Brynn

 

When I wake up, my hip hurts. Sharp pains alternate with a dull, burning throb, but I suppose pain is to be expected when you’re healing from injuries like mine. Don’t be a baby, Brynn. Be strong. To distract myself, I breathe through my nose, and my mouth waters. Someone is making food, and it smells beyond delicious.

“Cassidy?” I call as my stomach growls loudly enough to wake the dead. “Are you there?” No answer. “Cassidy? Cass?”

“Coming!”

I brace my hands on either side of my hips, lift my head, and slide back a little into a sitting position by the time he pushes the curtain aside.

I have seen his face several times now, but I am struck by its singularity all over again. It’s not just his fascinating mismatched eyes, or those three beguiling beauty marks that tease me. It’s not even how tall and strong he is, though he’s wearing a T-shirt that shows off his insanely toned arms, with the muscle definition of a lumberjack.

It’s a lot more than how he looks. It’s that my heart has been moved by his kindness to me—by the fact that he has saved my life multiple times and continues to take care of me, a stranger. When I think of him carrying me on his back for hours and hours on end through that unforgiving rain, I want to cry until all the tears in my body are spent. I can’t remember the last time I met someone so selfless. It makes my heart ache a little.

“Hi,” I say softly.

“How’re you feeling?”

I take a deep breath, and the burning in my side flares to an almost unbearable place. I hold my breath until it subsides a little. “It hurts . . . but I’m okay.”

“I guess it’ll be sore for a while.” He tilts his head to the side. “Up for some eggs? They’re fresh.”

“Sure,” I say with a grateful smile. “They smell delicious.”

He disappears, only to return a moment later with a plate covered with scrambled eggs. My mouth waters as he sets the dish on the end table beside me, but I stop him as he turns to leave.

“Wait! Aren’t you having some?”

He hooks a thumb toward the kitchen. “Yeah.”

“Do you want to bring yours in here?” I ask, my voice hopeful.

He holds my eyes for a second, then looks away. “Thought I’d just eat quick. Lots of work to catch up on.”

“Oh,” I murmur, surprised by how disappointed I feel.

“Hey,” he says quickly. “Sure. I can . . . I can take a break. I’ll bring mine in here with you.”

His jeans are worn, and he wears them low on his hips, I notice, as he walks back toward the kitchen to grab his plate. When he moves, I can see a strip of tanned skin between the jeans and his shirt, and I feel my cheeks flush as he turns around and catches me gawking, though there’s no look of teasing or triumph on his face. It’s almost like he didn’t notice, or that he’s so modest, he didn’t correlate my ogling with his muscular body.

I pick up my plate and am digging into the eggs when he returns and takes a seat in the rocker on the other side of the end table.

“This is, oh . . . mmm,” I say, swallowing a mouthful.

“The girls do good work,” he answers, taking a smaller and more polite-size bite of his own.

The girls? “What girls?”

“Macy, Casey, Lacey, Gracie, Tracey, and Stacey.”

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth, loaded with fluffy yellow goodness. “Who?”

“Macy, Casey, Lacey, Gracie, Tracey, and Stacey.” He chuckles softly. “The hens.”

My brain acknowledges that he’s talking about chickens, but my heart is completely distracted by the soft, low rumble of his laugh. Do it again. For the love of all that’s holy, please laugh again.

“The girls rhyme,” I observe, taking another bite.

“Yes, they do,” he agrees, but he doesn’t laugh and I feel cheated.

“Did you name them?”

He nods.

“Very interesting.”

“How so?”

“You don’t look like the type to name your chickens all rhymey and silly.”

“Are you saying I’m no fun?”

I shake my head, grinning at him. “Just serious.”

“Is that bad?” he asks, looking at me closely, like he expects an honest answer.

“Not to me,” I say. “I like serious.”

He turns back to his food, but I think I see the corner of his lip twitch like maybe he approves of my answer, though he doesn’t say so. I shovel the last of my eggs into my mouth and put the plate back on the table.

