Under the Northern Lights

by S. C. Stephens

  Michael grabbed his needed part, plus the tools to install it, and stuffed them into his backpack. After he firmly closed up the shed, we were on our way, hiking through the woods to get to the clearing where his plane was resting, waiting, sleeping. I clasped Michael’s gloved hand as we walked, needing the contact. He smiled down at me, but there was no joy in the gesture, just melancholy.

  When we reached the plane, I felt like sobbing. That one piece of machinery symbolized the end of what we’d been slowly building over the last few months. Maybe we shouldn’t have built it in the first place, but we hadn’t planned on the connection between us. Hadn’t planned on it, hadn’t expected it, and hadn’t been able to stop it. It had swept us away without our permission. True love had a way of doing that.

  After releasing my hand, Michael pulled the tarp off the engine of the plane. He laid it on the melting snow, then set his tools upon it. I watched in silence as he went about his repairs. Occasionally he asked for tools, and heart in my shoes, I handed them to him. A part of me hoped he wouldn’t be able to repair the plane, but I knew that was a selfish feeling—he truly would die here if he had no way to leave. We both would. But even still, at the end of the day, when the daylight was fading into blackness and he tested the engine—and it started—I was more crushed than relieved.

  Tears were streaming down my cheeks when Michael gathered his tools and put the tarp back over the plane. His heart was in his eyes when he looked at me, and I clearly saw the words I’m sorry in his gaze. Since there was nothing to be sorry about, I was glad he didn’t voice them.

  “It’s getting dark . . . we should go back.”

  I could only nod in response. As we journeyed back to the cabin, disappointment filled me. Why did he have to finish repairing it in one day? Couldn’t he have stretched it out for two, maybe three days? A heavy sigh escaped me. No, there was no point stretching it out anymore. It was time.

  “You okay?” he asked, his eyes momentarily leaving the path to search my face.

  “Yes,” I told him. Then I sighed again. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  The cabin came into view, lightened by the glow of Michael’s flashlight. When I glanced up at his face, I saw his lips firmly pressed together and his brows visible under his cap bunched in contemplation or confusion. Not wanting to cause him unnecessary pain, I squeezed his hand. “Yes, I’m fine. Sad . . . but fine.”

  He nodded. “I know . . . I know how you feel. I feel the same way.”

  Even as grief crushed my spirit, butterflies flittered through my stomach. It didn’t seem possible to feel unparalleled joy and crushing despair all at the same time, but apparently . . . it was.

  After putting his tools back in the shed and grabbing some meat for dinner, Michael led us back to the main cabin. He quickly checked the perimeter for animals, then unlocked the door and led me inside with a hand on my lower back. I memorized every touch, every look, every word. This was it. This was the last night we’d be together. It could possibly be the last time we ever saw each other. Life was so uncertain. I’d have to save up for a plane, and by the time I had enough money for one, life could have changed on me again. I could say I’d visit, but only God knew if I’d actually be able to. I didn’t want this to end tonight, but regardless of what I wanted, it was ending.

  Michael and I went through our routine of making dinner. Silence hung in the air as we ate, lacing the room with tension. How could I say goodbye to this man? How could I leave, knowing I might not ever see him again? Knowing we could be together—and be great together—if he’d only give humanity another chance and come home with me. Or if I said goodbye to everything and stayed here with him. The extremes of our choices were so unfair, but then again, most difficult choices were. That was what made them hard in the first place.

  After dinner, I put our dishes in the tub, preparing to wash them. When I turned to go get some water, Michael grabbed my hand. “That can wait,” he whispered. “This . . . can’t.” Then he drew me close to him and crashed his lips down to mine.

  There was an intensity in his kiss that hadn’t been there before, an almost desperate need to connect. My body roared to life as his mouth moved over mine. My breath quickened; my heart raced. Michael pulled me tight against his body, and I knew he was feeling it too—the double-edged sword of passion and pain. Even though I knew it would kill me later, I wanted more. I wanted all of him.

