exactly where I stayed for 15 years. Of course, my job duties have changed since then, but I’ve been so grateful to work in nature that I’ve ignored the downsides. Like still answering to my dad. Or all the damn red tape. Or being unable to date co-workers.
Until last summer, though, none of this had really occurred to me… but you know the rest.
I groan and stand up from my perch in the snow, but somehow I hear my sister’s voice echoing in my head as I move. As painful as it was to rehash Sarah again, I know why my mind drifted to her in the first place: I know now, beyond any doubt, that I care far, far more about Autumn than I ever cared about her.
I shudder, slamming my eyes shut — although I should have pieced this together before.
This is why I show up early to warm the place before Autumn arrives. This is why all my fantasies of Sarah have inexplicably been replaced. This is why I’ve started watching movies so I can understand things like quotes and pop culture references.
I’m in love with her.
The realization sucks the wind from my lungs. My head spins, my heart pounds, my knees feel weak… but now, I’ve finally exhausted my ability to deny what’s right in front of my face.
Because unlike what I’ve told Sylvie, my feelings for Autumn aren’t a harmless crush. This isn’t kid stuff. This isn’t butterflies or a passing fancy.
No.
I let out a delirious chuckle as I gaze at my cabin in the distance. I’ve spent so long living alone, so long isolating myself and putting up walls.
What I hadn’t realized is that Autumn’s been in my head for months, even if she’s only been in my house for days.
So what the hell are you doing out here, Asher?
Sylvie’s voice rings across my head as loudly as if she were here with me. But I know these words carry a deeper truth: Autumn is worth more to me than my job has ever been. And now? I have a responsibility to prove it.
This is uncharted territory, something that lacks a manual or a guide. It’s fucking terrifying to accept that you care about someone so much that’d you gladly give everything you’ve ever worked for, just to make her happy.
I can only hope she’ll have me… but if she won’t? I’ll do everything and anything to keep seeing her every day. To bask in her light. To linger in her sunshine.
I’m tired of playing by arbitrary rules of red tape and bureaucracy and stifling my primal instincts. Autumn has given me a purpose I’ve never had before. She’s opened my eyes to the fact that I deserve better — that she deserves better.
With a sinking sensation in my stomach, I also realize that I’ve left her alone. I’ve been so selfishly consumed that I ignored her this morning.
And since I’ve been out here over two hours, I’m gonna assume I hadn’t been there when she’d woken up…
That I’d left her alone, just like Sarah had done to me.
11
Autumn
I could have stayed asleep if the front door hadn’t slammed shut so loudly.
It’s the type of booming slam that rattles windows and door frames, echoing in a tiny space. My whole body startles at the sound, my eyes opening just in time to feel a winter gust wash over me.
In my state of confusion, though, I don’t put the pieces together.
All I’m able to notice at first is how fucking cold it is. I shiver and burrow deeper into the warmth of my bed. It’s strange, being this cold… especially after I’d spent the whole night being so warm. A s
mile crosses my lips as my mind drifts to the source of that heat, the way Asher had wrapped his body around me and —
I reach a tentative hand behind me, but I really should have figured Asher isn’t here.
Shit. I sit upright in bed, suddenly as alert as if someone had doused me in ice water.
Asher isn’t here.
I glance around the cabin, torn between confusion and alarm. It’s not dark, which is a good indicator that it’s not morning — but the rest is unclear. My biggest clues as to the time of day are the gray light washing over the cabin and the merrily crackling fire in the fireplace. Based on the looks of things, Asher had added to the fire what, six hours ago? Maybe a little longer?
There’s a fresh bundle of logs right next to the grate, too. I cock my head. It’s not as if we’re out of wood. And Asher wouldn’t have left without saying anything… would he?
