Virgin for the Woodsman

by Eddie Cleveland

  When I was with Ben and his crowd, we never did anything as brash as disagree or debate. When you’re a part of a crowd like that, you keep the peace and bite your tongue. Crass arguments have no place at parties, that’s what Twitter is for.

  I pry open my heavy eyelids and look into the face of a man who, in only a few days, has made me question everything I thought I wanted in this lifetime. After growing up as an outsider in my own family, I was desperate to be accepted. Not just by my Instagram followers, but by Ben, by anyone who was living a life that I had only dreamed of as an unloved foster kid orphaned by her parents’ drug addiction.

  However, with that acceptance came a high price. I could never really be myself. I could never have real conversations about my life or my experiences. I was just a prop. A round ass contorted in a million online pictures and a pretty face on a famous poker billionaire’s arm. I was accepted but judged for everything I said and did.

  How did I ever let myself get so buried in that life?

  I run my hand over Sawyer’s thick but soft beard and smile. He looks so peaceful when he’s sleeping. His gruff exterior melts away and exposes his softer side. His lips twitch into a half-smile, but he’s still sleeping heavily.

  Sawyer hasn’t given a shit about how I’ve been dressed. How my hair looks. How many ways I can pop my ass out for another ‘belfie.’ He’s been the exact opposite. Only caring about my thoughts, my history, about… me.

  He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met. His question from last night pops into my brain. He wants me to live with him, just us, at his cabin. I told him I needed to sleep on it, but in the light of day, I know that it’s the only life I want. I could never go back to the vast void that I called living. Once a bird has flown and swooped through the pale blue sky, can it ever return to a cage?

  I know what I need to do. But, first I need water. If I’m going to go live off-grid with Sawyer, I should probably get used to doing the work that goes with it. I sit up and my head spins. The fresh air will help me feel better. I’m going to surprise him and go get the snow we need to wash away our hangovers and start the coffee.

  I scramble to my feet and the cold air clings to my naked body, draining me of heat and leaving me a shivering, teeth chattering mess.

  I quickly grab Sawyer’s jacket and put it on, zipping it all the way up. From the floor, I put on my pants and then slip my feet into my big boots. My violent shaking settles down into an occasional tremble down my spine as I warm back up.

  Over on the window ledge, a flashing catches my eye. My heart beats quickly as I realize my phone is lighting up with messages. I must have signal!

  I don’t move for a second. I’m not sure I want to read any of them. I’m not sure I want to still be attached to the life I’m ready to walk away from. Maybe I should tell Kate that I’m okay and to call off the search that is supposed to be coming this way soon. I don’t want to send them on a wild goose hunt for someone who doesn’t want to be found.

  I slowly close the gap between me and my phone. The device that was once an extension of my hand now feels like an intrusion on my space. On my freedom. I gingerly lift it from the window ledge and glance down at the screen.

  You have 473 unread text messages

  Wow, I don’t even want to think about that. Only a few days ago, it would’ve felt amazing to see so many attempts to get a hold of me. So many people desperate to find me. Now, I resent it.

  As I swipe my thumb over my phone and bring my screen to life, I reach into Sawyer’s jacket pocket to warm my other hand. I’m going to need to get him to teach me how to get a fire going like he does. It’s amazing how quickly he can have a roaring blaze going from nothing.

  My fingers graze across something crinkly and rough, distracting me from the scrolling list of bolded, unanswered texts. I grasp the paper in his pocket and pull it out, freezing in place as I realize what I’m holding.

  It’s a photograph. The old kind that people put in albums. In it, his family is smiling at the camera, standing around a stainless steel counter in a huge restaurant kitchen.

  That must be Il Lupi, back when he felt like his family was his wolf pack.

  Will he ever feel that way about me? Will we form our own family? Our own wolf pack?