  He began pulling me toward my bed, and my heart leaped even higher. Was he finally on the same page as me . . . now that we were ending? When his legs hit the back of the bench, he lowered himself onto it, then pulled me with him until we were lying side by side on the moss mattress. Wondering where his head was at, I breathily said, “Michael?”

  He broke apart from my lips, his eyes glowing in the flickering candlelight. One of the only good candles he had left. “I just want to hold you,” he whispered.

  His lips returned to mine, and I ignored the flash of disappointment coursing through my body. He was being smart, still, and I respected that. I respected him. I loved him. With everything inside me, I loved him.

  Michael leaned over as he kissed me, half covering me with his body. Sheltering me, protecting me, warming me . . . always warming me. He cupped my cheek, and a strangled whimpering sound escaped him. Pulling back, I searched his face. He looked desolate.

  “Michael . . . ?” I knew I didn’t need to ask him what was wrong—I already knew—but the words lingered in the air anyway.

  He placed a soft kiss on my lips, then my nose. “I just . . . I didn’t think I could feel like this again. After Kelly . . . I didn’t think I’d ever want to. And now . . . now you’re leaving, and I . . . I’m sorry. It’s just harder than I thought it would be to let you go.”

  My heart was thumping so hard in my chest that I was positive he could hear it raging in the silence between us. “You don’t have to. You could . . .” I bit my lip, not wanting to ask him, once again, to leave with me. I already knew he wouldn’t.

  Hope was in his eyes, though. “What if we come back?”

  “Come back?” Was he saying we could leave? Together?

  Michael cringed like he hated what he was about to say. “What if we fly into town, fill up the plane with supplies . . . then come right back?”

  No . . . he wasn’t asking to come with me. He was asking me not to leave him yet. The hope in my chest faded and flickered. “My family is searching for me. They’re scared out of their minds, thinking I’m dead. I can’t . . . let them remain terrified.” Even just postponing it these last few weeks was selfish. But I hadn’t been able to stomach saying goodbye to him, hadn’t wanted to feel that pain . . . this pain.

  “You could call them, tell them you’re fine . . . then come back with me?” The pleading in his eyes was almost too much to bear. Was he finally, in a roundabout way, asking me to stay?

  “Michael . . . I can’t live this isolated life all the time. And you said so yourself: your heart isn’t ready for me.”

  “But maybe it is,” he said in a rush. “What if you stayed here, and I stopped . . . resisting. What if we tried . . . to be together?”

  God, he was offering me paradise. I only had to give up everything to take it. “Michael, I can’t.”

  “Please, just think about it. I don’t want to lose you.” His lips returned to mine, heavy and urgent. I wanted to think clearly, really toss around what he was saying, but his tongue brushing against mine made coherent thoughts impossible. All I felt was a rising, uncontrollable need, one I desperately wanted to satisfy.

  I ran my hands through Michael’s hair, pulling him closer to me—I wanted him as close as possible. Our kiss intensified as passion cascaded around us. I felt out of control and yet completely in control at the same time. It was a heady feeling, one that left me delirious with bliss.

  My fingers trailed down his chest, darted under his many layered shirts, and wandered up his back. I felt so close to him, but I wanted to feel so muc
h closer. Almost unconsciously, I started pulling on his shirts, wanting them off. Michael pulled away from me to look me in the eye. Here was where our make out sessions usually ended—when one of us crossed the intimacy line. I hoped he didn’t pull away now, when so much between us was changing. I needed him.

  Maybe sensing my need, maybe feeling it himself, Michael tore off his shirts, depositing them on the floor I could never seem to get clean. As I drank in his bare skin, his eyes drifted to my clothes. My chest felt hot as his pale eyes washed over my shirt. I was scared to move, scared I’d push him away, but I was scared not to move too.

  Finally, when I couldn’t take the ache of longing anymore, I reached down and started pulling off my top. Michael’s hand stopped me, and I nearly groaned in frustration. His eyes were conflicted as he stared at me, and I had no idea which direction his head would send him—toward me or away.

  After an eternity, he finally inhaled a deep breath . . . then started removing my shirt.

