Brynn

 

After yesterday’s hot frolic in the pond, I felt Cassidy’s hungry eyes on me for the rest of the afternoon and today over breakfast too.

As he drives away on his ATV after his morning chores, headed for the store, my heart grows tendrils unfurling toward him, straining to be with him even as the sound of the motor fades into the distance. Finally I turn around and climb up the steps to sit on one of the three rockers on the front porch.

Maybe I’ll just rock here until he returns and try to process everything going on between us.

My mind is spinning.

We want each other with a longing that’s starting to border on desperation, and for the first time in my life, I’m wondering why there isn’t a female counterpart of blue balls. I love the attention, of course—the way he makes me feel like the most delectable, desirable woman in creation, and I have certainly never wanted a man so much in my entire life as I want Cassidy Porter.

That said, my poor heart is counting down the days.

With only ten left, I’m not sure how I can bear it.

Losing Jem almost broke me, but Jem is gone, and there’s no way he’ll ever be back. He isn’t alive somewhere on the earth, living his life without me. He isn’t an option, and making my life a shrine to him isn’t what he would have wanted.

It isn’t what I want either.

I want to live and I want love.

I want Cassidy.

When I leave him in a week and a half, in the back of my mind I’ll know that he’s alive—he’s living and breathing somewhere on the earth without me. Without me. Little by little, day by day, that’s what will break me: knowing he’s out there, alive and well, and I can’t have him.

And . . . why not?

Why can’t I have him?

I push off from the floor, rocking the chair angrily and thinking back to the two times that Cassidy has ever yelled at me.

The first was when we were reading on the couch and I asked him if he was lonely, if he wanted a girlfriend or a wife. His answer hadn’t been ambiguous, nor did it leave room for interpretation.

I’m just not much of a people person, I guess, he said. And when I pressed, he snapped at me: I don’t need anyone!

My mind segues to our conversation in the kitchen, when he removed my stitches.

Not unlike the other time, he totally shut down when I tried to talk about feelings, yelling at me to stop. Later in the conversation, he made it clear that, although he liked me, he wasn’t interested in changing his life, that he liked his life the way it was—essentially the same sentiment he’d shared before.

It’s a hot button for sure, Cassidy allowing someone into his life. We can’t even talk about it without him yelling at me and shutting down.

And that vehemence should convince me he’s telling the truth, right? Except it doesn’t, because I’ve always believed that actions speak louder than words. And Cassidy’s actions speak about him caring for me, enjoying me, maybe even starting to love me a little. He claims to feel one way about his solitary life, but he sinks into my company, seeking out my presence, spending all his time with me, holding me like I’m the most precious person in his world. So I’m confused by the disconnect. He says he doesn’t need anyone, doesn’t want anyone . . . but it seems like—it feels like—he needs and wants, well, me.

I keep rocking, the movement soothing and good for thinking.

Why would he say something that wasn’t true?

Why must I leave when I am well and able? Why can’t we be together for a little longer? Or a lot longer if that’s what we want?

I can’t help but wonder if his reluctance to be with me, or, indeed, to change his life, has something to do with why he and his mother left the town and moved out here in the first place.

Frustrated that I don’t have access to the internet, where I could surf their names, birth records, death records, and newspaper articles, I decide to get a little old-fashioned. Maybe I can piece together Cassidy’s history a different way. There’s got to be something inside the cabin that could tell me why he and his mother left town, why he chooses to live this lonely existence, so far from humanity.

I head into the house. He won’t be back for a few hours, so I beeline to his room, at the end of the hall. It’s small and tidy, with a twin bed, a nightstand, a bureau, a closet, and a door to the outside. I lean down, opening the first drawer of his bureau, then the second, then the third . . . but even when I carefully push around his neatly folded clothes, I don’t find anything hidden in the backs of the drawers.