  I run my thumb over the wrinkled, worn photo. Sawyer looks younger, and strange without a beard. His eyes sparkle with a breath of life I’ve only seen glimmers of. His mother is gorgeous, was gorgeous, I correct my thought. His father looked so proud, his shoulders thrown back and his arm around his wife. His brother was every bit as handsome as Sawyer.

  It’s such a shame he lost them. I can’t imagine that pain. I lost my parents to drugs well before they were taken from me by authorities. It sounds like Sawyer lost his family in an accident. I can see the wound is still so fresh, I haven’t wanted to pry. I know he’ll tell me when he’s ready.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  I swirl around on my heel in surprise as Sawyer stands behind me with rage twisting his features down.

  “What? What do you mean?” I look at him with surprise. My hands are still frozen. One is clutching my phone and one holding his family photo.

  Sawyer stomps across the room and yanks the picture from my grasp. “You’re taking a picture of my family?” He glares at me, “I thought you changed? That you didn’t care about all this social media shit anymore? And you’re trying to get some kind of Instagram shot of my dead parents and brother?” His eyes flash with anger I’ve never seen in any person before. I don’t know what to say, I open my mouth but words don’t form.

  “I can’t believe you. I understand that you don’t want to come back with me, that’s fine. It was obviously a mistake to ask you anyway,” he seems impervious to the cold, despite being completely naked. Normally, that would distract me, but all I can focus on is his anger. It’s seething from him. Radiating around the room like a dark cloud of atomic dust.

  “I wasn’t. I didn’t take a picture! Check my phone,” I protest, holding it out to him.

  “I saw you holding your phone over the picture, Ashley! Do you think I’m stupid? I know how much you need to document this shit. How much attention did you think this will get for you? Huh? Pretty good score, right? Dead family of the crazy woodsman you shacked up with. That’s gotta be at least fifty thousand likes, right?” He roars, his face burning crimson.

  “I know it looked like that, but I wasn’t. Check, you can see for yourself,” my hand trembles as I hold out my phone but he turns away in disgust.

  “It’s time to get you back where you belong. Take my coat off, I’m bringing you back to the city. I’ll get my supplies that I need to survive and you’ll get the internet love that you need to survive,” his voice is colder than the ice-covered snow that waits for us outside this cabin.

  What happened to him? How could he turn on me so quickly? I blink back my tears and pull the zipper down on his parka, letting it fall to the floor. Quickly, I pull on the shirt I’ve been wearing and get dressed.

  As I button up my fur coat, I feel my engagement ring from Ben dig into my hand. I pull it out with disgust. Now the huge diamond looks too clunky, too gaudy, too fake. I place the ring on the counter. Maybe the owners of this cabin can hock it. It’s the best reward I can think of for us using their place like this. Across the room, Sawyer angrily shoves his feet into his boots.

  It looks as though in my pathetic need to be loved, I made another mistake. I fell into the arms of another man who I’d hoped was different. Who I wished would love me.

  How could he? He doesn’t even know you. And you don’t know him. I feel like I’m lying to myself. I thought I did know Sawyer. But, how could I? If I knew him, really knew him, this wouldn’t be happening. He wouldn’t be ready to drop me on the side of the highway like a sack of garbage ready for collection.

  My parents, my followers, my ex-fiancé, my foster family… none of them loved me.

  Why would he?

&n
bsp; 28

  Ashley

  My boots crunch in the crisp snow as I follow Sawyer toward civilization. I know I should feel happy or at least relieved to be going back to the life I built for myself. To my career. To my friends. To the fake smiles. To the lies.

  I can’t help but feel like I’m marching to my execution chamber. That at the edge of the forest I’ll have to leave the stronger, happier person I’ve just started to become in a shallow grave under the snow. I’ll have to shed any revelations I’ve had, any knowledge I’ve gained, and return to a life where my greatest achievement is how I can accentuate the curve of my ass and choose the perfect filter.

  Maybe I can do something with this fire that Sawyer has lit in my soul. I could go to school, or choose a different path. One thing is certain, I don’t give a fuck what Ben has been saying on social media. I’ve grown too strong and learned too much about myself to ever go back to that piece of shit.

