by Amy Waeschle
“Thanks, Doc,” Pete said with a pained smile.
“You two take care of each other,” Dr. Harris said before stepping out of the room.
Pete needed Cassidy’s help to get dressed, and even then, she still hurt him. As she was pulling on his shirt, he flashed her a grin. “The doc didn’t say ‘no sex.’” He glanced at the door. “Whaddya say?”
Cassidy frowned. “How can you think about sex at a time like this?” She eyed the door and its tiny window, wondering if they were being watched.
She helped him step into his thermal ski pants but let him pull them up the rest of the way. She couldn’t risk exciting him any more than he somehow already was.
“Hey, I almost died today. What better way to celebrate life than to make sweet love to you right now?”
“You’re serious,” Cassidy said, pausing to look at his battered face.
“No,” he said, and the playful look faded. “But Cassidy?” he asked, taking her hands.
“What?” A nervous tingle bounced through her gut.
“Thank you for getting me out of there.” His eyes turned glassy and grave. “I could hear you, you know. Not right away, but I could hear you up there telling everyone to be careful, and I could hear the shovels.” He took a shaky breath and his top lip quivered. “I was so scared, Cass,” he said. “It was so dark in there.” He pulled her close and she hugged him, but softly so as not to hurt him. “I love you, Cassidy Kincaid,” he said. “I love you so much.”
Cassidy closed her eyes and a sob shook loose. I love you, Cassidy Kincaid. He had said those exact words to her that very morning. She put her head on his shoulder and cried.
Cassidy woke the next morning after tossing and turning for most of the night. After an awkward goodbye to Mark and Tara outside the hospital ER the night before, Cassidy had driven Pete to Casa de Rocas and helped him get settled. While listening to him drop off to sleep, images of the day had played in her head like a slide show: the climb beneath blue skies, the joking and lighthearted banter, digging the pit, Pete’s kiss before her descent, the crack of the slide letting loose, her own scream.
Of course it was her fault—she was the most experienced skier in the group. But what could she have said to stop them? The evidence pointed to the layers being safe. The block test held. But she had felt something—just a feeling, nothing concrete—that she had ignored. If the slide hadn’t happened, the feeling would be forgotten. She imagined such an outcome, the four of them completing laps on that ridge all morning, then skiing out together, exhausted and happy. Instead, Pete had nearly died. What if the others had been buried, too? I should have known better. The thought had kept her awake for hours.
Cassidy made a pot of coffee and took her laptop to the picnic table. An hour flew by as she dove into her inbox, though she found herself getting distracted instead of ticking off the items on her to-do list.
A groan from her room pulled her from her thoughts, and she rushed in to find Pete propped up on an elbow, the sheets wrapped around him.
“You okay?” Cassidy asked. She eyed the bottle of painkillers on her desk.
He blinked at her and slowly pushed his way to sitting. He sighed. “I was having this dream,” he said, sounding exhausted.
Cassidy paused, waiting. Her dreams hadn’t been pleasant, either.
“God, this hurts,” he said, grimacing.
“Do you want to take another pill?” she asked.
Pete pinched the bridge of his nose. “Throw those things away,” he said, shaking his head. “They make me feel like shit.” He shifted toward the end of the bed, grimacing again. “I think I’ll get up. Take a shower.” He looked at her. “How are you doing?”
Cassidy smiled, but it felt forced. “I’m okay.”
Pete nodded.
“I’ll get you some coffee,” she said, turning to go.
When Pete emerged in jeans and a zip-up hoody, his eyes looked tired but the color had returned to his cheeks. Another wave of relief washed over her, but it didn’t last.
He added cream to his coffee from her fridge and took a sip. He joined her at the table. “Thanks,” he said.
Cassidy’s cup was long empty. A gust of warm air blasted from the heating vent near her feet, and she curled her toes over it.
