Tabitha freezes, shoulders tight. I can see the war happening behind her eyes, the fight-or-flight instinct.
I clear my throat, voice rough. “There’s a storm on the way. You should come inside.”
She lifts her chin. “Angie invited me here to relax for the weekend. I… I didn’t know I’d have company.”
I swallow. “Neither did I.”
The silence stretches between us, sharp as a blade.
Finally, she walks into the room, every movement precise, like she’s daring me to watch. She sets her suitcase down just inside the door.
“I won’t be here long,” she says. “I just need to use the bathroom. Then I’ll return to Boulder.”
I gaze out the window at the swirling clouds. “With a storm coming? You’d better stay here.”
She draws in a breath. “Fine.”
I return to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water just to do something with my hands. Behind me, I feel Tabitha moving. She takes her shoes off and then moves around with care—too much care.
I want to turn. I want to look at her, drink her in, drag her back into my arms and remind her of what we were, even if it only lasted a weekend.
But I don’t.
Because the last time I reached for her—metaphorically, from the hospital—she didn’t come.
Thunder rolls low and distant in the sky. The wind picks up, rattling the windows in their frames. I return to the living room.
Tabitha’s arms are folded. “Angie thought I needed a break. From the seminar. To relax.”
“Do you?”
She presses her lips together. “I’m not so sure anymore.” She turns her head toward the door. “I really should go. I can handle a little rain.”
A flash of lightning sears the window, and then thunder cracks so hard the walls seem to shudder.
The lights flicker once. Twice. Then they go out.
I can’t help myself. “Still think you’re leaving?”
“It’s not dark yet.”
“It will be. Soon.”
Silence. Until the storm hits, wind clawing at the eaves.
And us. Alone.
The dark swallows everything except the small fire in the fireplace. Orange light crawls over the room, over her cheekbones, over the tight line of her mouth. Rain hammers the roof. Wind howls through the trees.
“Breaker’s in the mudroom,” I say. “I’ll check it, but I’m guessing the lines are down. It happens here sometimes during the summer when a storm hits.”
“I can use a flashlight.” Her voice sounds steady.
“There should be some in the kitchen. Plus candles. Then there’s that lantern.” I point and walk to the hearth. I thumb the striker on the lantern. It catches on the second try. I pass it to her, and our fingers brush. Heat darts up my arm like I touched a live wire.
“Careful,” I say. “The glass gets hot.”
She nods and turns away.