  I deserve better.

  The thought is only a shadow of a whisper, but I heard it. And what’s more, I believe it. Who knows, maybe I can turn this experience into something meaningful. I have a decent following, I have some influence, right? I could slowly move away from the shallow roots of my Instagram account and talk about books sometimes, or being independent. Maybe it can be like the social media equivalent of watching a caterpillar transform into a butterfly.

  Except no one cares.

  Even the one guy who you thought could really love you for your true self is leading you on a Siberian death march back to a life that left you hollow.

  Sawyer’s silence weighs me down, making each step a struggle. It’s heavier on my shoulders than the ice anchoring the tree branches down like peasants bowing before royalty.

  Kneeling before the Queen of social media. That’s a title that would’ve made me swell with pride only a few days ago. It still feels like a massage for my ego, if I had the luxury of being massaged with hot sauce and shards of glass.

  Tears line my eyes and I sniff louder than I want to. Not that he cares if I’m crying.

  That’s it. I’m not doing this. I’ve legitimately been a victim in this life more times than I’d like to admit. I won’t let some hot-headed, mood swing of a man turn me into one again.

  Not today.

  I stop dead in my tracks and wait for Sawyer to realize I’m not moving. He turns around and levels me with his stormy eyes.

  “What are you doing?” He demands.

  “I’m not going.” I align my teeth, gritting them together in a determined line, like soldiers on an old battle field.

  “Ashley,” he sighs as exhaustion begins to creep in over his features.

  “No, I’m not moving from this spot until you tell me what’s going on. Last night, you told me you loved me Sawyer,” my voice cracks and betrays my brave face. “How can you go from loving me to sending me away without an explanation? I deserve better,” I repeat my quiet thought loudly.

  Sawyer rubs his hand over his dark beard and looks at me like he’s debating whether or not to call my bluff. “You’re right,” he finally speaks and a jolt runs through me.

  I wasn’t expecting him to cave so easily. I try not to look surprised.

  “Of course, I’m right,” I nod stiffly. “Now how about you tell me what the fuck is going on,” I try to sound stern, but I feel like a little girl dressing up in her mom’s shoes. They’re too big and I’m too wobbly to really wear them right.

  Sawyer reaches into his pocket and pulls out the tattered photograph that started this whole thing.

  “Fine,” he agrees again, “you’re right.”

  29

  Sawyer

  I stare at the picture of my once happy family. It’s faded and crinkled from years of exposure to the elements, however, I remember the faces vividly. This photo hasn’t left my side for four years, but it’s just a two-dimensional reminder of them. They still live, breathe, love and laugh in my heart every day.

  I look at Ashley, her red-rimmed eyes betray her posturing. Even though I can tell she’s unsure of herself, she’s not wrong. I’ve been acting like an asshole. Something I told her not to put up with from anyone, not even me. I’m proud of her for standing her ground.

  The flash of waking up to her hovering her cellphone over my family photo flashes in my mind and anger swells back up inside me like a tsunami. “Why were you trying to take a picture of this?” I hold up the permanently smiling faces of me and my family.

  “I wasn’t,” her full lips twist down and her eyebrows clash together. “I picked up my phone because I saw there were a bunch of messages coming in and I happened to notice there was something in your pocket. That’s it, it’s not like some huge conspiracy or something.” Her words rub salt in a wound she’s never seen. In a wound that’s still never healed.

  “Don’t talk to me about conspiracies,” my breath hangs in the air, like evidence of my anger. My pain. “And don’t try to act all innocent, like you don’t spend your time trying to record your life for your fans. You know, instead of living it,” I fire back at her. I can see from the twisting emotions on her face that my shot has landed.

  “Why are you yelling at me? What is this about? I didn’t take any pictures of your family, Sawyer. Please, stop pushing me away and tell me why this is so important to you,” she keeps her voice soft and level. I can’t help but let the anger I’m carrying deflate from my lungs.

