Page 8 of Starlight

Just because he didn’t like to hunt like his cousins and uncle didn’t mean he didn’t know how to shoot. Not that he’d ever needed to. Most of the time, any wildlife that stumbled upon him realized they didn’t want to be there and scampered off.

Even though he didn’t want to think about his cousins or the accident today, and knew if they had been there, they’d have shot everything that dared step foot in the clear area around the cabin. Hell, they would’ve gone looking for trouble if it didn’t find them. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the painful memory, even though it never worked.

He gathered enough kindling to get the fire going and coaxed it to life before feeding it some bigger logs. He was running out of cabin offcuts and needed to cut more wood over the summer.

Not this trip, though, as he hadn’t brought the chainsaw.

Maybe the next one.

With the fire going, he went inside and gathered the ingredients for dinner—one of his one-pot pasta dishes, which mostly involved throwing everything into the pot and hoping for the best. Usually, they turned out okay.

He dumped what he estimated was enough pasta for two meals, so he didn’t have to cook tomorrow, into the pot, added a pepper, frozen spinach, a jar of pasta sauce, some water, and finally some chopped, precooked chicken—he hated mucking around with raw chicken. If he hadn’t already eaten the leftover bacon from breakfast, he’d have chopped that up and chucked it in too; instead, he’d turned it into some very nice bacon and cheese sandwiches which he’d eaten while hiking.

Along with the pot, a bowl, a beer, and a coat and hat because the evenings were still cool, he grabbed the rifle and went back out. It was much darker now, as the sun had disappeared entirely behind the hills. He could’ve bought a west-facing block of land, but he’d rather have the sunrise than sunset.

He got dinner cooking and set up a camp chair, so the smoke was blowing away from him, and let out a sigh. He still needed to come up with a plan and figure out how he was going to action it.

Going back to school, college, didn’t hold much appeal. He was sure he’d be the oldest in the class. Not only that, but he’d have to go part-time so he could still help Dad in the business.

And he wasn’t sure he was passionate about being a physio or a psych. If he wasn’t sure, it probably wasn’t meant to be. And he sure as hell didn’t want to be repeating this conversation with himself in another seven years because he’d chosen the wrong thing.

He stirred the pasta, so it didn’t stick to the bottom of the pot—he’d learned that one the hard way. Sometimes he boiled potatoes and cooked sausages. But when he was here, he liked to keep things simple, and there was no one to complain about his cooking anyway.

He figured dinner was about another ten minutes away, so he cracked the beer and leaned back to watch the stars come out. Not that they really came out, they just became visible.

He’d like to do much the same.

Coming out wouldn’t have been possible while playing football. He’d thought about it many times over the intervening years, and he was reasonably sure his parents would be fine if he told them he was bi, but his mother would tell him to choose the easy route and stick to girls.

While he’d brought a few girlfriends home, he’d never brought a boyfriend home. Never had someone he could call a boyfriend. Friends with benefits, maybe. He’d never let anything become more serious because he might have to say something.

If his cousins were alive, there was no way he’d even be contemplating it. They’d make his life hell. Dead, they weren’t any better.

He took another drink, knowing he needed to do something because this life wasn’t working for him. On the upside, if he came out and got kicked out, at least he had the cabin. But he wouldn’t have a job, even one he hated.

As he lowered the bottle from his lips, that knowing prickle crawled up his neck. Something was out there, lurking in the shadowy woods. During the day, it was easy to convince himself that it was a neighbor or perhaps a curious animal.

At night, it was a little harder. For months after the accident, he had nightmares filled with wolves with bright red eyes. He scanned the shadows the starlight couldn’t reach. Nothing. No movement and no reflection from wild eyes.

This is what happened when he spent all day in his head, creating stories about piles of rocks and feeling as though he were important enough that someone gave a shit about what he was doing.

He laughed and shook his head. “Get it together, Denny.”

Instead of thinking about becoming a psych, maybe he needed to start seeing one again. Mom would like that.

He pulled the pot off the fire so it could sit for the last few minutes soaking up the rest of the liquid. Sometimes he got it wrong, and it was a bit soupy, but better that than dry.

As he sat back down, movement in the woods caught his eye.

Fuck, there was something out there. His pulse quickened as his hand slid to the rifle on the ground. The cool metal was reassuring. A reminder that he could take care of himself.

Something rustled, and a twig snapped.

Too noisy for an animal, and a human creeping around the woods at night was potentially far more dangerous.

Who the fuck did that? Not him, he never roamed the woods at night, mostly because he didn’t want to fall and damage himself; he’d already spent far too much time in hospitals and rehab, and he had no desire to do it again.

He sat there, fingers on the cold metal, not sure if he should call out or act normal. He took a sip of beer, then set it on the ground next to him. If it was an animal, calling out might scare it away. The same for a human. Maybe.