Exposed : My Mountain Man Protector(15)

“My grandad used to sing that to us when we’d come up here camping. He used to say he really had a general like that, one who had a heart, one who fought for the wrong side, fought the wrong battles. Lost.”



He adjusted himself, his warm arm brushing mine.



“And growing up, I always thought the song was about just that: war, fighting, soldiers, a general. But lately…”



I glanced over. His eyes were black mirrors in the dark, reflecting the flames.



“But lately I’ve been thinking that it’s just about life, about how we fight tooth and nail for these goals, for this success, for the pot of gold we’re sure is at the end of the rainbow, for the happiness we are sure is over the next mountain peak—how we die trying, disappointed, stuck in this pointless rat race. That this fight is not worth fighting for, that we can even see that by looking at some of our so-called successful people today: the rich, the famous, the ones who should be the happiest.”



“I know that’s stretching it,” Blake said. “I just think that’s where I’m at now, seeing the world like this. Like we realize what really matters, what’s really important, when we’re old, when it’s too late. Like my Grandad. He tried to tell my parents, explain it to them that an enjoyable life is about the people, the experiences, that things are just things that pile up, that the sheen of success on the outside is useless if we don’t feel it inside, if it doesn’t make us happy, that living our lives for others—to beat them, impress them—is dying without the fanfare.”



I stared into the flames, seeing myself clasping Angelo’s hand, the happiest woman in the world, in my Facebook post from Tahiti, the first three consecutive days I’d spent with my husband in a year. I saw myself hunched over the computer screen, crying on my cloud of 376 likes, crying as I read the comment, “You are the luckiest woman in the world.”



I cried at the irony of it, at the sick mockery of reality—10 p.m. in my house a week later, alone as I would be for the rest of the week, maybe the month, lucky if Angelo came home before the middle of the night and shook me awake.



“That’s why Grandad always had us over,” Blake said. “He got it by the end, what’s truly important. And I get it too, I think. Or at least I’m trying.”



His arm was against mine. I was supposed to say something, but all of it loomed so enormous overhead—the lie of my life, the dust of truth that remained—that to say it would be to topple the whole thing.



“You’re right,” I said softly. “It’s crazy, but…”



I let the thought diminish into nothingness, into the unexpressed. I couldn’t admit it. It was too crazy, that this rupture from Angelo, this throwing into question of my whole life, everything I’d ever been, wanted, or hoped for, just might have been the best thing that had ever happened to me.



“I’m tired,” I said, rising.



Blake rose too.



“I cut the sleeping bag in two. You can choose which side of the room you’d like.”



We walked into the second room in silence.



I choose the right side and curled up beside the wall. It was the one closer to the window.



Lying here alone seemed twice as cold as outside. Tears came to my eyes, and I couldn’t tell if it was because of the man who was hunting me or the one who was lying five feet away from me.





CHAPTER NINE





The next morning, I was the first to wake. I walked outside and inhaled the dewy air. I spun once, then again.



It was silly, pointless, not something I would have normally done. Maybe that was the point. Over by the fire pit, the lighter was on the log Blake and I had been sitting on last night. I picked it up and lit the stack of timber still in the pit. Then it was back inside for the bread, four raisin pieces I shish-kebabed through a stick and lifted over the flames.



As the bread deepened to a golden brown, a satisfied smile flickered on my face. I might just get this self-sufficient thing yet.



When they were done, I slid them off, walked back inside, and dropped one on Blake’s face and one on his chest. With the last two, I returned outside, sat on the log by the fire, took big, eager bites, and stared into the flames. It was funny how something so destructive could be so beautiful.



Next thing I knew, a hand was on my back and I was jerking upright and around. It was Blake.



“Sorry. I keep forgetting.”



Seeing his dismayed face and wilted paws of hands, I couldn’t help but laugh.



“It’s fine.”



He raised the two pieces of toast. “I just wanted to get you back for this.”