12. Arrick

Chapter twelve

Arrick

I don't understand what happened. One moment, I had Yera's soft cheek cupped in my palm, rubbing the gentle curve of her full lips under my thumb. The next moment, she crumbled down to the forest floor, a ball of tears.

There's a deep ache within me as I watch her in such a state of misery and brokenness.

Charlie explicitly mentioned that she was noticeably anxious. How could I not have seen it? She has been putting on this brave, playful front to distract from her fear.

I immediately move to her side, dropping to my knees. "Yera, what is wrong? How can I help?" She has her legs pulled tight to her chest. She wraps her arms around her legs and buries her face in the hollow between her knees. Her back jolts from her hard sobs, and I try gently moving some of her hair back and out of her tear-streaked face.

"I'm sorry. I just feel so helpless," she says, sobbing through the words. "I'm in this fucking place, and I know nothing about it or how it works. My friends, my only family, may or may not be here. They might be home, thinking I've died—mourning me." She wails at that. Her cries are so fierce that they cause her breathing to hitch.

I need to relax her, establish a sense of serenity, and provide her with a peaceful setting to resolve this. "I'm going to pick you up. Is that okay?" I hook a soft curl behind her ear as I ask. She only nods.

I take her crumpled form and haul it to my chest. Her legs are wet where her face rested, soaked from her salty tears. She slumps in my arms, still curled into a ball and shuddering when she takes a breath.

The creek running next to the trail rages, but I can tell the water slows just a few feet below, catching in a natural pool. The creek looks crystal clear, and soft clover lines its banks. Perfect.

When I make it over, I set her gently next to the water in the soft greenery. She somehow remains balled up and sniffling. I wonder if she even registered that I moved her? It doesn't matter. I'm going to do my best to pull her from this darkness.

I sit beside her in the clover, rubbing her back and speaking gently. "Can I have your foot?"

Her sobs halt for a moment. "What? Why do you want with my foot?" Her voice catches when she speaks, but she seems calmer. I don't wait for approval. Instead, I gently grab her booted foot and undo the laces.

She doesn't take my hand away or protest, so I keep going. I pull her boot off, then her sock, and make a gesture for her other foot.

Once I have her feet exposed to the air, I pull my boots and socks off, then pick her up and move her right next to the water .

We sit next to each other for a moment, wordless, knees bent, tucked under our chins. We stare for a while at nothing in particular. The icy pool below us is transparent and inviting. I just now realize the similarities between this position and when I first found her.

Unlike the first time we met, she's safe, and I want nothing more than to take her pain away.

I hold my foot out, dipping a toe into the water, testing it. She watches me until both my feet sink into the water, and then she follows suit.

Her tears have stopped, and she sighs when her feet touch the liquid. Her quietness raises a slight concern within me. She's never been someone who seems comfortable with silence. In fact, she normally talks all day and most of the night, never seeming to run out of questions.

Now, she is emulating quiet, letting it settle in the air between us and forcing me to step up and fill the space. I can't think of a good way to break the silence, so I move instead. I run my hand down her calf, pick her foot out of the water, and place it on my lap.

Her foot is tan like the rest of her body, and her toes have chipped specks of gold paint. She watches me, questioning. When I rub the arch behind her heel, she audibly groans, and there are no more questions.

It isn't until I get to her other foot that she breaks the silence.

"Thank you. You don't have to do that." She tries to pull from my grasp, but I hold firmly to her.

"Do you want me to stop?" I say, teasing and putting pressure on both sides of her ankle with my fingers.

"Well, no. That feels amazing, and I've been on my feet five days with ten more to go." She pauses, then continues, "I just meant that you don't have to. "

"I want to," I say before she can finish her thought. She sighs at me and then takes a long look at the water and the forest. Her beautiful face is raw and pink, and her eyes and lips look slightly swollen. I wish she would tell me what's wrong, but she needs time.

