Page 82 of Seeds of Christmas
Won’t let me help her over the rough patches, even though she’s clearly limping.
When I ask if she’s okay, she says “fine” in a voice that means anything but.
And I don’t know what the fuck happened.
Yesterday, we were good. Better than good.
It felt real. It felt like something.
And then this morning, after the cupcake, she went outside for “fresh air” and came back different.
Distant.
Like she’d built a wall while she was out there, and I’m not allowed past it anymore.
“You good?” I call back, checking on her for what feels like the hundredth time.
“I’m fine, Carter. You don’t have to keep asking.”
“I’m just checking?—”
“I know. I’m fine. Really.”
She’s not fine.
But clearly, she doesn’t want to talk about it.
So I shut up and keep walking.
By the timewe get back to the cabin, it’s nearly dark, and Rhi is limping badly. She tries to hide it, but I can see the way she’s favoring her left leg, the way her face is tight with pain.
“You should rest,” I say, dropping my pack by the door. “I’ll make dinner.”
“I can help?—”
“Rhi. Sit down. Rest your ankle.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Please.” It comes out harsher than I mean it to. “Just let me do something. Okay?”
She stares at me for a second, and I can see something flicker across her face. Fear? Guilt? I can’t tell.
“Okay,” she says finally. “Thank you.”
She sits on the couch, elevates her ankle, and pulls out her field notebook.
I move around the kitchen, making pasta, trying not to think about how wrong this feels.
How yesterday she would’ve sat at the kitchen table and talked to me while I cooked.
How yesterday she would’ve laughed at my terrible jokes and stolen bites of sauce straight from the pan.
How yesterday she looked at me like I mattered.
Today she won’t even meet my eyes.
And I don’t know how to fix something when I don’t know what’s broken.
