Chapter 34

After about an hour of listening to Callahan’s regulated breaths, I’m convinced he’s asleep again. I sneak out from behind his body and tuck the warm covers around him so he doesn’t wake. He stayed up most of the night adding more logs on the fire so we didn’t freeze, so he needs the rest.

This isn’t the first time he’s locked up like that. It happened after our night in the ambulance when a loud clap of thunder shook the entire rig. It was startling, sure, but Callahan’s reaction was more concerning, it was as if he dissociated completely.

As quietly as I can, I stoke the fire and pile on two more logs. The door on the stove creaks when I close it, but thankfully, Callahan doesn’t rouse. It’s nice seeing his face relaxed as he sleeps, instead of the usual scowl he reserves for me. I don’t understand the contempt he holds. When he ended things with us, it was his decision, so what did I do to make him look at me with so much disgust?

Shaking my head, I come to the conclusion he’s an enigma. I crouch next to the small nightstand that serves as a mini bookshelf with a take a book, leave a book system. My fingers skate over the spines. A few have man versus nature themes—survival fiction—I’m not in the mood to read any version of the actual predicament I’m in, so I opt for a spy novel instead.

Pulling out the wooden chair under the desk, I take a seat and stow my legs up on the edge to keep them off the cold floor, wedging my shins against the desk. There’s a knot hole in one of the wood shutters outside, enough to provide ample reading light. After a few pages, my surroundings drift away and the howling winds fall silent as I’m sucked into the story. It’s a nice reprieve from reality.

I’m unsure how much time passes, but eventually, the light from the hole in the shutter dims, and I’m made painfully aware of how unforgiving this chair is on my numb ass. I’m sixty pages into the book, which is probably more reading than I should have done after the hit I took yesterday. I’m supposed to be resting my brain, but sitting with my thoughts seemed worse.

The logs in the stove have mostly burned through, and there’s a small flame dancing on top of the red embers. My stomach growls. Since leaving The Fold, my body has adapted to eating less food. Callahan’s probably going to be hungry when he wakes up.

I close my book and place it softly on the desk. Crossing the room, I open the cabinet with the propane camp stove and set it up, paying extra attention to ensure it makes little noise. The wind battering the side of the tower covers most of the sound. Next, I locate a pot and add water from the five-gallon cubie, cringing at the way I flipped out on him yesterday after we got back. I add a little extra for drinking and washing, then place the pot on a burner and light the stove with the lighter. We need to boil the water so it’s potable anyway. When it’s partially warmed, I pour some into a cup, then return the pot to the stove so it can finish heating.

I turn around to make sure Callahan is still sleeping before I strip out of my base layer and wash up using some soap and a towel I found in a cupboard containing washcloths and rags. My phone clatters to the floor. I forgot I slid it into my bra last night. I snatch it up and duck behind the table in the center of the room. Peering through the passthrough slot, I observe Callahan sighing, but, thankfully, he sleeps through the interruption.

I desperately crave a shower after yesterday, and simply scrubbing warm water over my skin is enough to feel refreshed. Once I finish the world’s fastest sponge bath, I tug on my hiking pants and sweater.

While waiting, I select a soup mix from the food storage container—chicken wild rice—and measure a satisfying serving we can share between us. I let the water come to a rolling boil for a bit, setting aside a portion to fill our water bottles later. Then I gradually add the premeasured soup mix and stir toward the center, preventing the spoon from clanging on the sides of the metal pot.

Once it’s mostly dissolved, I cover and lower the flame on the camp stove, leaving it to continue cooking. While I wait, I try to turn on my phone with no success. I extract the battery and replace it again, then slump forward. No luck. What did I expect? I bought the cheapest prepaid phone I could find. I just needed something that could give me shitty internet and a phone number to put down on job applications. Looks like we’re left relying on his phone.

I do some more snooping, taking inventory of our provisions. There are wash bins for dishes, a couple of board games, cleaning supplies, more linens, and some tools.

I stir the soup for a while, then remove two mugs from a cabinet on the left. After carefully closing the door, I’m startled by Callahan awake and studying me—I freeze. How long has he been watching? We stare at one another long enough for me to wonder what he’s thinking. His eyes are pained when he gazes at me.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. ”

“Soup is almost done.”

Callahan sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, and rests his elbows on his knees. His head hangs between his shoulders, but he doesn't move. Yeah… I would give my last dollar to know what thoughts were running through his mind.

I check under the lid, and a plume of hot steam escapes. The aroma has my mouth watering and stomach growling. I divide the helpings between the two mugs, and the spoons slowly sink into the thickened soup.

After handing one to him, I take a spot next to the wood stove, sitting sideways on the rug in front of it.

“Thanks for this,” he says. “And for earlier.”

I nod, blowing on a spoonful of the steamy sustenance. Once it’s cooled off, I get my first taste and have to resist shoveling the rest into my mouth. The savory broth comforts me from the inside out, pacifying my worried thoughts and rumbling stomach. “This tastes delicious.” Callahan hums in agreement upon taking a bite.

We eat in silence, letting the crackling fire, powerful winds, and scraping spoons do all the talking. Occasionally, we exchange glances, but eventually, I turn and face the fire to finish my meal.

“I found some board games,” I say. “If you want to?—”

His empty mug lands firmly on the top of the bookshelf, and the spoon rattles. “We need more wood for the fire.”

“Oh.” I spin around. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He stands, pulling on his outer layers. “No.”