I take a deep breath before I let my thoughts get out of hand. Asher could have a thousand reasons for leaving me here. Perhaps he finally got through on the radio and went to find help. Perhaps he made more progress on shoveling a path out. Perhaps he’s looking for wildlife or making sure there aren’t bears or —
I stop myself with a huff. Bears. C’mon, now. That’s the least realistic excuse thus far, and only partially because they’re all, you know, asleep. I rise from the bed, unwilling to fall down that rabbit hole of stinking thinking.
Not just yet.
Has excessive worrying ever gotten anyone anything besides misery? I really doubt it. If Asher left, he must have his reasons. I swing my feet over the side of the bed and try to put the possibility out of my mind.
At first, the pain shooting up my back is a welcome distraction. Ouch. I hiss; apparently, putting all of your weight on your legs after an injury isn’t the best idea. Sleeping for that long last night must’ve given my body the chance to realize the full extent of its injuries. Fortunately, my head feels a lot better — which I know is the biggest concern.
So with that, I make a tentative trip to the bathroom, but every step makes me feel worse and worse — and not just because I’m in pain. As hard as I’d tried to convince myself that Asher must have had valid reasons for leaving, the soreness spreading through my body only serves as a reminder of how much he’d helped me walk before. He’d been so patient, so understanding, his reassuring touches guiding me along the way.
I bite my lip as my cheeks flush. And yeah… his other reassuring touches last night had been nice, too.
I let out a sigh as I finally reach the bathroom, limping as I go. I try to think about things objectively, to view it all from Asher’s perspective, but I keep coming back to the cold, hard facts: a few hours ago, I’d experienced the best sexual release of my life. The other person in question had 100% known how good it was, too, because I’d told him that no one else had ever gotten that far. He knows I’m kind of insecure and that I’m definitely a virgin and that I’m very attracted to him. Yet somehow, I’d still woken up alone.
But that’s not true, is it?
Because I hadn’t just woken up alone… something had woken me. And loudly.
I shake my head as I approach the tiny bathroom sink, but I know that my shaky legs won’t last through a shower right now. Which is a bummer, because I’m still covered in coffee. I wrinkle my nose as I brush my hair; I can still faintly smell dirt and soap and everything I’d rolled around in when I’d fallen on the canyon.
I glance up at myself in the mirror and let out another sigh. I’ve never been cute in the mornings. I pinch my cheeks, trying to give myself a bit of color; I’m awfully pale, aren’t I? This cold climate has done little for my complexion, which is normally a much deeper hue of honeyed brown.
Staring at myself in the mirror isn’t a habit I practice often — and it’s especially not a habit I practice when I’m already in a bad mood. Over the years, I’ve learned how to cope from the body-shaming left over from my childhood. I’ve learned how to avoid discussion topics that might upset me and how to sidestep other women complaining about their weight.
My most effective strategy, though, has been refusing to allow myself to dwell on negativity.
But right now, I can’t seem to snap out of it. As I stare at my full cheeks and my double-chin, that nasty inner voice pipes up from the back of my brain. I slam my eyes shut against it, but it’s no use: this voice sounds suspiciously like my mother… and it carries thoughts that haunt me when I feel the worst about myself.
He’s into fat chicks, sneers the voice, and you’re still too fat for him.
I shudder, but between the pain in my legs and back and the weird pseudo-abandonment and the series of crazy calamities in the past 24 hours, I’m powerless to stop these thoughts from spiraling deeper and deeper: Asher probably left because he’s ashamed. He doesn’t want to be seen with you, just as you’d always thought. You’d might as well leave and spare both of you the humiliation. If you die in the woods, he’ll still get what he wanted, and —
“NO!” My voice booms out of nowhere, louder than I’d expected.
I blink at myself in the mirror again, glad that some part of me possessed the strength to stop that utter bullshit.
I draw a deep breath, watching as my chest rises in the mirror.
No is right.
Giving in to that weakness is something I refuse to do — something society has tried to make me do, for as long as I can remember. If I keep persevering on these thoughts, I’m letting all those fuckers win.
