Page 50 of Seeds of Christmas
She nods slowly. “Yeah. It does.”
We sit— the fire crackling in front of us.
“I should probably head up,” she says, breaking the moment. “Early morning tomorrow. Big day of water sample collection ahead.”
“Right. Yeah. Me too.”
Neither of us moves.
Then she does—turns and heads for the ladder, and I watch her climb up to the loft, hyperaware of how small this cabin is. How there’s only a curtain between us up there. How I can already hear her moving around, the rustle of her sleeping bag, the soft sound of a zipper.
I’m in so much trouble here.
I stay downstairsfor a while longer, feeding the fire because that’s concrete and manageable and doesn’t require me to think about the fact that I’m developing feelings for someone I’ve known for three days.
Through the window, I can see stars.
So many stars.
More stars than I’ve ever seen in my life, sharp and bright against the black sky, like someone poked holes in construction paper and shined a light through from behind.
Dominic would have loved this. Would have known all the constellations. Would have pointed them out while I pretended to pay attention and actually just enjoyed listening to him talk.
The thought doesn’t hurt as much as it usually does.
Maybe Rhi’s right. Maybe being here helps.
My phone is in my backpack, dead and useless—a brick of glass and metal that can’t connect to anything. My family is hundreds of miles away, probably sitting around the table right now, the empty chair between them. It’s nearly Christmas and I’ll spend it collecting samples with a girl who organizes her field notes and makes delicious pasta sauce from canned goods.
It should feel lonely.
It doesn’t.
When I finally climb upto the loft—after banking the fire and checking the door and generally procrastinating as long as humanly possible—Rhi’s already in her sleeping bag.
The curtain is pulled mostly closed between our spaces, but not all the way. I can see the glow of her flashlight on her side, casting shadows on the sloped ceiling. I can hear the soft sound of pages turning.
She’s reading.
Of course, she brought books. Of course, she did. My little nerd.
I settle into my own sleeping bag as quietly as possible—which is not very quiet because sleeping bags are loud, the floorboards creak, and I’m about as graceful as a baby giraffe.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “I’m trying to be quiet.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice drifts over from behind the curtain. “I’m still awake.”
“What are you reading?”
“Something trashy. Romance novel. Very not academic.”
I smile in the darkness. “Scandalous.”
“I know. Don’t tell anyone. My reputation as a serious scientist would be ruined.”
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
The pages start turning again. I lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening to her breathe.
