Page 30 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

The tears in her eyes have disappeared and she seems to be in a daze now, as if she’s hardened herself from reacting to the story she’s probably had to tell a hundred times. Like some sort of autopilot kicked on halfway through and saved her from herself. She shrinks under my stare and I dig for words that I can’t find.

“Listen,” she finally says, her tone different now, “I know it’s a heavy story, but I really am working through it. I’m in therapy and taking all those steps you’re supposed to take to get over this sort of thing. I just wanted you to know because it is a big part of my life still at this point, and if we might try to, um, visit each other in the future, it’s something you should know.”

I nod while clearing my throat of some attempt at words that I’m glad I don’t have to force out. I’m sure they would be wrong, and I can tell by her tone that she’s not looking for a reaction. Instead, I pull her back to me and run my fingers through her hair as she falls back into the same position next to me. After a long while, her breathing changes and I know she is falling asleep.

I’m wide awake beside her.

A million things are running through my head, a million pieces falling together all at once and I’m rushing to decipher them. It’s why she was uncomfortable with a stranger and a gun. It’s why she jumped the first night when the fire popped and then disengaged. It’s why she was having that nightmare in the first place, saying ‘shooter’ and not ‘Hooters.’ It’s why she’s here right now, asleep beside me instead of in her classroom.

It’s why she read that damn book.

It’s why she’s on this trip.

Fuck. I really do know how to say the wrong thing.

Hours later, we wake up still curled around each other. Her back is pressed against my front. The fire is out and the only hint of daylight left in the sky disappears as quickly as it registers in my brain.

This is it. The start of our last night together, at least for now.

The thought makes my whole body feel tethered to the bed beside her. Like if we stay still, morning won’t find us.

But Abby has people waiting for her in town – friends and family that traveled across the country to make sure she’s okay. I can’t imagine what that’s like, to have people who care so much that they drop everything just be there.

Not that I blame them. I’d fly across the country for Abby, too.

But for now, I need to let her go. She has a life waiting for her back in Portland, even if it’s on hold right now while she works through her trauma and recovers from the shooting. It isn’t as easy as just keeping her here.

It’s too soon to even think like that.

It’s only been a few days. It isn’t reasonable to make big plans with each other yet. But I can’t deny that I want to. The feeling’s been growing inside me since I met her, and now I can’t deny how right it feels to have her here with me. How easy it is to be with her and how desperately I want to keep being with her. I’ve never wanted anyone else’s company the way I want hers. She fills up a space I didn’t know was empty. She fits perfectly in a place I didn’t know had room for anyone else but me.

Abby stirs beside me, letting out a dramatic groan as she pries her eyes open. Her head tilts up and then drops heavily back to her pillow.

“Is it nighttime?” she groans into the fabric.

“Just barely.”

There’s an unsettled feeling inside me. I need to let her know that I don’t want this to be it. I want to make an effort and see where this goes…whatever that might look like. If there is anyone that might fit here with me, it’s Abby. And I may be a man of few words, but even I realize that ‘Portland seems nice’ was not a sufficient answer to her questions. I have to try to talk to her about it again tonight.

But first, dinner. We’ve barely eaten all day.

“You hungry? I ask.

“Starving.”

We’re down to the dregs of my food supply. We both stare blankly into the small cupboard at the paltry offering of dusty cans. Abby reaches forward, brushing her chest against my arm as she pulls out a box of macaroni and presents it to me with her hopeful eyebrows raised.

“Out of milk, I think,” I say.

Digging through the pantry again, she eventually finds a box tucked far into the back corner. I barely recognize it. The box of powdered milk packets pre-dates even my time at the cabin. A relic of ranger’s past.

“Uh, better check the date on that.”

“Next year,” she chirps as she flips the box over between her hands. “This stuff’s good forever.”

When Abby sets the dish of macaroni down in front of me a few minutes later, I eye it suspiciously. I’m not a big fan of macaroni and cheese under the best of circumstances, and powdered milk is far from the best circumstance I can imagine. I take a tentative bite. It tastes surprisingly normal. After that, I dig in heartily.

Abby also devours bite after bite. When I consider what made her work up such an appetite, my mind flashes to images of her spread out across my lap. The memory of it makes me twitch against my jeans under the table.

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