And on the off-chance Asher is one of those fuckers? So be it. I’ve gone my own way my whole life. I won’t be stupid enough to let him take advantage of me… not again.
I shake my head, watching as my brown curls bounce around my face.
I am Autumn Walker, I think fiercely, both pleased and alarmed at the maniacal glint in my eye.
And I will never let those fuckers win.
For the next hour, my only goal is getting my pain under control: If Asher can (literally) walk away, I need to be sure I can, too.
After limping into the kitchen and getting myself a piece of bread from his counter, I take more ibuprofen and down a whole glass of water. It’s not much, but it’s a start.
On the way back to bed, the strange plastic box from before catches my eye. It’s right below his hat-rack (and seriously, who needs that many cowboy hats when brown canvas uniforms comprise your entire wardrobe?), but just like last night, I’m insatiably curious…
While I’m poking around his house, I reason that I might as well inspect it. He’s certainly left me to do so.
I bend down and look at the box. It’s empty, save for a fleece yellow blanket spread across the bottom. There’s a wire rack on top and an electric cord running behind, one that’s attached to the wall.
Oh. I release a breath through my nose. It’s an incubator.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. Asher loves animals, doesn’t he? He loves caring for wounded creatures, nursing them back to health. Is that all I am to him? Something that’s wounded?
Fuck. I don’t know how to handle that, not between the other shit I’ve got going on. So I just shake my head and limp towards the bed, trying to ignore the painful memories from last night that spring up as I approach the place we’d… whatever. I shudder, pushing those thoughts even deeper. No need to go there, not now.
Instead, I need to focus on feeling better — and having sustained a fair number of muscular injuries over the course of my rough-and-tumble outdoorsy life, I think I know just the thing.
I rifle around for a second in Asher’s bedside table. It’s a little alarming how fast I find what I’m looking for, but I suppose after last night, I shouldn’t be shocked: Asher obviously knows what he’s doing. He’s adept at pleasing women — and it’s painfully obvious I wasn’t his first. The giant bottle of lube (and not to mention the stray condoms in his drawer) more or less prove that.
I giggle as I retrieve the bottle and pull it onto the bed. This m
ay seem unconventional, but I think it’s the closest I’m gonna get to massage oil while I’m here. My legs are miserably sore, which means my options are limited.
With that, I roll up my pajama leg a few more times, get into a crouched position, and open the cap of the lube. I’m not sure how long I sit there, ruminating over the whole fucked-up situation — but Asher interrupts this, as he has a tendency to do. When the door handle rattles, I suck in a sharp breath. Then a second later, the door opens and then shuts. At an appropriate volume.
Somehow, I’m more irritated knowing that it’s Asher and not a potential intruder. At least an intruder would have purer motives.
“Hey,” Asher calls from the doorway. His voice is raw and scratchy, but I ignore him. I know perfectly well how petty this is, but I just continue working the lube into my right calf.
I hear him remove his boots, cowboy hat, and jacket before striding over to the bed. He stands there awkwardly for a few minutes, smelling of snow and wilderness, before he finally clears his throat. “Do you uh… do you want help?”
I set the bottle down for a second, my hand on my bruised thigh. And it’s only then that I look up at him. Shit, he looks awful. His eyes are red-rimmed, like he’s been crying. Or maybe just rubbing them over and over. He’s pale, he’s shaky, and he’s stuffed his hands in his pockets like he doesn’t know what do to with himself.
Guilt replaces the bitterness that’s filled my stomach. I feel my face soften as I stare back at him. Whatever it is… he deserves a chance to explain.
“Sure.” My voice is scarcely above a whisper as I hand the bottle over to him. “I’m working on my calves. They’re tight.”
Asher chuckles, sinking to his knees beside the bed. “I imagine so.” He doesn’t comment on my liquid of choice; I relax beneath his touch, pleased neither of is us embarrassed. His warm hands wrap around my calves, and I’m grateful (yet again) that I’d shaved recently.