Turning to his closet, I realize that I can’t reach the top shelf, so I get a chair from the kitchen and drag it back to his room. I step up on it and look at the top shelf, where, presumably, he found his mother’s Polaroid camera. There are winter clothes—a neatly folded parka and snow pants, plus all manner of gloves, mittens, and hats—in a plastic laundry basket. Feeling around behind the clothes, I find nothing out of the ordinary until my fingers touch a metal box. I pull it gently from the piles of clothes and carefully step down from the chair to take a better look.

I sit on Cass’s bed and open the top, peering down at the contents. On top is a folded piece of paper, which, when I unfold it, reveals a set of four photo booth pictures of a little boy and a thirtysomething woman, cheek to cheek and all smiles. I recognize Cassidy and his mother instantly and stare at his mom’s kind blue eyes and frizzy blonde hair. She is homely. Her front teeth are badly bucked, and she doesn’t wear any makeup, but her smile tells me how much she loves her son, and his smile tells me how much he loves her back.

Setting the photo aside, I pluck a leather bracelet from the box and hold it up. Burned into the leather is the name CASSIDY, uneven and jagged, like he made it by himself.

Under the bracelet, I find another photo, this time of a little boy and a grown man standing side by side in a park, about a foot from each other. The man, who is different from the man I saw in the portrait over the sofa, towers over the boy. He stares intently into the camera with his arms crossed over his chest. The little boy does the same, his mouth a flat, grim line. Neither looks especially happy or comfortable. 

I flip over the picture and read “Paul and Cass. Father-Son Cookout. 1995.”

Paul.

His father.

About whom he never speaks. Who died when he was nine.

I flip over the picture again and look at the man more carefully—the way he wears his hair slicked to the side and his heavy black-rimmed glasses. His shirt is buttoned all the way to the top and tucked into belted jeans. As I squint at his face, something about him feels familiar, though I don’t necessarily note a resemblance between father and son. Then again, I think, tilting my head, Cassidy is very tall like his father. But his father appears to have had brown eyes, while Cassidy’s are blue and green. I stare at the photo for an extra moment, feeling unsettled, then add it to the strip of photos and the bracelet beside me on the bed.

I find a few more things in the bottom of the box: three marbles, some dirty coins, an empty turtle shell, a Lego sheriff holding a revolver, and a Lego Indian chief with a scratched face. Nothing out of the ordinary, just little-boy things that any normal child might keep in a box of treasures.

Carefully placing the keepsakes back where I found them, I put the top back on the box and step on the chair to return it to its spot in the back of the closet.

I am no closer to answers than before I went snooping.

I close the closet door and leave Cass’s room, putting the chair back at the kitchen table and feeling a little ashamed of myself for violating his privacy.

And I must consider, as painful as it is to contemplate, that there isn’t some major traumatic reason for Cassidy’s lack of interest in a relationship with me.

As tears blur my eyes, I think about his words over the several weeks we’ve been together:

I’m content with things the way they are.

My life works.

I’m not looking to change it.

He’s been honest with me from the very start.

He doesn’t want a girlfriend or a wife.

And while he might welcome my company temporarily, he doesn’t want me in any sort of real way.

Feeling quietly miserable, I walk through the living room, to my bedroom, and crawl under the covers. Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I feel like I see love there, but it’s not love, Brynn. It’s care. It’s kindness. Momentary tenderness. Desire.

But don’t fool yourself: it’s not permanent. It’s about now, not forever.

Stupid girl that I am, I have fallen in love with him.

Utterly, totally, completely in love with him.

And all I want is a forever that I cannot have.

***

“Brynn? I’m back.”

My eyes are still heavy and burn from the tears I cried before falling asleep. I open them to find Cassidy’s face close to mine, and the light in the room fading. It must be late afternoon, which means I’ve been asleep for hours.

“Hi,” I say.

“You okay?” he asks, his brows furrowing as he places the back of his hand on my forehead. “You look a little . . . funny.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “I was just feeling a little emotional about everything.”

“Everything?”

“Being with you.” I smile sadly. “Leaving you.”

He flinches, and it’s a tiny movement, but I catch it.

