Page 10 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

“Sorry,” she eventually says quietly. Whether she’s sorry that it happened or that it ended so abruptly, I’m not sure.

“Don’t be.”

I stare up at the ceiling as I adjust to the rapid loss of warmth all around me.

We each take a turn in the bathroom. Her first, then me. I spend several minutes splashing cold water on my face while flipping through a mental catalog of non-arousing thoughts. When I come back to bed, Abby is curled up facing away from my side of the mattress. She seems to be asleep, but I’m pretty sure she’s faking it. Even though she didn’t put the chastity pillow back in place, I keep my distance and brace myself for an awkward morning.

Chapter 7

Abby

Maybe I’ll write my own self-help book. Instead ofHiking Toward Happiness: Finding Yourself on the Appalachian Trail, I’ll call itFumbling Toward Embarrassment:Humiliating Yourself on the Appalachian Trail.

Chapter one: lack the basic skills required for hiking, be rescued by an attractive ranger, fall down a whole lot until you’re unconscious, be mistaken for a husky adolescent boy, be scared of all sounds, including the sound of your own armpits, spit up on yourself, be obliviously pants-less, cry in your sleep, seduce him when he tries to comfort you, and then (once again) be scared of all sounds and inexplicably put an end to said seduction.

I’ll probably need to break that up into more chapters.

Ever since the shooting, I’ve been jumpy around loud noises. I don’t know if it will ever pass. Last night, it was more than just the noise though. When the fire popped, I remembered the nightmare that I was just having – the same one I often have about the shooting – and I suddenly felt a wave of humiliation. Somehow, in only a few minutes, I went from distraught and horrified to basically dry-humping Hunter’s leg.

Oh, the dry humping. I’d forgotten about that. That will need a separate chapter in my book, too.

I’ve had the same nightmare a hundred times, but there has never been anyone there to wake me up from it before. Never anyone to hold me afterward. It probably just made some neurons in my brain misfire. That’s the only explanation I can come up with.

The cabin is still dark, so it’s hard to say what time it is. The gloom and rain filter out most traces of daylight, making it nearly indistinguishable from the night. But I can’t pretend to sleep any longer.

Hunter has been tossing and turning beside me ever since the incident. I’m not sure that he slept much better than I did afterward. More than once, I considered turning over and either pouncing on him again or explaining that I am deeply and fundamentally broken, but it was easier to just lay there and wallow.

My therapist says I need to talk about what happened. She says I use humor to cope with things, but I need to find another way to deal with this since humor isn’t an option. I thought some time alone in the woods would help me work through it. Obviously, that isn’t working out very well.

At least Hunter doesn’t seem to recognize me. My face was all over the news after the shooting. It’s nice to have a break from all the questions and attention.

Slipping out from under the covers, I pad softly across the hardwood floor to the kitchen. After a bit of rummaging, I find the coffee and start brewing a pot. The coffeemaker gurgles in the process and I glance over to make sure it didn’t wake Hunter.

He wasted no time overtaking the bed. He’s on his stomach now, arms and legs stretched wide as if he’s hugging the mattress. The blankets ride low on his back and his muscles are evident through his flimsy t-shirt. A wave of desire and regret courses through me as I remember the feeling of those muscles against my fingers last night. The feeling of his fingers curling inside me. The feeling of urgent wanting – maybe even urgent need – passing between us. I’d never felt that with anyone before. Every man I’ve ever slept with before followed a similar pattern: a few mediocre dates, some awkward fumbling, and a lot of checking in during the act. Questions like: How’s that? Does that feel okay? Do you need to change positions?

With Hunter, there was no question. My body reacted with such blatant honesty to his touch, there was no doubt. There was no mistaking my reaction to his touch.

God, this is going to be an awkward morning.

I glance out the window beyond the dining table. The rain is coming down harder than ever. It won’t just be an awkward morning, but an awkward day…or maybe even longer. At the rate I’m going, I might actually be in danger of dying of embarrassment in the not-too-distant future.

Hunter wakes up just as the coffee pot gives one final gurgle to announce that it’s done. He pulls on the pair of jeans he dropped beside the bed last night and trudges off to the bathroom without a word. I’m sure last night did very little to quell his grumpiness. At the very least, I confused him…maybe even pissed him off. He’s probably used to getting his way with all the women he claims to rescue out here because of that book.

When he comes out of the bathroom, he changes shirts quickly. His back is to me and I unabashedly watch the show since he can’t see me. By the time he turns around, I’m looking out the window again. He glances in the same direction as he strides across the room.

“It’s still really coming down out there,” he says as he enters the kitchen and pours a cup of coffee.

“Yeah.”

Silence.

There’s nowhere for either of us to go in the small cabin. There’s not much for us to look at except for the rain, which is so heavy it obscures the view of anything beyond it in the windowpane. Each sip of coffee we take seems like a countdown to the moment when we’ll run out and have to find some other way to avoid talking.

Hunter seems more at ease with the situation than I am. He’s leaning casually against the counter watching the rain. I don’t mind the silence usually, but this man was born for silence. He lives in silence, without so much as an old, static-y television set or a lazy dog for company.

“You should get a dog,” I blurt out as I’m refilling my coffee cup.

Whatever reaction he has to this goes unnoticed as I keep my eyes fixed down at my coffee and shuffle back to my spot across from him.

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