Page 56 of Cabin Fever
I start to pack. Methodical, efficient, refusing to look at the sheets or the pillow still carrying the shape of his head. Every item I pick up feels heavier than it should, saturated with all the bad energy weighing on my heart. I shove jeans, bras, toothbrush, everything into my duffel, my movements clipped and robotic. I hear Talon’s footsteps behind me, soft but certain, as he comes to lean against the doorframe.
He watches, silent, arms still crossed. There’s a tightness in his jaw, but his eyes give nothing away. I know that look—it’s the same one he wore the day I showed up, the one that said I was a puzzle he wanted to solve but never, ever keep.
I zip my bag, ignoring the way my hands shake. I stand, sling the duffel over my shoulder, and turn to face him. He’s still there, filling the doorway, filling the whole fucking room with his presence.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. There’s nothing left to say, anyway.
He steps aside, just a little, just enough for me to squeeze past. His arm brushes mine again, and this time I let myself feel it—the heat, the pull, the tiny flicker of what might have been.
I keep walking.
The living room is empty, save for the fading fire and the memory of last night’s lovemaking. Did that really happen? Itfeels like ages ago now. I grab my phone from the counter, my charger, the paperback I picked up at BookEnds. I shove it all into my bag, then pull open the door.
The cold is sharp, almost cleansing.
I step outside. The wind bites my cheeks, and I can hear the crunch of Talon’s boots on the porch behind me.
“I felt something, you know,” he finally speaks, his voice a deep rumble. “It wasn’t all fake.”
But I don’t look back. I just keep walking, one foot in front of the other, until the cabin is nothing but a smear of light behind me.
The fox is in my pocket. My future is somewhere ahead, black and endless and mine.
I walk into it, not looking back, not even once.
I sitat the bus station, under lights that make everything look jaundiced and cheap, and wonder if it’s possible for a person to actually run out of tears. My suitcase is wedged between my knees, backpack slung over one shoulder, the wooden fox hidden in my coat pocket like a piece of forbidden magic.
Erasmus sits beside me, stiff and silent, a lump of flannel and old cigar smoke. He hasn’t said much since he dropped me off here, but he’s kept vigil, glaring at anyone who comes too close—especially the man behind the counter who keeps glancing at my face like he recognizes me from a poster on the post office wall.
Outside, the night is cold and brittle, wind slapping the glass with tiny claws of sleet. Every time the doors slide open for a newarrival, a gust of air knifes through the waiting room, making everyone flinch and huddle deeper into their layers. It smells like diesel fumes and microwaved burritos and the disappointment of people who know they’re never going anywhere better than this.
The digital clock over the ticket window blinks in slow, miserable increments. I’ve got twenty-three minutes left in this purgatory before the bus arrives to haul me back to the city, to the life I tried so hard to make work. Part of me wants to stand up and run, to disappear into the darkness with nothing but my ruined pride. But I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. The exhaustion sits on my shoulders like a sleeping cat, warm but immovable.
Erasmus clears his throat, the sound more cough than question. I look at him, and he’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed on the vending machines across the room.
“You weren’t the only one,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Don’t blame yourself because he’s an old hand, Katherine. He’s done this many times, and many women fell for it. You’re not alone.”
I nod, because what else can I do? Erasmus glances at me, as if to make sure I’m hearing him, then looks away again.
A family trundles in, kids squalling, mother barking orders while the dad hauls a ton of suitcases behind him. The noise makes my skin crawl, but Erasmus seems to relax, as if the chaos is proof the world hasn’t ended after all.
The old man leans forward, elbows on his knees, and for the first time I notice his hands are shaking. “Remember what the fox means,” he says, nodding at my pocket. “Trust your gut the nexttime someone offers you something too good to be true. Never act out of fear or desperation. Those are traps.”
I want to laugh, but the best I can manage is a weak smile.
The PA system crackles, announcing the bus is five minutes out. Erasmus stands, his joints popping like firewood. He holds out his hand, and I take it, surprised at how warm and steady it feels.
He doesn’t hug me. He doesn’t say goodbye. He just squeezes my fingers, then pats my shoulder, as awkward and endearing as a father who’s never done this before.
Then he’s gone, out the door and into the night, swallowed by the cold and the dark and whatever secret hurts he carries.
The bus is late, but I don’t mind. I watch the empty road through the grimy glass, feeling the world slow down, my heart finally returning to something like normal speed. When the bus does arrive, I board with my head down, pay the driver with a damp ten, and slide into the farthest seat from the front.
It’s nearly midnight when the city lights appear, flickering at the edges of the highway like a fever dream. I get off at the terminal, drag my suitcase across three blocks of ice-slicked sidewalk, and climb the stairs to my apartment. The key sticks in the lock, but I force it, teeth bared, and stumble into the stale warmth of home.
It’s exactly as I left it: socks drying on the radiator, ramen wrappers in the sink, the faint scent of vanilla from the candle I used to light when I was reading. I drop my bags, collapse onto the futon, and stare at the ceiling.
The first thing I do, before I even take off my shoes, is check my phone. I scroll past a dozen spam texts and one message from Simone (Hey, hope the woods didn’t eat you!). I smile weaklyat her attempt at humor, but my heart is heavy. I don’t want to reply. Not yet. Instead, I pull out the wooden fox, holding it in my palm like a talisman. Its smooth surface feels reassuring, a reminder of Erasmus’s words.
