Page 22 of Double Exposure

“This,” I say.

Her arms flop down by her sides. A long sigh rises from her lips. Firelight flickers again, orange and warm, across her face.

I start rubbing her temples, massaging in small circles.

“That's nice,” she says. There’s another long sigh. I reverse the direction of my fingers, pressing harder and running thumbs down her neck.

“My-ears-popped,” she mumbles.

Moving back up to her temples, I run my thumbs in a curve around the small muscles of her ears, sliding thumbs and index finger along her small jaw, circling up and stroking her earlobes to finish.

“Thank you,” she sighs. Her breathing is even, though the blankets barely move up and down. I start to rise, but she reaches up and lightly grips my forearm. It’s while I’m gently extricating myself, I realize my hand could span her face. Everything about her is diminutive, perfectly scaled.

Standing, I hold my breath. Jesus. She's fucking beautiful.

΅

I only stir once in the predawn hours. The first thing I notice is how quiet it is—the wind has stopped. The second thing I notice is a small form curled at the other end of the sofa, my feet in her lap.

Though I can’t see her eyes, I know she’s watching me.

I wipe my mouth with my hand and prop myself up on one elbow. “What’s wrong?”

Her silence, combined with a quick shaking of her head with a hand raised is enough for me to know she’s crying.

“Hey hey hey,” I say and sit up all the way.

Codie does the same thing. Talking makes it worse.

“I’m sorry—” she starts, her voice tight.

“Stop saying that.”

She hiccups softly. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t blubber.”

She eases into my arms, I slide them around her, holding her close. “If it makes you feel any better, I would never peg you as a blubberer.”

Wiping her eyes with her hands, she hiccups again. “I think I’m just really tired.”

The stove needs wood. Clearly not an all-nighter. I give her a squeeze and then rise to stir the coals and throw in three more logs.

“I don’t know if he’s alive or not,” she says from the dark. “When I was a little girl, I made myself believe that if anything ever happened to my dad, I would just know—I would feel it.”

That deathly silence starts again.

“Hey,” I say, moving to sit right next to her again.

“I don’t feel anything right now,” she whispers, her hand on my arm. She looks up at me with soft brown eyes, her face wet, streaked with those silent tears.

My heart breaks. I want to help this girl. I want her father to be alive. I want my walls to crumble.

Taken together, all this feels impossible.

Of the three, only one is possible: I can help her.