Pete’s mind was working, she could tell by his expression. Over the past year while somehow finding ways to be together despite their unpredictable schedules and workaholic tendencies, she had become closer to him than anyone she had ever dated. She felt she knew him and he knew her. They had rousting, deep conversations, and even though their viewpoints differed, they never felt contentious. She could count on one hand the number of times the two of them had fought. The first had been about money: Pete had been surprisingly nonreactive to the news of her inheritance, just hurt that she had kept it from him for so long. The others had been about Pete’s chronic lateness and his tendency to take unnecessary risks in the name of “adventure.”
The past spring, they had been heading to Mt. Hood for a one-day blitz, planning to sleep in her truck so they could get a crack-of-dawn start the following day. Cassidy had woken from a doze to see the gas gauge on empty and no service station in sight. Her alarm had been brushed aside with Pete’s “Don’t worry, there’s gotta be a gas station out here somewhere.”
Cassidy had stared at him, remembering the many service stations they had passed earlier in the evening. “And if there’s not?”
Pete had replied with a shrug, “Then we’ll have an adventure.”
Cassidy had been appalled. “Getting stranded in the middle of nowhere is not an adventure. It’s a disaster,” she fumed.
“You know, there’s a fine line between those two.”
Sure enough, a tiny service station had appeared on the horizon, and her truck had shut down just as they coasted down the exit. While pushing the car the rest of the way, Pete had glanced at her, his eyes shiny with mischief. “See? Isn’t this more interesting?”
Through all of this, Cassidy felt as though she knew him, and understood him and how his mind worked. She knew Pete would like to know more about her, but talking about her past wasn’t easy, so he still didn’t know the details of her father’s death and the life she had endured at Pamela’s without him. Nor had she told him much about Luke until one night after she and Pete had made love, and Pete had accidentally hurt her. The memory of how Luke had treated her had come rushing back, and she had broken down. Pete had felt horrible. They had held each other in the dark, and she had told him about how her relationship with Luke had unraveled, how she had clung to him despite the warning signs, only to find out from a ski patrol coworker that he had been sleeping with their supervisor for months.
That night in the dark with Pete it had all come tumbling out: her humiliation and shame, the pain and shock, the doubt that she was lovable. Pete had held her, kissed away her tears, and promised that he would never hurt her again.
But now, here she was hurting though she didn’t know why. Pete was the one who had almost died. He was the one who should be upset. Cassidy felt trapped by her emotions and was afraid to tell Pete in case he thought her silly or crazy. But the thought of Pete dying because of her mistake wouldn’t leave her alone.
“I gotta call Dave,” Pete said, his eyes looking distant.
“At the Times?” she asked. “What, you want to write about what happened?”
He looked surprised. “Of course.” Then he saw her look of alarm, and the gears turned again in his mind. “C’mon,” he chided, “you’ll get to play the hero!”
“I don’t want to be the hero,” she replied, her stomach churning. “Interview Mark. I’m sure he’ll jump at the chance.” She suddenly wondered if Mark had pictures. She saw the avalanche coming toward her again and imagined it as front-page news.
Pete was gazing at her, as if trying to decide something. “You really don’t want in?”
Cassidy felt the tears brimming. “I really don’
t.”
“Okay,” Pete said, his shoulders tense.
“I almost . . . ” Her breath caught. “I can’t . . . ” She wiped a tear with her fingertips.
Pete rushed to sit next to her. “Hey,” he said, pulling her into an embrace. “I’m sorry. You’re right.” He held her close, and she could smell his clean skin and the broken-in cotton scent of his shirt. “Of course you don’t have to be in it. I’m sorry.”
Fourteen
Tofino, Vancouver Island, British Columbia
March 10, 2016, 7:00 p.m.
Cassidy started a fire in the wood-burning stove while Pete carried water from the outside pump. The getaway had been Pete’s idea. Since the avalanche, Cassidy felt as if she had lost the thread of her work. Sometimes she stared at her screen for an hour, the cursor blinking. A few times, she had taken the entire day off. Her advisor had granted an extension, though he demanded a strict deadline for her remaining dissertation chapters. Pete assured her that a few days off would do her some good. Though she sensed that he had brought her here for more than just to jump-start her writing.