I think I’ve been here for about four days now, but I’m not sure. Either way, I should probably call my parents and let them know I’m not dead.

“Cassidy, can I use your phone?”

He jerks his head to look at me. “Telephone?”

I nod. “Landline or cell. Whatever you’ve got handy. I want to call my parents and let them know I’m okay.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have a telephone.”

I feel my face go slack. No phone? I’ve never heard of such a thing. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t . . . I mean, I don’t have anyone to call,” he says simply, spearing another bite of egg.

“No family?”

“Might still have a great-uncle over in New Hampshire, but we lost touch a long while back.”

No family? No friends? I’m about to pry, but force myself not to. Maybe he’s taking a break from the world for a good reason. Didn’t I live like a hermit in my apartment for two years? Pot, meet kettle. I have no right to pick at him.

“Okaaaaay,” I say, working to control my curiosity. “Can I use your laptop?”

He stops chewing and stares at me. “You want to use my . . . lap?”

“Your laptop. Your . . . computer? I could e-mail them.”

“Oh,” he says, looking relieved as he swallows. “Computers. Right. Um, they have computers in the library over in Millinocket, but I never tried them.”

“You don’t have . . .” I’m staring at him, and I know it’s rude, but I’m in such a total state of shock, I can’t help it. “You don’t have a computer or a cell phone or a landline?”

“What is that?”

“A landline? It’s a phone on, um, you know, mounted to the wall? With a . . . a cord that—”

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “A regular phone. Nope. No phone. Telos Road is four miles away. But there’s no telephone line on Telos Road, because it’s mostly just for logging access.” His eyebrows furrow as he thinks about something. “Closest phone is at the Golden Bridge Campground and Store.”

“How far away is that?”

“About fifteen miles. Three or four miles of bushwhackin’ and another eleven or twelve on logging roads. Telos and then Golden.”

“Bush what?” I ask, almost feeling like we are speaking two different languages to one another.

“Bushwhackin’. You know, riding through the woods. Rough trails. Not on roads.”

“How do you drive if you’re not on a road?”

“I have an ATV,” he says, as if that explains it.

“You have what?”

“An all-terrain vehicle,” he says, enunciating each word like I should know what he’s talking about.

I stare at him, ignoring his tone, my mouth catching flies and my eyes likely turning like pinwheels as I put the facts together.

“Oh, my God,” I murmur. “No phones. No computer. No roads. You’re totally isolated here.”

He nods at me. “Pretty much.”

“Why?” I ask softly. “Why do you live like this?”

The question surprises me, especially because I’ve already resolved not to pick at him. It’s indelicate, and I grimace at the vaguely judgmental note in my tone. I’m sure Cassidy has his reasons for living apart from society. It’s absolutely none of my business, and yet I’m leaning forward, staring into his eyes, my curiosity so sharp, I can taste it like metal.

He stares back at me, his unusual eyes locked on mine. Finally he licks his lips and looks down at his almost-empty plate. “It was my gramp’s place.”

“Oh . . . like a summer place?” I ask.

His cheeks flush, and he shrugs. I’ve made him uncomfortable when I really didn’t want to.

“Are you a prepper?”

“A what?”

“Someone preparing for the end of the world?” I ask, enunciating every word because I figure turnabout is fair play.

He grins at me—caught—before looking back down at his empty plate.

“No, ma’am,” he answers politely.

His smile, born of chagrin, is so beautiful, so welcome, I decide to keep the mood light and tease him into another. “Hey, you’re not on the run from the cops, are you?”

My plan instantly backfires.

His head jerks up, and his face visibly blanches, his smile gone, his eyes wide and unsettled. It’s such a complete transformation from a moment ago, I lean back, a chill slithering over my skin as I process his reaction.

“Oh, God,” I murmur, my hands fisting in the quilt that covers me from waist to toes. “Are you?”

“No!” he says, shaking his head vehemently. “I’m not . . . I’m not in trouble with anyone. Not the authorities. Not anyone. I stay out of trouble. I live quiet. I . . . I can promise you that.”