  Realizing just where this might go had me breathing so hard I thought I might pass out. Ordering myself to calm down, I helped him with my shirt. After setting it down on top of his, I began unhooking my bra. I could see Michael’s breath increasing as he stared at my chest. When I pulled the bra off, his eyes lingered a moment before lifting to my face. The reverence I saw there stole my breath.

  Putting a hand on the center of my back, he pulled me toward him until our bare skin was touching. Our breath and the crackling of the stove were the only sounds, and with the way he was looking at me, cherishing me with his eyes, it was the most romantic experience of my life.

  He laid me back on the mattress, then curled his body so he was again half hovering over me. As our kisses became languid, his fingers traveled over my skin, touching everything that had been hidden for so long. When his thumb brushed over my nipple, I couldn’t stop a groan from leaving me. I worried he might stop, but he didn’t. He made an enticing sound of his own and lowered his lips to my neck. Emboldened that he still hadn’t fled, I didn’t worry about the next groan. Or the next one.

  His breath was fast in my ear as he nibbled on my lobe; then his mouth started traveling down my neck toward my chest. I didn’t want to appear too eager, but I desperately wanted him to kiss me there, kiss me everywhere. When his tongue swirled around my nipple, I began to think that maybe I had died in that crash. Maybe this was heaven.

  He sucked my breast into his mouth, and a long groan left me. Arching my back, I clutched at his hair, never wanting him to leave. But he did. Panting, he looked up at me with heated eyes that were screaming at me that he wanted more. Yes, don’t stop. “I think . . . I think I could love you.”

  Pain pierced my heart. “I think I already do,” I whispered.

  Michael’s eyes turned glossy in the flickering candlelight. He swallowed hard, then returned his lips to mine. I kissed him with abandon, pouring all of my emotions—pain and joy—into it. Michael kissed me back just as passionately. We were finally on the same page . . . being torn up by pain while simultaneously falling in love.

  After a long moment, I pulled back from Michael to look him over. He was glorious, his body lean and trim from daily hard work, his mind sharp and focused, and his heart . . . his beautiful, broken, fluttering heart slowly on the mend. Because of me, because of us. If I left him, how long would it take his soul to shut down again? How long until the light faded from his eyes? How long before he crumbled? But staying here . . . how could I sacrifice my family for love? How could I live out the rest of my life being cut off from the world? Even if it was with the man of my dreams, I didn’t think I could do it. But, God, Michael . . . how can I leave you when you were made for me?

  Feeling lost, I cupped his cheek, then let my fingers trail down his chest to his pants. As I slowly began unbuttoning them, Michael’s hand came down to stop me. “Mallory, I don’t think . . .”

  “I want to be close to you in every way,” I said, tears in my eyes. “I don’t want to leave here and regret not sharing this moment with you. Especially since it . . . might be all we ever have. Please, Michael, don’t push me away. Not tonight. It’s our last . . .”

  Emotion closed my throat, making speech impossible. Michael brought his lips to mine, attacking me with renewed vigor. His fingers left my hands and sought my pants, unbuttoning them. A few tears escaped me when I realized he wasn’t going to push me away. He was going to let me in . . . finally. It broke my heart that this was all we’d ever have . . . but still, I was going to take this moment and cherish it forever.

  Once we were both bare, Michael pressed his naked body against mine, and I wrapped my arms and legs around him, pulling him in tight, where he belonged. He sighed in contentment, then leaned over to lower his lips to mine. As we shared soft kisses in the flickering candlelight, my fingers traced every line of his body, and his caressed every curve on mine. He was so strong, so virile, so . . . perfect. It wasn’t long before I was aching with need for him. It brought me so much joy and relief to know he wanted me, too, and this time, he wasn’t hiding from me, wasn’t telling me no for my own benefit. We were going to cross this painful bridge together and figure out how to survive it later.

  When I couldn’t stand being separated from him a second longer, I urged him on top of me. Our mouths never leaving each other’s, he pressed himself against me. I lifted my hips to meet him, silently telling him that I wanted this—wanted us. He pressed inside me, and I gasped. Oh . . . God.