I rub at her feet and ankles for a long while, insisting to myself that we are not going anywhere until her breathing is slowed and her pulse is back to normal.

She actually smiles at me when I pluck at her pinky toe, half gilded by the gold paint. "Hey, that's ticklish!"

I pretend to pull back and then go for the toe again, loving that her smiles are coming easier. She flails her feet at me jokingly, and I wrap both feet in the crook of my arm to hold them in place. "Now, kicking isn't very polite." She jerks in my grasp but can't free her feet.

"Hey, that's not fair. You're like twice my size!" She's giggling now, and I can't help but smile back. I'm thrilled she's coming out of her darkness and that I could help.

***

We don't make it to the next campsite until dark. Luckily, someone left a woodpile at the fire ring, keeping Yera from have to forage for more.

I ask her to sit and relax while I lay the bedroll and get the water boiling. There are a few dried bean and vegetable soup rations in my pack. Each pouch makes enough for two servings. I take out two bags and pour them into the boiling water. Sage, salt, and basil waft through the air. Yera inhales deeply and sighs when the mix of spices blooms in her senses .

Despite her smiles earlier, she's still been more quiet than usual. I ache for her sweet voice to ask about what I'm cooking, an unusual plant she has seen, or the harpies.

We are silent through dinner. She makes noises of pleasure when eating the soup but doesn't compliment or comment on it. She eats and then rinses her bowl in the creek and sits back by the fire.

"Harpies." My voice penetrates the quiet gloom, and she looks at me, stunned. "Those creatures were harpies. They don't belong here. The wisps must have dropped them." She's still staring at me, slack-jawed, and I can see her questions boiling under the surface. I've got her. It's a matter of moments now. Any minute. I wait for her to pounce on that information, but nothing comes.

Fuck, I don't know what to say. I don't know how to pull her from this. Then, a somewhat fiendish thought pops into my head.

"Are you mad at me? Because I touched you, because I took advantage of being so close to you?"

She looks aghast. "Why would you think that? If I wanted you to stop, I would have told you." Got her. I have my in now. Best to keep her talking.

"Charlie mentioned you were wound up tight. I feel like an idiot for not noticing or taking better care of you."

"How could you have known? You don't understand what I'm going through. This is your home. This is normal for you. It's almost impossible for you to put yourself in my position." She's right, but I still feel guilty for not making her talk things out and being unable to answer her questions immediately.

"You spoke of your friends. Is this what made you sad today?" I say, innocently enough.

She hangs her head and pauses momentarily, considering if she wants to take this path or return to being silent. "Yes," she exhales. "I have been distracting myself—keeping myself from considering what has happened to them. Either outcome is bleak."

Despite my desire to protest and reassure her, she continues. "One possibility is that they are here, in this world. Charlie told me they are not in this forest, so I've been considering options about their whereabouts ever since. Perhaps even in the Stormlands—a horrifying idea. The second possibility is that they are still in Oregon, my land. They could think I'm dead or still be desperately searching for me. Either case threatens to shatter my heart into a thousand pieces. They are my only family, my sisters. I know how desperate I would be if either of them went missing, and I hate that I'm causing them that much pain." A tear forms in the corner of her eye, but I want her to keep talking and working through this.

"You said they were your friends. Then said they were your sisters. Are you related?"

"No, not by blood. They are the only family I've ever known."

"Do families not stay together where you are from? Do they have children and then let others raise them?" I'm so confused by that. Who would have a child and allow someone else to raise it?

"No, not exactly." She pauses. "Do you want to know? It's a long story?"

"It's a long night," I tell her, gesturing for her to continue.

"I don't remember my first year, but I like to believe it was happy. Full of love, my mother and father sending photos of me to their families, Christmas presents, Halloween costumes, and a full stomach. My father died in a car crash a year after I was born. My mother, who I think was probably still dealing with postpartum depression, spiraled after that. She started getting anxiety pills from friends, which moved to painkillers. She drowned out the noise and lived in nothingness. No pain, no joy, just a void." Yera looks up at me as if to test my reaction and then continues.

