The stone staircase is safe; one side is the lighthouse’s wall, the other guarded by a thick black railing. I tested the integrity of the entire staircase myself and repaired and reenforced where it needed it. I didn’t want to run the risk of falling, either. I don’t know how much more my body can stand before it shuts down for good.
She cranes her neck, looking to the very top, the meagre light accentuating the delicate curve of her jaw. My mouth dries. She’s beautiful in a classically elegant way. Clear skin, delicate eyebrows, bright green eyes, small nose, and lush lips. She’s standing on the step above mine and we’re eye-level, close enough I could kiss her without moving.
“I’ll try not to, but heights have never been my favorite.”
“You’ll be okay once you reach the top. Don’t look down.”
We’re halfway to the top when I ask her to stop. “Hold on. I need a break.” I sag tiredly against the wall, my heart thumping against my chest, sweat coating my skin, though it can’t be warmer than forty degrees in here.
“Do you need to go back?” she asks, sitting on a step.
“No. It’s good exercise, and I don’t let myself avoid it. My doc says my body’s still healing, but I think he doesn’t want to admit that I’m not going to bounce back.”
“You’re lucky to be alive, from what I’ve read,” she says.
“That’s debatable.”
Narrowing her eyes, she asks, “Do you go to physical therapy?”
“I work out in town at the gym. A physical therapist stops by once in a while, helps with strength training. I see a masseuse. My stamina’s shit. I’m not as young as I used to be. Come on.”
She stands, grips the railing.
I’m out of breath again by the time we reach the top, but the view distracts her from my huffing and puffing.
Snow flies past us, and she presses her hands against the glass. If it were clear, she’d be looking toward town, not the lake. We have a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view from the top, the Fresnel lens centered in the middle. Encased in glass, we’re safe from the blizzard, but it’s cold up here, and I should have told her to wear her jacket.
“It’s like we’re in the middle of a snow globe,” she says in awe, her voice soft, squinting because it’s fucking bright up here.
“One shaken up by a vicious child,” I say, sinking into a metal folding chair I carried up just for this reason. I’m always alone and I don’t have another, but I’m too tired to be chivalrous and ask if she wants to sit. She’s younger and healthier than I am; if she needs to rest, she can sit on the floor. She’d be able to stand back up.
“Do you spend a lot of time up here?” she asks, looking over her shoulder at me.
“I used to, before the novelty wore off. It’s...melancholy. More than you’d expect it to be. Especially if it’s raining. I try not to put myself into situations that bring me down.” For the most part, I succeed. I’m not the recluse the papers say I am. I have a handful of friends in town. Not many. Pete and his wife ask me to dinner sometimes, and I reciprocate because Pete’s wife likes to come up and look over the lake. After nasty PT sessions, sometimes my physical therapist and I will go out for a beer, and a cute little thing at the gas station I use brazenly asked me out once, but I declined. I have a life, but it wasn’t the one I was living before the accident.
I’ll never live that life again.
“Are you suicidal?”
Her question hits a little too close to home. “Is that one of your interview questions?”
She lifts a corner of her mouth. “No. Everything’s off the record.”
Her answer reminds me of who she is. She doesn’t care about me or the accident or what the accident turned me into. She’s the same as all the rest, only out for what she can get for herself. “Why are you here, Devyn?”
She frowns. “You know that. To interview you.”
“Yes, but,why are you here?”
I don’t have to explain. She’s intelligent. Has a degree in Journalism, maybe a double major in English, too, Communications. Well-educated. I don’t need to explain the nuance of the question.
She turns her back to the storm, rests her elbows on the rail that runs along the glass that long ago attempted to keep tourists from plastering themselves against it like she did when we first came up.
“I got fired from the Times, and with my reputation, no one would hire me. I needed a job to take care of my sister—she’s younger than I am, and our mother’s useless. The editor-in-chief of the Portland Pioneer gave me a chance. He saw through the bullshit and said he wanted to hire a good reporter who would tell the truth. My sister and I moved from Cedar Hill to Portland, and I’ve been trying to keep my nose clean and do my job. The owners, they don’t like it so much, and every once in a while, they tell him to assign me an impossible job so they can fire me when I don’t come through. What they don’t understand is, I’ve reported on some nasty shit, come into contact with some ugly stuff, and so far, I’ve been able to do everything they’ve asked. Of course, it made newspaper sales soar, and a couple of my articles were syndicated through the AP. That only made them want to torture me more, and that’s when they told me to interview you. If I don’t get the interview, they’ll fire me.” She sighs, relaxes her stance, and presses her cheek against the glass.
I heft myself out of the chair and lean against the railing, my back screaming because I didn’t rest long enough.
“I knew you wouldn’t go for it, and that’s why I was blubbering like an idiot last night. I wasn’t trying to trap myself here. I had no idea a storm this bad was coming.” She meets my eyes. “I really didn’t. My sister and I have been okay in Portland, but, whatever, you know? They don’t like me, and I shouldn’t stay where I’m not wanted. We can figure something else out. Maybe a change of scenery would do us some good.”