Page 22 of Cabin Fever
I sit at my desk, open a fresh file, and start to write the first scene.
I already know how it ends.
After a delicious dinnerof roast beef prepared by Kat, we retreat to our respective corners. The cabin is all creaks and hush, the fire just a dull red ache in the hearth. Most people don’t know that the woods get louder at night—not from the wind, but from the way it seeps into your blood and tells you you’re not alone, not ever. There’s a full moon, so bright it cuts right through the big windows, painting the living room in patches of silver.
I’m in the office, the one spot in the house where I pretend to work, but really I’m just listening to the sounds she makes outside. Kat is in the main room, curled up in my favorite reading chair, the satellite phone cradled to her ear. She keeps her voice low, but she’s not as quiet as she thinks.
“Sim, it’s just administrative stuff, honestly. I’m totally fine.”
A pause, then: “No, there’s nothing sketchy. It’s actually kind of nice. Like a paid retreat.”
She’s lying, but she’s good at it. I wonder if she’s always been this way, or if the last few days have sharpened her.
She hunches down further in the chair, tugs the blanket up around her shoulders, and twists a strand of hair around her finger absentmindedly.
“I promise, if he even looks at me sideways I’ll run. I swear. And there’s a phone, see? I’m calling you on it, right now.”
A long silence, just the faint snap of the fire and the sound of her friend talking on the other end.
“No, I don’t have service, but I can use this line any time. I’ll check in regularly. Scout’s honor. Okay, bye girlfriend. Don’t worry, I’m okay! Love you, talk soon.”
Kat hangs up, stares at the fire for a minute, then drops her head back and just sits there, letting her guard down for the first time all day. She thinks I can’t see her, but there’s a crack in the door, and I can glimpse the young woman. She’s almost glowing in the moonlight, her face turned up, eyes closed, curves completely still.
There’s a fragility to the way she breathes, like she’s bracing for something. Or maybe hoping for it.
She gets up, pads over to the kitchen, grabs a cookie from the tin, and goes to the stairs. I watch her go, the slow sway of her hips under the robe, the way she hesitates at the landing—like she wants to double back, but can’t remember why.
The whole house settles into a hush after she disappears. I type a single sentence, then stare at the blinking cursor, my brain spinning with what I want to do to her, how I want to write her into the book, into my bones.
An hour later, I check the hallway. It’s dark, but there’s a strip of light under her door. I knock, softly.
“You awake?”
No answer.
I lean in, just to listen.
She’s not asleep. I can hear the way she turns in the bed, restless, as if every cell in her body is rioting with anticipation. I know the feeling.
I almost go in, but I let her have tonight. She deserves that much.
I go back downstairs, kill the lights, and stand in the moonbeam pooling by the fireplace. I drink a glass of water, stare at the embers, and wonder how much longer I can pretend I’m in charge.
The woods outside are loud as ever, but inside, there’s the electricity of suspense … and anticipation.
At sunrise,I find my beautiful PA in the kitchen, hair loose, eyes raw, wearing nothing but the robe and a pair of socks. She’s making pancakes, flipping them with a precision that’s almost surgical. When she sees me, she doesn’t turn.
“Morning,” she says.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She shrugs. “Didn’t try.”
I pour myself coffee, watch her plate the pancakes, all the while pretending to ignore the way her legs look in that robe, the way the fabric clings to her waist, the way I somehow know she’s wearing only a bra and panties underneath.
She sets the plate on the table between us, slides into a chair, and stabs a pancake with her fork.
“You ready to begin?” I ask, after a long minute.