  Michael’s head fell to the crook of my neck. “Mallory . . . ,” he murmured, kissing the skin below my ear. “You mean . . . so much to me.” I wanted to respond to him, but he rocked his hips against me, moving deeper, and I couldn’t speak.

  Euphoria flared throughout my body as we began to move together. Every movement was pain and bliss, regret and relief. What would we be after this? What would we be once I was gone? God, could I even leave him now? As our bodies rocked together, heightening the feelings between us, I wasn’t sure. Michael’s breath in my ear intensified as his slow and steady pace quickened.

  “Oh God, Mallory . . . I need you so much . . . I wish you could stay.”

  I could feel the buildup approaching, stealing my reason, my sanity. “I need you too . . . I wish I could . . . I don’t . . . want to lose you . . . but . . .”

  The crest hit me, and I cried out as the bliss exploded throughout my body in radiating waves. Michael cried out a second later, and we held each other tight as the sensation amplified, then dwindled.

  Michael slowed his pace, then stopped and remained still. Lying on top of me, his head close to my ear, he murmured, “I was wrong before . . . I do love you. And I’m going to miss you so damn much.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  As I was packing my meager belongings the next morning, images of making love to Michael floated through my mind on an endless loop. We’d done it. We’d crossed that last intimate line . . . and now I was leaving.

  I couldn’t help but watch my rugged mountain man as I stuffed my bag. He’d allowed all his walls to come down last night, told me he loved me and how much he was going to miss me. I’d never felt anything quite so painful as hearing those words. They’d etched themselves across my heart, forever leaving a scar, and I felt no joy over the fact that I was on my way home. I was going home and leaving home, all at the same time.

  Michael was sitting on my hard bed, watching me as I subtly watched him. There was conflict in his pale eyes, heartache on his sleeve. If he could have postponed this another day, another month, another year, I was sure he would have. I could postpone it if I called home, assured them I was alive and well, and then flew back to the cabin with Michael. I’d been gone so long, though . . . and I truly did miss my family, missed my dogs. I wanted to see everyone, hug them, take comfort in their presence after a long, hard winter. And honestly, postponing this a couple of weeks, a couple of months . . . it wouldn’t change how hard leaving Michael was going to be. It might even mak
e it harder to let him go. But I had to let him go . . . I couldn’t live like he did. Not forever.

  Grieved by the pain I saw on his face, I quietly asked, “Are you okay?”

  His sad eyes locked with mine. “No. Not really. Are you okay?”

  I sighed as I zipped up my bag. “No. Not really.”

  Michael stood, then looked down at the bed where we’d physically said goodbye to each other. Pain tore through my chest, and I grabbed his hand, needing to be near him, right up until the very end. He looked back at me while his thumb caressed mine. “We should go. We’re wasting daylight.”

  I wanted to tell him that it was impossible to waste anything when I was around him, but I knew he was right—we couldn’t fly at night, and Michael had to make a return trip today . . . without me. Nodding, I grabbed my bag and started for the door.

  The air was warmer than I expected it to be when I stepped outside. A reminder that spring was here, and it was time for me to leave. Michael grabbed the stack of furs he was planning on selling—the lifeblood that would allow him to buy essential commodities—then we headed for the plane.

  It took quite a few minutes to load and prep the plane, but it felt like mere seconds had passed before Michael was spinning the propeller, starting the engine. I wanted to cry when it burst to life, but I’d shed enough tears. Now was the time to be strong. I’d fall apart later, once Michael was . . . gone.

  When the plane reached cruising altitude, I was surprised I wasn’t scared. I had thought that remnants of my terrifying crash might have made flying difficult for me, but I felt completely at ease by Michael’s side. Probably because I was by Michael’s side, and he had a way of making me feel safe, even in the midst of terrible danger. That, and what was a plane crash compared to losing him? Nothing this mechanical beast did to me could make me hurt worse than I already was.

  We arrived in Fairbanks much too soon, and as the plane finally stopped on the small runway just outside the city, I felt the beginnings of a panic attack clawing at my insides. Not yet. I’m not ready. Taking off his headset, Michael looked over at me. “Do you want to call your family now? Or maybe . . . help me buy supplies?”