  This isn’t about her. She didn’t kill your family.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally force the words to fall from my tongue. “I’ve been angry so long, about the internet and social media and the lies and the phonies.” I wave my hand at her, “I’ve been taking it out on you but it’s not your fault. You had nothing to do with it.” I explain as much to myself as to her.

  “What happened?” She steps forward and grabs my free hand. Ashley looks down at the photo and I follow her gaze. I rub my thumb over them, over my mother’s gentle smile and my father’s robust grin. My brother was much too cool to smirk for a photograph, instead giving a brooding stare that my mother always said ruined the picture. I even look down at myself, the old me, without a beard and without a lifetime of pain dragging me down.

  “They were shot, we all were, but they were killed.” I squeeze my eyes shut and the carnage of the day seizes my memory.

  “My parents were good people. All about their family, they lived and breathed for us. When Dad opened the restaurant, it was like him and Mom had another son. Like my brother and I were already the old man’s legacy, but his food, his restaurant, it was an extension of it.” I open my eyes and Ashley is watching me intently.

  Her rosy cheeks are covered in tears that I can’t cry anymore. “Who shot them? You were shot too?” She sniffles and blinks fresh, fat tears from her crystal blue eyes.

  I shove the worn picture back in my jacket pocket and wrap my arm around her. I pull her in tight as she cries and somehow, I feel soothed by comforting her.

  “The restaurant got caught up in some bullshit internet news story, just by chance. It was fucked up. When the election happened in 2012, there was all this crazy shit going around. A bunch of made up news stories that were getting reported like they were real.” I explain.

  “Fake news, yeah, that’s worse now,” Ashley nods.

  “Yeah, well, back then people didn’t think to question if it was fake or not. It was reported right alongside the real news. No one could tell what was true.” I clear my throat and force myself to push the emotions away as I tell her what happened.

  Ashley steps back from me and grabs my hand, waiting patiently for me to continue.

  “So, the news was that our senator was running a child sex slave ring in the basement of my parents’ restaurant. Which is insanity, right? The senator,” I stress the words still trying to understand how anyone could’ve believed something so far-fetched.

  “I think I remember something about that,” Ashley’s blue eyes cloud over as she tries to thin
k back.

  “At first my family ignored it. Dad said he had faith in his community. That anyone who knew us, knew it was ridiculous. We carried on, business as usual.” I frown at the snow covering my boots. White and pristine. Just like how the tile floor in the kitchen of Il Lupi looked the morning we were preparing to open. That is, until he came in. Crimson pools and splatters of blood stained the floor like they stain my memory now.

  “I’m so sorry anyone believed that,” Ashley tethers me back to the present. The maroon tendrils of my family’s spilt blood shirk back to the corners of my mind and I continue.

  “Yeah, it was total bullshit, of course, but still, our sales dropped. People started whispering when we walked down the street. People who had been coming to our restaurant for years, for like a decade, just stopped.” I can feel the bitterness coat my tongue. “Then after a couple of months, we thought we’d hit rock bottom. The restaurant was only doing about a quarter of the sales it used to. My folks were talking about selling it, cutting their losses. It was heartbreaking. It was like watching them talk about burying a child.”

  I reach into my pocket and run my rough fingers over the edge of their photo. The only thing I kept of them.

  “Some crazy vigilante stormed into the restaurant one morning and started shooting. My mother begged him to let us go, she said she’d show him the basement, show him it was all a lie, but he didn’t care. He was on a mission. He killed them in cold blood, shot me in the arm, but I bled so fast it looked like he got me in the chest.” I twist my face as the memory washes over me.

  How I had to lie there, in a river of my family’s blood, playing dead like a fucking possum while some man who thought he was in the right, hunted us down.

  “He killed them,” my voice cracks. “I buried my entire family that same week. I couldn’t go back to the restaurant. I couldn’t face it.” My hands tremble as I remember the worst part. The part that broke me. The part that made me leave society and never want to return.