I know he’s telling me the truth—don’t ask me how I know, I just do—though I sense there’s a much larger story behind his words. Maybe he was accused of something he didn’t do? Or maybe he had a run-in with the cops that ended badly for him? I feel like I’m looking at the tippy-top of a massive iceberg, and my curiosity is so sharp, I’m going to bleed inside from all the questions I want to ask. I opt for one:

“Are you hiding from someone?”

“No. Not really.” His eyebrows crease and he sighs, the color returning to his cheeks. “I just . . . I just like living out here, is all. I won’t . . . I won’t hurt you, Brynn. I’m not some psycho. Not yet, anyway. I promise.”

Again the assurance that he won’t hurt me.

It has to be the fifth or sixth time he’s said this.

Maybe it’s more than a fear of authority—maybe he’s misunderstood. Maybe he has Asperger’s or a social anxiety disorder. He’s smart, and he’s obviously skilled in living out here. He’s kept himself isolated for a long time.

He’s different, I think, remembering that he carried me to safety on his back. And kind. And beautiful. And I’d like to pull him out of his shell a little, which almost makes me laugh. Me, Brynn Cadogan, self-isolated for two years now, eager to pull someone else out of their shell. Oh, the irony.

I look up at him, and I’m sorry that his face seems troubled. I’ve touched a soft spot, and I’m anxious to make amends.

“Hey, Cass,” I say, reaching out to nudge his knee with the back of my hand. “I know you won’t hurt me. Why would you go to all that effort to save me if you just meant to hurt me again? You don’t have to keep saying it.” I pause as he looks up at me, an inscrutable expression brightening his eyes. It looks like hope, and I have a notion that my words are like the sun and Cassidy is like a sunflower after ten straight days of rain. “I trust you. You’ve been really good to me. Really amazing. I trust you, Cassidy. Okay?”

I’m not sure, but I think he’s holding his breath as I finish speaking, and it’s so touching to me, I feel my heart pinch a little. My words mean something to him. Something important.

“Thank you, Brynn,” he whispers, averting his eyes as he collects our plates. He stands from the rocking chair and looks down at me, his eyes searching mine. “Do you need me to call someone for you?”

“You’d have to drive fifteen miles each way to make a phone call.”

“I’ll do it,” he says, his voice earnest, his face serious, “if you need me to.”

“I can’t ask you—”

“You didn’t. I offered.”

“You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. “I can pick up a few things while I’m there.”

Relieved, I nod. “I’d really appreciate it, Cass. I’ll write down my parents’ number.”

“I’ll bring you a pen and paper,” he says, turning to leave. Just before he disappears through the curtain, he turns back to look at me. “Would you like a book or two to pass the time? There’s a lot.”

“Sure,” I say. “I’d love one.”

“What do you like to read?”

Instantly my cheeks flush. My favorite kind of books are romances.

“Um . . .”

His lips twitch again, and I have a sense he’s on to me. “I’ll bring a few to choose from.” And then he’s gone.

A minute later he returns with half a Percocet, a glass of water, paper, a pen, and three books: Then Came You, by Lisa Kleypas; Potent Pleasures, by Eloisa James; and Welcome to Temptation, by Jennifer Crusie.

He sets the obviously well-loved novels beside me on the table, and I eye them as I swallow the half-moon blue pill. Oh, he’s definitely on to me.

“Will that cover you?” he asks with a small grin.

“Mm-hm,” I say, taking the paper and pen he’s offering me and quickly writing down my parents’ phone number. I refuse to be embarrassed about loving romance novels. Anyone with half a brain loves romance novels, and the rest are lying. I hand the paper to him. “Their names are Jennifer and Colin Cadogan. Tell them I’m okay. I’ll call them as soon as I can.”

He nods, taking the paper from me, folding it three times and putting it in his back pocket.

“See you soon?” I ask, realizing, for the first time, that I’m going to be all alone, in the middle of nowhere, for the next few hours.

He nods, grimacing, as though he’s just realized it too.

“See you soon.”