Page 72 of When We Had Forever
Thankfully, I don’t encounter anything larger than a squirrel, and after what feels like hours, the trees clear.
A strangled sigh works free as my boots bite into the graveled road. Early stars pierce the sky. Darkness seeps from the forest like spreading oil. I flick one of my lighters and flare the lantern, creating a sunshine bubble of brightness I carry into the falling dark.
By the time I stumble into the cabin, fatigue weights my limbs. I plunk the lantern onto the knotty-pine coffee table, build a fire, and collapse on the braided-rope rug. With my knees hugged to my chest, I gaze into the flames, wondering what would have happened if that bear had marked me as prey. Would anyone have found the leftovers afterward? Or would my parents have spent the rest of their lives wondering what had become of me?
Time slips by. I’m still staring into the orange glow when the phone rings.
I shake off my stupor. In town earlier, I emailed my mother to say I’d arrived safely, but she’ll still want to hear for herself. After what just happened, I can’t even blame her.
I carry the ringing phone to my haven between lantern and fire—the cord’s plenty long enough to reach—then rearrange myself cross-legged and pick up. “Hey. Don’t worry, I’m safe.”
A pause crackles on the line. “Okay. Should I be relieved? Or concerned that you felt it necessary to answer that way?”
Air spirals from my lungs. It’s Michael.
No.No. Not Michael. Grayson.
“Um...” I say, making no attempt to sound less guarded. “Hi. Sorry. I thought you were my mom.”
“Well, that’s better than who you thought I was last time. But you should give your mom my condolences. She probably doesn’t enjoy sounding like a forty-year-old man.”
I blink. I can’t believe he just said that. Both parts. “You’re not forty. You’re thirty-nine.”
“True.” A low, silky laugh comes through. He sounds different this time. More relaxed. Less on edge. “I wish I could take the fact that you know that as a compliment, but...”
“Right.” It’s nothisbirthday I have memorized. “Why’re you calling me?”
“Because I said I would?”
“Yeah, but that was like...six hours ago.”
“Uh-huh. And?”
I wait, but apparently that’s a serious question. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to wait three days to call a girl again? Or whatever the rule is?”
The moment the words come out, I want to stuff them back down my throat. This is not a courtship. Or anything remotely resembling one.
“No, I don’t know that.” Grayson sounds dubious. “Where’d you even hear that?”
“I thought it was common knowledge.”
“It’s not. And it doesn’t make any sense. What’s the point?”
“It’s supposed to...” I trail off, frowning. Whatisthe point? Who decided men should feign disinterest so no one will know how they really feel? And where does that end? With husbands compiling secret folders full of magazine clippings? Signing divorce papers without telling their wives? “I... Now you’re confusing me.”
“I wanted to call you,” he says. “So I called you. I can’t think of anything less confusing than that.”
Well. Touché.
“Besides,” he continues, “I was hoping you might’ve had a couple drinks and be in the right mood, this time.”
I pause. “Right mood? For what?”
“Telling me about your secret mission in the woods. The one I’ll never understand.”
I go still inside. Memories of Margo float to the surface like silvery bubbles emerging from dark water.
“Mina?”