"I was four when she overdosed and died. I wasn't home. Luckily, she had me in the Head Start program. I vividly remember the police officer and Child Services agent coming to tell me the news. The agent had a gray suit with a light purple shirt underneath. I remember running my tiny fingers up and down that silk collar that I curled my tiny fingers into when she picked me up and carried me out of the building. Everything broke after that. My mother didn't have any family that could be found, and my father's family lived outside the country. So, I went into the system."

I look at her wide-eyed. I can picture her little, with her big honey eyes full of questions and wonder. Her lovely bouncy curls and hopeful smile. Despite everything, she still holds wonder and curiosity in her heart. She is the strongest person I have ever met.

"At the first house I was sent to, I encountered a Catholic couple who were cold and strict, but they consistently provided me with food, clothing, and bathing. It was the best home, no question. Ava got there six months before I did. We shared a room and bonded immediately because we were the same age and loved playing with Barbie dolls. Mariana showed up a year later and moved into our room as well. She was covered in bruises and didn't speak a word for the first week. Eventually, she warmed up to us, and once she spoke, she never shut up.

"We stayed at that house for five years. Our suburban school was good, we made friends, and we played sports. Yes, the couple was cold, but we were safe.

"Right around the time fourth grade rolled around, the couple started fighting and fighting until they eventually divorced. Neither of them wanted to take care of foster children alone, and we had gotten to that age when people stopped wanting to adopt children, so they sent us to a group home for girls.

"We roomed together and looked out for one another. Occasionally, one of us would be sent to a different foster home, but it wouldn't last long. Once we hit junior high, no one wanted us, and we stayed in the home until Ava aged out and rented an apartment.

"We lived together. Ava worked so Mari and I could go to college. We never had a proper home, only each other.

"This is what eats at me, making me feel sorry for myself. It's the loss of tradition. Ava, Mari, and I made them, but I've always craved something with an old, lived-in sensation. I feel like I have no culture, no heritage.I know it's selfish because I have a good life now, everything I've ever dreamed of, but I can't get that pit out of my stomach that makes me think I've missed something crucial.

She doesn't cry, doesn't waver. She speaks and lets her past and pain spill out into the night air.

She is amazing.

"I think that's why I chose forestry in school, because I knew how cleansing the outdoors could be. Anytime I could sense my world closing in around me, I could go into the woods and somehow always felt better afterward."

I stare at her, stunned and in awe. I didn't understand some words and terms she used, but I know why she is so desperate to find her friends—her family. "Yera, there is nothing that will keep me from helping you, even the wisps. Even if they change their path, I will go with you, offering my help and support in whatever way you require. We will find them, or we will get you home. That, my strong, fearless creature, is my promise to you."

Our eyes lock for what seems like decades. All the things said and unsaid dances in the space between us. I want to reach out, move a curl from her brow, and touch her soft skin under my fingertips. Instead, she yawns exaggeratedly.

"I'm sorry this day has just drained me. I think I'm going to sleep."

"Yes, absolutely. I hope you sleep well," I say, sheepishly while watching her nestle into the covers. I don't know what comes over me, but I can't wait tonight.

Usually, I stay up, tending the fire until she falls asleep, before I crawl next to her, to avoid the awkwardness of being so close to someone I consider a stranger. She's no longer a stranger to me.

She watches as I move over to the bedding, the firelight growing dim, casting burnt orange through the shadows. I pull back the sheets and settle myself next to her.

She doesn't move or speak, so I pull her against me, wrapping my arms around her waist and tucking my face into her soft hair. There is no protest. She rests her arm atop mine and twines our fingers together.

Leaning her face slightly toward mine, she whispers, "Thank you."

I press my lips to the back of her neck, just once, in answer. We lay there in the dark, twined around one another, feeling our breaths gently rise and fall in the chilly night.