Confusion darts through me, scrambling the equations I thought I had worked out before. Does the idea of me leaving hurt him? He drops my eyes, turning away, looking up at Katahdin through the picture windows. Apparently we’re not going to discuss it. And if I lie here pouting, I will ruin the time we have left together. I’m not willing to do that, so I sit up and muster a smile.

“Did you get everything?”

He looks at me and nods.

“Also . . .” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a strip of leather. “I got you this.”

I reach for it, staring down at the simple braided bracelet in cinnamon-colored leather. It has two drawstring cords sticking out from the ends that will tighten it on my wrist when pulled at the same time. I love it at first sight.

“For me?”

He reaches for my wrist, then takes the bracelet and slips it over my hand, pulling the cords until it’s snug. Then he looks up at me.

“I never bought a present for a girl before.”

“You did good,” I say, cupping his cheek. “Lots of firsts for you lately.”

His eyes, so different and singular, scan my face, finally dropping to my lips. He leans forward, pressing his mouth to mine gently. I pull him down to me, thanking him for the bracelet and trying to let him know how grateful I am for everything he’s done for me, and, yes, how much I wish there was the possibility of a future for us.

I swipe the seam of our lips with the tip of my tongue, and he jolts, wrapping his arms around me and hauling me onto his lap. Cradled against his chest, I meet his tongue with mine, my thoughts starting to scatter as instinct takes over. My muscles tense and release, longing for his thickness within me, priming themselves to grip him as he slides inside.

Cassidy breaks off the kiss and leans his forehead against mine, panting softly.

“I sort of wanted . . .”

I open my eyes, ignoring the throbbing deep inside and focusing on what he’s about to say.

“What?”

“I was thinking I could take you on a date tonight.”

“A date? You mean . . . go out?”

He kisses my nose, then leans away. “No. Here. Have a date here.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Do you trust me?”

And the thing is? I do. Completely. Even with my stupid heart, which will be shattered beyond repair two weeks from now, I trust him. I still hope that there will be a happy ending for us, even though I can’t fathom it now.

“You saved my life.”

He grins at me and nods. “I did.”

“More than once.”

“It’s one of my specialties.”

I giggle because the cocky, playful side of Cassidy is adorable. “Okay. So . . . you didn’t answer my question: what did you have in mind?”

“Oh, no. You didn’t answer me. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” I pout. “But I still want to know!”

He takes a deep breath and purses his lips, like he’s considering telling me. But at the last minute he shakes his head. “Nope. You’re just going to have to wait.”

“For what?”

“I guess you better get ready,” he tells me in a singsong voice that I sometimes use with him.

I can’t help it. I feel excited, wondering what he’s got planned. Another movie? Skinny-dipping after dark? My mind segues to the condoms he bought. Surely sex is figuring into the equation, right?

“Are you romancing me to get in my pants, Cassidy Porter?” I ask, grinning at him.

He shrugs, smiling down at me, two pink spots appearing in his cheeks. “Maybe.”

“You don’t have to,” I say simply, because it’s true. This man owns my heart and my body, and, I suspect, before I leave him he will own my soul as well. Jem’s is up on Katahdin. Mine will be forever with Cassidy.

“I want to,” he says, his eyes serious. “You deserve to be romanced.”

Oh, my heart.

“Okay, then. What do I need to do?”

“Um . . .” He looks around the room, his eyes resting for a moment on the trunk beside the bureau. I’ve ignored it, assuming it held extra blankets like the trunk at the foot of my bed at home, but now I wonder if there’s something more inside. “Choose something to wear and get ready. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“Pick me up?”

“At your door, er, curtain. I’m a gentleman.”

I chuckle, nodding at him. “And we’re just staying here?”

He nods, looking around the room, his eyes serious when they land on mine. “We’re staying here, angel. All night long.”

He kisses the top of my head and leaves me alone, and I know that the days are dwindling, and I know my heart is going to hurt when it’s over, but I refuse to kill the now grieving an unlikely forever.

I smile to myself, excited for our date, and jump out of bed to open Mrs. Porter’s trunk to see what’s inside.