he was forced to relive that night. Over and over again on an endless loop. And if he tried to dream, it only became clearer. Only became worse.
On those nights, he either got drunk enough to black out so there was nothing in his mind, or he got up. Last night, he got up. Ran some floodlights out to the homesite and had worked. For no real reason. But now, it was 9:00 a.m., and he was numb all over and regretting the decision.
He could go to sleep whenever he wanted, and he was about to do just that when the door to the cabin pushed open, and in walked Iris, laden down with platters.
“What the hell?”
“I’m here. To perform my... My duties.”
He could only stare at her. She looked bright and chipper and altogether offensive. Her dark hair was captured in a low ponytail, one that spoke of deep practicality, and no concern for fashion. He was fascinated by that. That everything she did seemed to be about service. Seemed to be about what was easiest.
She was no-frills.
Except... Her love of sweets was definitely a frill.
And he shouldn’t be wondering about the strange layers that she contained.
“I didn’t know you were coming this morning.”
“I didn’t know that I needed to... But of course it makes sense. I guess I should make sure to prearrange things with you. But I went to the bakery yesterday and everything is great. I started baking last night. In the kitchen. The kitchen is amazing.”
She said kitchen like some people might say sex.
And that realization sent a kick straight down to his gut.
Desire? Lust?
He hadn’t felt a particular inclination toward either of those things in so long he could barely recognize them.
Why? Why was it attaching itself to this woman? He had to be very honest and admit that he hadn’t exactly thought about when he might have sex again. If he would. He just hadn’t thought about any of it. It wasn’t like he had decided one day that he wasn’t going to have dessert. Wasn’t going to enjoy the taste of food, was simply going to consume what he needed to survive. He had just done that, because it was all his body had demanded. But Iris had brought cookies, and had reminded him about taste.
Apparently, she was now reminding him of other things.
And that was forcing him to think. Forcing him to maybe make decisions.
Being up here is a decision.
That was true enough.
He had separated himself from the outside world and he had done a damn good job of it. He had isolated himself by design, and that, he was certain, had made it even easier for him to go on living as he had.
He had decided on a monastic life here. Joined the priesthood of grief and hadn’t looked back.
When he’d been in the Bay Area still, his friends had always been checking in on him. Family. Always asking him if he would rebuild. If he wanted to go out. To a bar. To dinner. When he was coming in to the office again. And the answer had always been blank. It had been a feeling. A violent sense of simply not wanting to. And he had waited for it to change. But it hadn’t.
Nothing had changed, not really, until he had left entirely. Driving up I-5, crossing the border into Oregon, had been a strange kind of torture.
Because there hadn’t been any chatter in his car. No effervescent laughter or stream of consciousness ideas about what it would be like when they finally left. When they realized their dream of being out in nature.
I don’t know. It will just be nice not to be tied to those people anymore.
Our friends?
People who care about image. I just want to live.
He gritted his teeth against the memory. Feet on his dashboard and long blond hair. Happiness. Most of all, he didn’t want to remember the happiness.
“I’m tired,” he admitted.
“Oh. Sorry. I would’ve brought coffee.”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee? What do you have with your sweets?”
“Milk? I mean, or whiskey, as discussed.” His answer came from another time. Since before she’d come up the mountain, he hadn’t eaten sweets.
“How do you not drink coffee?” she asked.
“Can’t stand the stuff. Anyway, my mom always used to say it stunted your growth.” He spread his arms wide. “Seems to me that you can’t prove she wasn’t right.”
“I’m not that small,” Iris said.
“You’re half grown, little girl,” he said.
She blinked, and shot him