Page 27 of Seeds of Christmas
But we’re already here. We’ve already hiked in. And the storm isn’t supposed to hit until tonight—I checked the forecast three times this morning. We have time.
I want to say that. Want to explain that I’ve done this in worse conditions, that I know these sites, that we’re fine.
But the words stick in my throat.
What if I’m wrong? What if the storm comes in faster than predicted? A familiar tight grip clenches in my chest—the same one that tells me if I make one wrong call, everything collapses, and it’ll be my fault. Because it always feels like it’s my fault. That’s what being “the responsible one” means; mess up once and you lose the only thing you’re good for.
What if we get stuck out here and it’s my fault and Carter gets hurt and Professor Bam’s data is ruined and?—
“Rhi?”
I’m spiraling. I know I’m spiraling. This is what I do—second-guess myself into paralysis because what if I’m wrong, what if I make the wrong call, what if people are upset with me?—
“I—” I start, then stop. Try again. “I mean, the forecast said the storm wouldn’t hit until tonight. We should be fine? But if you think we should go back?—”
“Doyouthink we should go back?”
“I... what?”
“You’ve done this forty-seven times. You know these sites. You know the weather patterns.” He’s watching me carefully. “What does your gut say?”
My gut says we’re fine. My gut says we have at least three hours before the storm hits, and this site check takes forty-five minutes max.
But my mouth won’t say it.
“I don’t want to—” I swallow. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. If you think we should leave, we can leave.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His voice is gentle but firm. “I asked whatyouthink.”
God, why is this so hard?
“I think...” Deep breath. “I think we’re okay. The storm’s not supposed to be here until seven, maybe eight PM. We’ve got time. But?—”
“But what?”
“But if you’re worried, we can come back tomorrow. It’s fine. Really.” The words come out in a rush. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to stay or being reckless or?—”
“Rhi.” He says my name like he’s trying to snap me out of something. “Stop. You’re not forcing me to do anything. You’re the expert here. If you say we’re good, we’re good. I trust you.”
I blink at him. “You... you do?”
“Yeah.” He says it so simply, like it’s obvious. “You’ve been doing this for two years. You know what you’re doing. I’m just here to carry shit and try not to break anything.”
Something in my chest cracks open.
He’s not mad. He’s not telling me I’m being stupid or obsessive or reckless. He’s not making me responsible for his comfort while simultaneously undermining my judgment.
He asked what I thought. And when I told him, he believed me.
“Okay,” I say, voice a little unsteady. “Okay. We stay. We do the site check. We’re fine.”
“Cool.” He picks up the equipment case like it’s settled. “Just tell me what you need.”
I stand there for a second longer, trying to process what just happened.
Then I shake myself out of it and start unpacking. “Water samples first. Then temperature readings.”
We work in tandem, and it’s surprising how easily we fall into our roles. I handle the water sample collection and pH readings,explaining each step as I go. Carter manages the temperature readings. He’s methodical, careful, double-checking his work in a way that makes me revise my entire internal assessment of him.
