Completely Alone
It’s late when I arrive. I’m tired and in too much of a haze to focus on what’s around me, but my brain catalogs information anyway. The meaning just doesn’t register with me yet. The snow on the ground is fresh. There are no recent tire tracks, no footprints around the door. Everything is quiet. Cold.
Empty.
Trudging onto the porch, I tap my feet against the wall near the door to knock the snow off my boots and then open the door. It’s warmer inside but not warm. There’s no fire going in the fireplace and no sound from the back room or the television. I’m not greeted by barking or a wet nose on my face.
“Lia?”
Silence.
The kitchen is immediately to the left as I walk in. There are no dirty dishes in the sink or clean ones drying in the rack. The scent in the room is bland and sterile—no evidence of recent food preparation.
I glance back at the entryway, and the empty coat hook finally holds meaning.
Is she outside?
I walk slowly to the sliding door that leads to the back porch. There’s a clear view of the woodpile out back, but no signs of Lia or Freyja. There are no tracks in the snow going to and from the woodpile. The porch is devoid of snowy boots.
“Lia?” I call again.
Nothing.
Back in the kitchen, there is only one item left out—a sheet of notebook paper on the counter near the stove. My throat tightens as I drag my feet across the linoleum floor, and my hand shakes as I reach for the paper.
Dear Evan,
It’s been weeks since I last saw you, and more than ten days since every one of my calls went straight to voice mail. I don’t know where you are or even if you are alive. I know you’ve been lying to me. I think part of me has always known. You leave for days at a time without any real explanation, and when you return, your eyes are always dull and blank. I’ve seen that look too many times not to understand what it means.
I have no one I can confide in. Even the idea of having a friend feels strange to me now. I thought you would be enough, but when you leave, I am left alone to imagine what you might be doing. I keep wondering why I bother with school. What will I do when I complete my degree? Where would I work when we have to live in secret?
I can’t do this anymore, Evan. I love you with all my heart, but I can’t cope with this. I can’t live wondering where you are, what you are doing, or if you’re going to come back home at all. I can’t reconcile what I know you are still doing with my conscience. I can’t be okay with it.
I’m going back to Arizona. There are some job openings at the local hospital, and my mom is going to help me find my own place and get settled in.
I wanted to do this in person, but I had no idea when you’d return. I don’t even know if you’ll return. I’m sorry, Evan. I thought I could do this, but I can’t. I will always love you, but it isn’t enough.
Lia
There’s no date on the page. I have no idea how long ago it was written. Days? Weeks?
I place the paper back on the counter after I’ve read through it four times. There’s tightness in my gut, and for a moment, my mind flashes to blazing heat, the feeling of sand on my torn knees, and the grip of a rough hand around my throat. I try to swallow past it, but I can’t. I can’t even draw breath into my lungs.
Previous thoughts of food, warm beverages, and the heat of a body next to mine as I sleep dissipate. I walk absently to the bedroom at the back of the cabin and stare at the neatly made bed. I drag my fingertips over the bedspread, tracing the abstract pattern.
Her scent is long gone from the room.
I slump down to the bed and grab her pillow. It only smells like laundry detergent. Still, I hold it against my chest and bury my face in it. My body is exhausted, but my mind is racing. When I look toward the nightstand, something catches my eye.
It’s a slender, silver chain. Threaded through it is a quarter.
Aside from the lamp, it’s the only item on the nightstand. It is laid out neatly and deliberately. In my head, I can see Lia slowly taking it from her neck and displaying it there. It is the symbol of our first encounter. Seeing it there feels like a punch in the gut.
Shoving the pillow away, I push myself off the bed and stomp back into the main room. I stare at the fireplace and the handful of logs stacked neatly beside it. Grasping one of them, I clench my fingers around it and feel its weight against my palm.
“Evan, that’s not a fire. That’s a bonfire!” Lia laughed and tossed a piece of popcorn at me.
“It’s negative twenty degrees out there,” I told her. “I gotta keep you warm.”