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I walk my mom back to her car, and after she drives away, Zoe seems surprised that the same car and driver who brought us from the resort is waiting in the parking lot. I paid him to wait for us, and I made it worth his while. The return trip is really out of the way, and the guy charges just about a literal arm and a leg, so I’m sure he’s happy to have the business. This trip probably made him more than he makes in a week of cabbing people around the city.
When we get back to the lodge, we get dropped in front of my cabin. It’s one of the smallest ones, but I’m the only one staying there. The privacy is nice.
Zoe glances around like she’s considering making a run for it, so I act fast. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“A whisky would be nice right about now.”
Her words make me smile. That’s Zoe. She’s tough. She’s always been tough in her own unique way. “Sadly, I didn’t bring any.”
“Well, then coffee will have to do.”
“I could scourge around and see if I could find some.”
“No, coffee is fine.”
Zoe follows me inside. The cabin is just a one-bedroom with a tiny bathroom and a small kitchen and living room. It’s made of log, not just log siding, so it has a quaint, homey feel as soon as you get into it, and the furniture is all retro. There’s a braided rag rug on the floor in front of a hard as rock floral couch and a mid-century modern coffee table that I’m pretty sure is a knock off. The cabin has a few lamps in the corner, a tiny table with two chairs at either end, and a kitchen just beyond that. There’s also an apartment-sized fridge and stove, which I think both run on propane, as well as a toaster and a coffee maker on a small strip of the counter, but that’s it. The bedroom is even tinier, with a double bed that barely fits and an upright dresser on the far wall. There are a ton of pegs along the wall to hang up clothes, jackets, and anything else, so somehow, the cabin feels more functional than it probably has a right to be.
I don’t immediately go to make coffee, and Zoe doesn’t seem surprised. We both just stand there inside the door, staring at each other.
“Was it true? All of it?”
Zoe’s brows shoot up. “Of course it was true!”
Her hair is up in a messy bun, as I’ve come to expect from her when she’s not at work. She’s also wearing a yellow maxi dress today that makes her look like a goddess. The dress is pretty lightweight, and it drapes over her curves and highlights them nicely. In it, she’s practically good enough to eat, and I would, again, if I thought there was a chance in hell she’d let me.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles ominously, like an exclamation point at the end of Zoe’s outraged statement.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. It was more a statement of horrified disbelief, not actual doubt.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is, I believe you. And I’m sorry.”
Zoe glances at the window. I follow suit and realize it’s starting to rain. Huge drops splatter against the small windowpane that overlooks the table and chairs.
“Looks like you might get stuck here in a few minutes. I didn’t think it was supposed to storm today.”
“I guess it’s hot and humid enough to bring on a real nasty one.” Zoe looks like she’s bracing for it. “I heard thunder.”
“You always liked storms.”
“Yeah, when I was somewhere safe—somewhere with a basement to hide, in case something fell out of the sky.”
“I think if anything were going to fall out of the sky, the people who own this place would give us some warning or get us to safety. They probably have a crawl space under the lodge or something.”
“It would be dark there,” Zoe says. She studies me intently, her eyes burning straight through me. “Why were you always so scared of the dark anyway?”
Even thinking about a dark, dank, and cramped space makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end while the chicken sandwich I ate for lunch churned unpleasantly in my stomach. That one—dark and cramped—would be a double doozy. I don’t like either of those things.
“I don’t know.” I feel like I owe Zoe some kind of honesty after her big confession at lunch. “I always was, ever since I was little. I’m not sure why. Are fears rational?”
“No. Most of the time, they’re not, but don’t you grow out of that? Being afraid of the dark?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not so much the dark but the things that happen in it.”
