“Five weeks. I’m due at the end of July.”
Finley’s grin is slow, and then she’s smiling, too, and I know what she’s going to say right before it comes out. “Well, the cousins will be very close in age then, because I’m due at the end of June.”
The room explodes, everyone yelling over each other and crying, grabbing each other in tight hugs. I join in, wrapping my arms around both of my friends, listening to them each tell how they found out and sharing symptoms. Listening to the questions Alicia and Nora ask. But it also feels like it’s happening behind a door, the sound muffled as my mind whirs.
They’re all moving on, their lives changing and growing and expanding. I’m so happy for each of them, for the lives they're making, the dreams they're living. But I can’t help but feel more and more like my own has grown stagnant. I’ve planted roots that are rotting, and I’m withering instead of flourishing.
I thought coming here, finally doing something for myself, was a step forward, but I’m realizing it was just a move sideways. The worst part is, I have no idea how to change it, how to finally move forward. I’m afraid I’ve become stuck, my life quicksand I’ve sunk into, too late to pull myself out.
There’sacakeinthe break room during my final shift, and my favorite charge nurse brings me a coffee from the cafe in town since she knows I refuse to drink the black sludge that’s always burning in a pot twenty-four hours a day. There have been plenty of places I’ve loved living, plenty I couldn’t wait to leave, but Fontana Ridge is going to be the first I will genuinely miss. The staff all get along, the hospital is run well, and the town itself has a way of making you feel welcome.
Still, when my shift is over, I’m ready to leave. I want to go back to the cabin, sleep for a couple of hours, and head to the Airstream to see Stevie. It’s our last night together, and she told me she was going to pick out the meal for us to make and grocery shop for us.
Frankly, we could eat chicken broth and Jell-O and I’d be happy just to spend one last evening with her.
By the time I get back to the cabin, after many goodbyes and promises to keep in touch, that I think I may actually try to keep, I’m too wired to sleep. I finish packing up my things and cleaning the cabin, before crashing in my bed.
The time changed a few weeks back, so when I wake up several hours later, it’s already starting to get dark, the setting sun slanting through the windows. A pang of sadness hits me that this is the last time I’ll see it. I’ve grown to love this cabin in the woods and the town that surrounds it. I want to see what it looks like blanketed in snow or covered in the first wildflowers of the season. I wonder where I’m going to be when the seasons change. I haven’t signed another contract yet, still unsure if I’m going to want to stick around in Montana after visiting my brother.
I dress in layers since the chill in the air has officially turned into cold and head for Stevie’s, the drive familiar enough now that I could navigate it in the dark. When I pull onto her property, I can see her through the Airstream windows. She’s on her sofa, her hair hanging loose, chewing on what looks like a pencil as she reads a paperback. Her eyes lift at the sound of my car door closing, and she catches my gaze. I think there’s sadness lingering beneath her smile, reflecting how I’m feeling too.
Last week she told me to let myself in, so I do. It’s warm inside and smells of pine candles. There’s a miniature Christmas tree on the built-in shelf behind the sofa, its incandescent colored bulbs lighting her cheeks in every shade of the rainbow. She set it up one evening last week after dinner, telling me about how her mom grew up decorating for Christmas on November 1st and her dad always put the tree up after Thanksgiving, so when they got married, they compromised by settling on November 15th. That’s what Stevie does now, too, and the Airstream decked out for Christmas is my new favorite sight.
“How was your last shift?”
I shrug. “We had cake.”
One side of her mouth tips up. “They like you.”
“I like them.”
The rest of the words hang between us, that I would have stayed longer if they would have let me. They feel heavy, too heavy for tonight. I want tonight to be happy, memorable.
“So what are we making for dinner?”
Stevie lays her book down on the sofa, face down, and stands, heading for the kitchen. She pulls out an expensive cut of deep red meat. “We’re going all out. I’m finally going to try making Beef Wellington. And then we will have mashed sweet potatoes, roasted veggies, and espresso-soaked chocolate cake for dessert.”
“Espresso-soaked chocolate cake?”
Her grin splits open. “Well, I know how much you like coffee.”
“I think this may be above my skill-level,” I tell her.
“Well above,” she responds with a nod. “But I’ll teach you.”
Cooking with Stevie in her tiny kitchen is a form of torture. Tonight she’s in soft, wide-leg pants and a sweater with a collar that keeps slipping to expose the curve of her neck. She’s wearing mismatched socks with a hole near her left pinkie toe, and it keeps popping out to expose one deep red nail.
Every time she moves, I catch a whiff of her spicy, fig scent. Her hair, hanging down around her waist, keeps brushing against me, tickling the fine hairs on my arms. I don’t think she realizes it, but every time she moves around me, she places a hand on my shoulder or waist, like a silent version of a chef yelling “Behind!” in a busy kitchen.
We popped open a bottle of red wine and I’ve only had a few sips of a glass, but I already feel intoxicated. Every graze of her fingertips, scrape of her skin against mine, trace of her perfume, makes my head spin.
I don’t think I’ve been any help by the time we finish dinner. More than once, Stevie has caught me staring, nudged me into action, but I can’t seem to make my body work when my brain isfocused entirely on her, on how little I want to drive away from this Airstream tonight or this town tomorrow.
“Jack?” Stevie asks, wrenching me out of my thoughts. I was zoned out, staring at a trio of moles on the slope of her shoulder. They look like a constellation, and I wonder if she has more. I’d like to map out her skin like the night sky.
I shake my head. “Sorry. What did you say?”
“Can you get the bottle of wine and take it to the table?”