Mark and Tara had split up a month after the avalanche. Mark shared with Pete that looking death in the face like that had forced him to re-examine his life, and in so doing had realized that Tara no longer fit in it. The news had hit Pete surprisingly hard, and more than once Cassidy caught him looking at her, as if trying to read her mind. Though it made no sense to her, Cassidy too had struggled with the news.
Pete’s avalanche story made the first page of the travel section in the New York Times two weeks after the incident. The piece had earned him an award, and soon after, the University of California Press offered him a book deal.
“Should I take it?” Pete had asked her, looking anxious.
“Of course!” she had replied. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“I just . . . ” Pete sighed. “I mean of course I’m honored,” he said. “And the concept—survival stories from extreme athletes—sounds awesome, but . . . ” He looked away.
“Getting a book deal is a dream come true,” she urged. “I know you have other stories you’re working on, but they’ll still be there after the book is done.” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe your publisher will be interested in the ‘Immigrants in America’ book you want to write too. Have you asked?”
Pete shook his head. “They don’t publish stuff like that.”
“Well, then you’ll find another publisher.”
Pete sighed. “They offered me ten thousand dollars,” he said, a tiny grin spreading across his face.
“Wow!” Cassidy replied.
“I know. They’re really excited about it, Cass,” he added, his smile finally reaching his eyes.
“Just think of this as a stepping stone,” she added.
“I’ve been trying to break out of my reputation as only an outdoors and environment writer, and I’m finally making progress. You don’t think this book will send the wrong message?” Cassidy remembered him pacing across her kitchen.
“I don’t see why it would. A book is a big deal, no matter what the subject. I would think you’ll have even more opportunities once it’s out—to write whatever you want.”
A glow spread across his face. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll say yes.”
Since signing the contract, Pete had poured his entire being into the project, which made her stalling even more obvious. The two of them had spent many hours at Julia’s café, their laptop screens erect, but while Pete’s fingers tapped away on an article or chapter, hers clicked through surf videos or shopped for items she didn’t need. Every Tuesday evening a group of fellow geology graduate students met up with a faculty facilitator to discuss important articles related to their work. Normally, she looked forward to the intellectual sparring and collaboration at these sessions, but since the avalanche she couldn’t seem to muster the energy to attend.
Cassidy had always been a rotten sleeper, but she had learned to live with the fact that she just got by on less sleep than other people. Since the avalanche, her sleep patterns had deteriorated even further. Cassidy blamed it on the stress related to her upcoming defense, a critical paper she was hoping to publish, and the unknown status of her application into a post-doc program. One night, after a weeklong stretch of getting only two or three hours of sleep per night, she had pulled down the bottle of Scotch she kept for special occasions. As it was her father’s brand and a reward he had enjoyed in the evening after a long day, she had told herself she was just missing him. But weeks later, this ritual was becoming a habit.
The fire in the woodstove crackled to life, and the black belly glowed red, warming her face. She added two medium-sized logs and closed the door partway. Pete entered carrying a pot of water with his good hand. Fortunately, his wrist had not needed surgery, just therapy and rest—a tall order considering how much he used it, but the tendon was healing.
Pete set the pot on the stove. “How about a quick walk?” he asked. Outside, the sky was an inky black, the stars obscured by cloud cover.
“Isn’t it raining?” she asked.
“Not really.” He plucked her coat from the edge of the queen-sized bed. “C’mon. It’ll feel good to stretch our legs.”
Cassidy slid on her coat and spun to go, but Pete slid his arms around her. Cassidy felt her body stiffen, which confused her. Why did she react this way? Pete had been nothing but patient with her since the avalanche and had chosen Tofino because of her continued apprehension about being on the mountain again. She knew she should “get back on the horse,” but somehow she couldn’t muster the energy. The two of them had not skied together since the avalanche, though Pete had gone with Aaron and Mark several times. She wanted to get back to her old life, it just seemed so far away.
