Page 36 of Stay With Me

Charlie laughs and bends down to restart the machine. When it roars to life, I turn my back on him and smile.

That was easy. Guess I can still talk my way out of any?—

I jump as a hard object hits me right on the ass. When I look down at the porch floor, the splattered remnants of a snowball are on the concrete. I whip my head up to glare at Charlie, only to find him casually moving the snowblower through the snow, his lips pursed like he’s whistling.

And I swear he winks before I turn back to the door and go into the warmth of the house.

* * *

CHARLIE

I know Emily didn’t mean to hit me with that tower of snow, but it was fun teasing her a little and seeing an expression on her face other than sadness. When I finish the walkway, I stand on the porch and stomp my feet, trying to get as much of the snow off me as possible before I go into her house.

After I cross over the threshold, I slip out of my boots, coat, and my hat and gloves. I inhale deeply when the rich aroma of coffee and something else—chocolate, maybe—hits my nose. Having only been here one other time when I mowed her grass, I don’t feel comfortable just walking through her house.

“Em? Is it okay to come in?” I call out. I stand in the foyer and wait until she appears in the living room across from me.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you can come in. You never have to stand at the door and wait. Now come on, I’ll pour your coffee. Do you still just take it black?”

“Yep. Just black.” I walk across the living room until I’m almost to her.

“Do you mind starting the gas fireplace and I’ll go grab our drinks?” She gestures with her head toward the hearth, and I nod at her.

I easily light the fire and squat near it, trying to warm up, until she returns with two steaming mugs. I stand and she hands one to me before she sits on the couch, pulling her legs up underneath her.

I sit on the opposite end, and we sip on our coffee, not needing to fill the silence.

After a few minutes, I glance over at her to find her staring at the fire.

“Hey, Em?” She turns to look at me. “What was going on with you when I first got here? You were sort of out of it.”

“Oh, that? I was in the ocean.” She says it so matter-of-factly that I’m worried about her mindset.

“The ocean? Is that a metaphor for something?” I angle my body toward her and set my coffee mug down on the table so I can give her my full attention.

A sweet-sounding chuckle escapes her. “No. Not a metaphor. Trauma therapy.”

I say nothing, waiting to see if she’ll elaborate.

“It’s a technique my therapist taught me. When I’m triggered by a traumatic memory or emotion, I visualize myself in the ocean in Hawaii, floating with the cool water against my skin. The sun shines down on me, and the only sounds around me are tinkling noises because my ears are under water. I’ve never forgotten how it felt since Trina took me there for my college graduation—calm, relaxed, protected. So, it’s my trauma place.”

“Something outside triggered you?” My voice is soft, not wanting to stress her. But I desperately want to know how she’s feeling, what she’s going through.

She looks down at her hands and shrugs.

“Yeah, I guess. It was a combination of things. First, I couldn’t get the snowblower to start, not that I even knew how to use it, anyway. Then I felt helpless, which pissed me off. But managing the snow was always one of Teddy’s jobs because I’ve always hated being cold. I did other things that he hated doing. So, I guess it started with the stupid snowblower not turning on for me, but it turned into me feeling so furious about what he had done with… with her. And what that did to our lives. It just spiraled from there, so I had to get out of the cycle. The only thing I could think to do was try the visualization of being in the ocean.”

“Did it work?”

She smiles, a tiny one, but a smile, nonetheless. “Yeah, I think it did.”

“Good. I’m glad.” I take the last swig of my coffee and then stand. “Now, if you’re done with your coffee, grab a jacket and lead me to your garage.”

“Huh?” Emily’s crinkled eyes and tilted head tell me she’s confused. She stands, though, and walks to her foyer to grab a fleece out of the closet. I follow her, and we both slip on our shoes.

Forty-five minutes later, I’ve taught her everything I can think of about owning a snowblower, including putting fuel stabilizer in at the end of the season, checking spark plugs, using starting fluid, and the electric start versus the pull start. After she’s done all the troubleshooting on hers, under my watchful eye, she insists on trying to start it using the pull start.

She’s biting her lower lip and concentrating as she gives the pull cord a yank. After two pulls, and only a slight rumble from the engine, she narrows her eyes and purses her lips, determination written all over her face. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep myself from helping unless she asks for it.

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