Page 76 of Weathering The Storm

Honestly, I like being around Seth’s family. It’s been a while since I’ve lived near my own, and I forgot what it was like to always have someone to talk to, or simply to exist in the same room with.

It’s louder, more chaotic here. Audrey’s kids have a mountain of energy, so of course, they gravitate toward their uncle. And in general, Seth’s whole family are the kind of people who show their love through bickering and then laughing about it.

There’s never a dull moment, and there’s always something to do. Whether it’s chopping wood, making repairs, or helping Seth’s mom out in the kitchen.

It’s nice to get out of my head for a while. To have something to take my mind off the… trauma.

Maybe if I write that word enough, it won’t feel quite so wrong anymore.

Trauma.

That’s what this feeling is.

Nick

December 12

I’m still thinking about the question that came up during therapy today.

“Your first mate, your partner. Seth. He’s also been in charge of steering? Decision-making?”

“Yes.”

“What would you say to him if he had been the one in charge? How would you feel if he had made the same calls you did? Would you blame him for what happened?”

I told him no. Immediately. Resoundingly.

“And why not?”

It was weird, arguing against my own mind. But that’s exactly what I had to do if I put Seth in my place. Of course Seth couldn’t know a storm was coming our way, or how bad it would get. Of course there was nowhere else he could’ve taken us on such short notice that would’ve protected from the weather. Of course he couldn’t control the rapid icing.

So why should I have been able to?

The logic is right there, I can see it. I can feel it. But it’s hard to hold onto it for any length of time because trauma is stronger than logic. It’s a thirty-foot wave battering an aluminum skiff.

Even now, as I wait for Seth to get out of the shower, my mind starts arguing back.

Maybe I wouldn’t blame him if he was in charge because I would never blame him for anything.

I can hear the water splatter on the tile when he wipes it off his face. The steam creeping under the crack in the door smells like him. Pine and salt—clean, woodsy Alaskan air. Every once in a while, he lets out a deep breath that reminds me of the one he makes when our clothes are gone and his body presses fully against mine for the first time.

The way I love him is stronger than logic, too. Stronger than trauma, I imagine. Because it shines through.

Nick

December 18

I made paella with Seth’s mom today.

Helping Irene out in the kitchen is one of the most relaxing tasks around here. You wouldn’t think so, with how much of a stickler she is, but maybe that’s why. My brain understands procedure, and cooking is familiar.

Irene knows exactly how she wants things done, and it’swaydifferent than the way I’ve ever done them.

I learned to cook as efficiently as possible, with as few ingredients as possible, dirtying as few dishes as possible.

She’s got the biggest collection of cookbooks I’ve ever seen. Every type of cuisine you could possibly imagine, and she’s studied them all like she’s getting ready to write her thesis on international cooking. For the ingredients that can’t be found aroundhere, there’s even little handwritten notes about substitutions she’s tried and whether they’ve tasted good or not.

She makes nearly everything from scratch. Including the seafood stock we used to cook the rice—and damn, was it delicious. Fresh crab shells and fish trimmings from local fishermen, paired with dry white wine and scraps of vegetables and herbs she keeps frozen from her spring gardening. I would have drank it from a mug on its own.