Page 54 of Silent Shadows

seven

DAISY

By Sunday morning, I have a problem.

And it’s not that I definitely, unprofessionally kissed the guy I’m supposed to be featuring in this limited series podcast.

No, the problem is that I’ve listened to the recording of the sound from yesterday thirteen times, and on the thirteenth, it still sounds the same.

Unnatural. Unexplainable. Deep and sharp and not quite animal or human, echoing through the canyon like something had thrown its voice between the rocks and let it come back changed.

I sit in the back corner booth of the diner with my headphones on and laptop open, untouched black coffee going cold beside me, and I rewind the clip yet again.

On screen, the waveform spikes.

In my ears, the canyon goes quiet.

Then, that sound.

My shoulders tighten even though I know it’s coming.

I pause it. Rewind. Play it again.

Same sound. Same reaction. Same stupid, annoying prickle at the back of my neck.

“Great,” I mutter to myself. “Having a podcast is fun, they said. Getting out into the field will be the answer, they said.”

The waitress, who has already decided I’m either writing a dissertation or hiding from a bad decision, slides by with a coffee pot. “Warm up?”

“Yes, please. Emotionally and literally.”

She snorts and tops me off.

I’ve been here for almost four hours, long enough that the sticky vinyl booth has become part of my legs and the staff has stopped pretending they don’t recognize me from breakfast with Miles yesterday. I told everyone on the crew I needed space to work, which is true. The Machine is too full of noise and bodies and odd little intimacies I don’t know what to do with.

Also, Miles is there, which at present is a problem adjacent to the first.

Because the sound in the woods is messing with me.

But the kiss is messing with me even more.

Every time I close my eyes, I'm back there. His lips parting mine. The faint taste of campfire smoke and marshmallow lingering on his lips. The scratch of his stubble against my skin. The surprising warmth of his hand as it slid to my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek before settling at the nape of my neck like he'd been holding me there his whole life.

I should've been thinking about the podcast and my career. Kissing my subject is just bad journalism.

Instead, I was raking my hands through his hair, deliriously considering the best way to straddle someone on a log—if only I’d let it go that far. I’m still wondering if he always smells like cedar and fresh air, or if that's just what happens after spending all day in the woods. I'm wondering how someone so cautiously analytical can kiss with that much certainty. Like he wasn't asking a question. He'd already found the answer.

I've kissed plenty of men. Men with million-dollar apartments. Celebrities, even. Men who seemed like they knew exactly what they were doing.

None of them made the rest of the world disappear.

None of them made me feel like someone had reached into my chest and quietly turned the temperature up a few degrees.

I came out here to bang out a miniseries. And now, all I can think about is how I want to bang Miles Adler, with his sunscreen and his field notes and his extremely sincere, stupidly beautiful face.

I drag my hands down my face and stare at my notes.

The first episode was supposed to be obvious.