“Okay,” I respond. “I’ll clean up.”

He exits the lookout but doesn’t slam the door like I tried to do earlier. I spend the next half hour cleaning up from lunch, stretching out the task to keep my hands occupied. I place the remaining wash water in a pot on the wood stove to keep it warm and pour the preboiled water into our water bottles. Then I dry the bowl and return it to its place on the shelf. Once that’s done, I busy myself with tidying the space, including making the bed. What if he wants to go back to sleep? I unmake the bed and muss the covers the same as before. What’s wrong with me? I remake the bed and ignore any other stupid idea my brain churns up.

He was right last night; he did everything. Got us shelter, water, and fire. I gotta start pulling my weight by cooking and cleaning. It’s an easy role to fill, considering I was raised to serve men in whatever capacity God or the church needed me to. It was my duty, and one I was proud to perform, until I started questioning things. At first, the guilt of doubting my faith had nearly swallowed me whole. I kept to myself, fell depressed, and prayed away my thoughts, but they only grew stronger. Then I started EMT training, which exposed me to new people and new ideas, and some of those ideas made a lot of sense.

Peeking between the slats on the shutters, I observe Callahan putting together a decent heap of wood. He’s splitting logs with an axe, and even half camouflaged by snow, he looks hotter than any man should doing chores. Good Lord . Clearing the lust-filled haze, I layer and lace up to brave the blizzard, trudging through the snow and collecting as much split wood as I can carry inside.

I pile the remaining wood logs from the cabinet next to the woodburning stove and refill it with the freshly cut ones. I’m tempted to use a blanket to help carry more pieces at once, but with the wind wreaking havoc out there, I’m too afraid it would get ripped from my fingers and blow off the side of the mountain.

Once the base cabinet is restocked, any extras are stacked on the platform outside the door for easy access. When Callahan is satisfied with the quantity, he carries the axe back to an exterior door at the base of the lookout, where he must have found it. We work in tandem without exchanging words, picking up logs from the shrinking pile and climbing stairs until wood is stacked about three feet tall. He gathers the last chopped pieces and tosses them up on the catwalk. I arrange them with the others, then we stomp the snow off our boots and pants before entering inside.

I don’t need to check a mirror to know my cheeks are blotchy from the stinging cold air. His are rosy too, but his appear to be due to exertion not windburn. He strips down to his base layer and lays his pants over the chair I sat in earlier, then grabs his water bottle from the table. He inspects it, noticing it’s been recently refilled, and takes a few glugs, replenishing himself after the workout. With the hem of his thermal shirt, he wipes his brow, exposing his chest and the tattoos I remember from our nights together.

I sit on the floor, quickly averting my gaze to untie my boots packed with snow from hiking back and forth. I peel off my damp socks and lay them near the fire, then sweep up the bits of bark and wood splints from the recent haul using the dustpan and push them into a small mound. We can use it as kindling later.

Gulping from my water bottle, I relax, happy to be out of the storm.

“Have you cleaned the cut on your forehead today?” he asks.

“Yeah, I washed up earlier and added some antibiotic ointment from my first aid kit. There's warm water in that pot”—I gesture to the wood stove—“in case you want to wash up. It feels nice.”

He acknowledges me with a nod but doesn’t do more than remove his socks and lay them next to mine to dry. We’ve barely spoken today, and it’s wearing on me. With each unspoken word, we feed the elephant in the room, nourishing it and helping it grow.

“Did your text message go through today?” I saw him with his phone on the catwalk earlier.

“No.”

“I tried to turn on my phone, but it’s dead. Or broken. I don’t know.”

Dead air .

“Have you ever been here before?” I ask.

He gives me a blank stare.

“Well, of course you have, you’re the one that got us here. Obviously, you’ve been here. That was a stupid question.” Great, now I’m rambling.

He cocks a mirthful eyebrow at me, then turns away.

“You know, if this weren’t life or death, this place would make for a cool vacation spot.”

He scoffs. It’s the most enthusiastic response I’ve received yet.

Ugh, why do you have to be such a dick?!

I’m trying to be civil, but he’s giving me nothing to work with. I pick up my book. “I started reading this earlier. It’s pretty good. It’s about this guy who…” He’s not listening. My lips roll together, and I nod at the unspoken rejection. “… ’Kay.” I hang my head in defeat and resign to the other side of the lookout to read beside the window that has the most light streaming through the shutters.

A few minutes pass, and he clears his throat. “I, um, I lived in one of these towers for a bit. Years ago.”

My eyebrows shoot up at the attempt of conversation.

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm.”

I let some of the tension settle before I take my turn to speak again. “What was it like?” I’m hesitant to move or say too much and scare him off like a deer.

“Unbelievable views and tons of wildlife to watch. It was a fantastic experience.”

“That’s really cool… Did you ever get lonely?”

He shrugs. “Nah, I knew it was temporary.”

I grin. “How long were you there?”

“A few months.”

It feels like the first normal conversation we’ve had since Oregon .

“A few months and you didn’t get lonely?” I tilt my head to the side. “What about women?” I tease.

The corner of his mouth tips up, and he gives that sexy smirk that had me tripping over my words when we met that night at the bar. “Well, maybe a little lonely.”

“Hm.” I hum in agreement and offer a small smile.

I don’t want to push my luck, so I wait for him to continue. After a long pause, I retreat into the pages of my book, but as soon as I pick up where I left off, he speaks up.

“What board games did you find?”