Cassidy forced herself to relax, and kissed him gently. He took her hand and they stepped outside. A gust of wind washing over her face while she zipped up her jacket made her squint. As Pete and Cassidy followed the rocky path to the beach, splats of rain dropped through the branches of the giant trees lining the shoreline. Once there, a fine mist enveloped them, and Cassidy pulled up her hood. They walked to the sound of the soft sand crunching beneath their boots and the soft shush of invisible waves combing the shore.
Their clasped hands swung as they strolled. “You want to surf in the morning?” he asked her after a while. “The wind’s supposed to die down.”
“Sure,” she said. “I brought my five-four,” she replied, thinking of the five-millimeter wetsuit she had bought after her first year in the Northwest: stiff and thick but toasty warm.
“Then we can go into town for breakfast.”
Cassidy imagined them sipping steaming coffee and nibbling on something home-baked and hearty.
A gust of wind blasted them, and Cassidy ducked her head and pulled her hood down to shield her face. “Should we turn back?” she asked, thinking of the wood stove they had left burning.
They returned to the cabin and Cassidy stoked the stove; by the time they unloaded their bags and the groceries into the fridge, the cabin had warmed enough to strip to their T-shirts. They ate pasta and drank wine at the tiny table, Pete sharing his latest book research involving a kayaker who attempted to paddle over a waterfall in Peru and drowned. His partner’s CPR saved him right there on the riverbank while onlookers gawked and the cameras rolled. Cassidy was on her second glass of wine by the time they finished dinner.
They made love on the sagging mattress, and the freedom of not worrying about roommates was a welcome change. Though Pete tended to her in all the usual ways, something felt missing. Pete must not have noticed, because he fell asleep right away. Cassidy curled away from him, the anxiety that something was wrong settling deep into her gut.
As the night wore on, her mind refused to settle down. The pieces of Pete’s latest interview kept popping into her mind. What if Pete had been dead when they’d found him? Cassidy imagined herself bent over Pete’s mouth, breathing for him while Mark di
d chest compressions. No, she told herself. Pete was all right. They had talked through this a thousand times. Accidents happen. Thank God she was there to rescue him. “You can’t get rid of me that easily,” he had joked with her more than once. According to Pete, everything should be okay now.
But it felt far from okay.
She pulled the covers aside, careful not to wake Pete, and tiptoed to her bag by the couch. They had pledged not to work on this trip, but she had so much to do. Besides, she couldn’t sleep, so why not try to further her writing progress?
She slipped the hard copy of her dissertation out of her bag, along with her headlamp and a pencil, then stoked the woodstove and settled in.
Cassidy woke to the faint streaks of dawn streaming through the cracks in the curtains and the sound of Pete building up the fire. She glanced at her watch: just after seven. When had she finally fallen asleep? Two? Two-thirty?
Pete turned, and looked surprised to see her eyes open. “Did I wake you?” he asked. Underneath his look of compassion was an edge she couldn’t read.
“No,” Cassidy said, sitting up. She glanced at the empty tumbler on the coffee table. As the night had drawn later and later and Cassidy still hadn’t been able to fall asleep, she had gotten into the Scotch she had bought at the ferry’s duty-free store to celebrate Pete’s book deal.
Pete eyed the empty glass and the stack of marginally edited papers.
Cassidy felt her body tense as she caught the look on his face, but he stepped to the couch and gave her a kiss, warm and soft. “Good morning,” he said, his gaze lingering on her eyes.
She kissed him back, and swung her legs off the couch. “I’ll make coffee,” she said, her head swimming a little.
After a quick breakfast of granola and two cups of coffee, they suited up in wetsuits, booties, and gloves, and stepped outside. They picked up their boards and trotted down the path. Before them, the wide-open expanse of golden sand stretched for a mile or more in either direction. Clusters of several black-clad surfers bobbed offshore in the waves. Anticipation fluttered inside her as she assessed the clean sets and glassy ocean surface.