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I probably should feel more disappointed, or at least feel a tinge of despair or something in my sensitive-as-a-peach heart, but there’s nothing there.
We aren’t even close to figuring out who is Mom’s guy, and the month is going by so fast, and I should be stressing as the window begins to close and yet…
Knox’s hand is still caressing my sweater-covered side in slow, loving strokes that could put me to sleep any second now. I almost let out a breath of misguided relief when a new sound, a closer sound, of creaking has every muscle in my body locking into position with Knox’s hands still on me.
It happens so fast I can barely even register it, like a blip in time.
The door opens. I don’t mean a crack or a tiny little peek, I mean it full-blown swings wide open with no hesitation…all the way open.
Light floods the tiny closet, slicing straight through the narrow opening and landing directly on Knox and I caught in a not-so-casual embrace. The two of us are under the eyes of a very confused, and I’ll be honest, disturbed man who is bouncing his eyes back and forth between us. We are two fully clothed, but still compromised, teenagers shoved into a space meant for brooms and, I suppose now, regret.
We stare at him.
He stares at us.
Time does this weird loop like it’s tripping over its own feet and falling down the stairs in a tumble. It is so long, or maybe so heavy, of a time that the clock on the wall doesn’t dare to do a single click of the long second hand.
“Oh…” The stranger blinks once, then twice.
Meanwhile Knox doesn’t move. I don’t move. We are two mannequins in an extremely suspicious display of art labeled Uncomfortable. Logically, someone needs to say something here. But then again, is there really anything to be said about this situation?
“Oh,” the man repeats, a bit softer, like maybe if he says it once more in some kind of rhythm, we will disappear with a spell.
There is a brief moment where I feel the need to say, “Good morning,” “How do you do,” or maybe the classic, “This isn’t what it looks like, we aren’t stalking you,” but my mouth has decided to go on strike in solidarity with my frozen body and is opting out of the situation entirely.
Knox’s mouth must be on the same strike because he also says nothing.
The man’s eyes flick to the bags at our feet, then to the fireplace, and back to our faces. This feels oddly similar to when someone walks in on you in the bathroom. Yet somehow, this is mildly more terrifying than being mid-pee with an old lady staring at you.
“Sorry…” he says with Canadian levels of apology that Knox and I should be the ones spewing, and yet we’re both silent beyond Knox’s small nod of a hello.
Like anything about this situation is a normal interaction—like we’re neighbors passing each other on our nightly dog walk and not two idiots hiding in a fire tower closet at the break of dawn.
“No worries,” Knox eventually squeaks out.
Why would he say that? Why would anyone say that? I have a whole lot of worries, thank you very much. Starting with is this man going to call the police and report two teenagers clearly on drugs in a fire tower?
There’s another pause before the man clears his throat. “I was, uh, just…” He gestures vaguely at the windows. “Sunrise…hiking.”
“Yeah.” Knox nods and I am still silent.
“Cool.” The man takes one step back, maintaining eye contact the entire time like we are feral polar bears who could jump ice caps and charge any moment now. “I’m just gonna…yeah.”
I am dying for the moment to be over, but then Knox says a soft, “Safe travels.” I would like to crawl into a ball and fall over right here, right now.
The man backs out of the room to the main door, and I stay completely frozen.
After a few beats of silence, Knox exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Well…next time, let’s bring parachutes and just jump out the window.”
Chapter Twenty-Two Knox
I’ve been holding on to this idea since I agreed to Felicity’s offer—proposition, whatever you want to call it—that maybe I could be a new version of myself for her. The hero in her favorite romances. The guy that would make all other guys incomparable for her, and yet every time I try to pull it off, something falls in the way. If it’s not my own head, then it’s a random man rushing into a room while you’re stuck in the stupid closet.
My hand brushes against Frederick the cat’s fur as I sit in the back of the shelter while Felicity works up front. “I don’t have the ducks today. Sorry.”
He’s technically deaf, conveniently only responding when we shake the treat tin, but other than that, no responses to any meowing or calling of his name. I like to think he can hear me, though.
“Would you mind putting in a good word with her out there, huh? Tell her I saved you from a bush fire or something, really hype me up.”
