Unloved, a love story

by Katy Regnery

  Frustrated that I don’t have access to the internet, where I could surf their names, birth records, death records, and newspaper articles, I decide to get a little old-fashioned. Maybe I can piece together Cassidy’s history a different way. There’s got to be something inside the cabin that could tell me why he and his mother left town, why he chooses to live this lonely existence, so far from humanity.

  I head into the house. He won’t be back for a few hours, so I beeline to his room, at the end of the hall. It’s small and tidy, with a twin bed, a nightstand, a bureau, a closet, and a door to the outside. I lean down, opening the first drawer of his bureau, then the second, then the third . . . but even when I carefully push around his neatly folded clothes, I don’t find anything hidden in the backs of the drawers.

  Turning to his closet, I realize that I can’t reach the top shelf, so I get a chair from the kitchen and drag it back to his room. I step up on it and look at the top shelf, where, presumably, he found his mother’s Polaroid camera. There are winter clothes—a neatly folded parka and snow pants, plus all manner of gloves, mittens, and hats—in a plastic laundry basket. Feeling around behind the clothes, I find nothing out of the ordinary until my fingers touch a metal box. I pull it gently from the piles of clothes and carefully step down from the chair to take a better look.

  I sit on Cass’s bed and open the top, peering down at the contents. On top is a folded piece of paper, which, when I unfold it, reveals a set of four photo booth pictures of a little boy and a thirtysomething woman, cheek to cheek and all smiles. I recognize Cassidy and his mother instantly and stare at his mom’s kind blue eyes and frizzy blonde hair. She is homely. Her front teeth are badly bucked, and she doesn’t wear any makeup, but her smile tells me how much she loves her son, and his smile tells me how much he loves her back.

  Setting the photo aside, I pluck a leather bracelet from the box and hold it up. Burned into the leather is the name CASSIDY, uneven and jagged, like he made it by himself.

  Under the bracelet, I find another photo, this time of a little boy and a grown man standing side by side in a park, about a foot from each other. The man, who is different from the man I saw in the portrait over the sofa, towers over the boy. He stares intently into the camera with his arms crossed over his chest. The little boy does the same, his mouth a flat, grim line. Neither looks especially happy or comfortable.

  I flip over the picture and read “Paul and Cass. Father-Son Cookout. 1995.”

  Paul.

  His father.

  About whom he never speaks. Who died when he was nine.

  I flip over the picture again and look at the man more carefully—the way he wears his hair slicked to the side and his heavy black-rimmed glasses. His shirt is buttoned all the way to the top and tucked into belted jeans. As I squint at his face, something about him feels familiar, though I don’t necessarily note a resemblance between father and son. Then again, I think, tilting my head, Cassidy is very tall like his father. But his father appears to have had brown eyes, while Cassidy’s are blue and green. I stare at the photo for an extra moment, feeling unsettled, then add it to the strip of photos and the bracelet beside me on the bed.

  I find a few more things in the bottom of the box: three marbles, some dirty coins, an empty turtle shell, a Lego sheriff holding a revolver, and a Lego Indian chief with a scratched face. Nothing out of the ordinary, just little-boy things that any normal child might keep in a box of treasures.

  Carefully placing the keepsakes back where I found them, I put the top back on the box and step on the chair to return it to its spot in the back of the closet.

  I am no closer to answers than before I went snooping.

  I close the closet door and leave Cass’s room, putting the chair back at the kitchen table and feeling a little ashamed of myself for violating his privacy.

  And I must consider, as painful as it is to contemplate, that there isn’t some major traumatic reason for Cassidy’s lack of interest in a relationship with me.

  As tears blur my eyes, I think about his words over the several weeks we’ve been together:

  I’m content with things the way they are.

  My life works.

  I’m not looking to change it.

  He’s been honest with me from the very start.

  He doesn’t want a girlfriend or a wife.

  And while he might welcome my company temporarily, he doesn’t want me in any sort of real way.

  Feeling quietly miserable, I walk through the living room, to my bedroom, and crawl under the covers. Sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I feel like I see love there, but it’s not love, Brynn. It’s care. It’s kindness. Momentary tenderness. Desire.

  But don’t fool yourself: it’s not permanent. It’s about now, not forever.

  Stupid girl that I am, I have fallen in love with him.

  Utterly, totally, completely in love with him.

  And all I want is a forever that I cannot have.

  ***

  “Brynn? I’m back.”

  My eyes are still heavy and burn from the tears I cried before falling asleep. I open them to find Cassidy’s face close to mine, and the light in the room fading. It must be late afternoon, which means I’ve been asleep for hours.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “You okay?” he asks, his brows furrowing as he places the back of his hand on my forehead. “You look a little . . . funny.”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I was just feeling a little emotional about everything.”

  “Everything?”

  “Being with you.” I smile sadly. “Leaving you.”

  He flinches, and it’s a tiny movement, but I catch it.

  Confusion darts through me, scrambling the equations I thought I had worked out before. Does the idea of me leaving hurt him? He drops my eyes, turning away, looking up at Katahdin through the picture windows. Apparently we’re not going to discuss it. And if I lie here pouting, I will ruin the time we have left together. I’m not willing to do that, so I sit up and muster a smile.

  “Did you get everything?”

  He looks at me and nods.

  “Also . . .” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a strip of leather. “I got you this.”

  I reach for it, staring down at the simple braided bracelet in cinnamon-colored leather. It has two drawstring cords sticking out from the ends that will tighten it on my wrist when pulled at the same time. I love it at first sight.

  “For me?”

  He reaches for my wrist, then takes the bracelet and slips it over my hand, pulling the cords until it’s snug. Then he looks up at me.

  “I never bought a present for a girl before.”

  “You did good,” I say, cupping his cheek. “Lots of firsts for you lately.”

  His eyes, so different and singular, scan my face, finally dropping to my lips. He leans forward, pressing his mouth to mine gently. I pull him down to me, thanking him for the bracelet and trying to let him know how grateful I am for everything he’s done for me, and, yes, how much I wish there was the possibility of a future for us.

  I swipe the seam of our lips with the tip of my tongue, and he jolts, wrapping his arms around me and hauling me onto his lap. Cradled against his chest, I meet his tongue with mine, my thoughts starting to scatter as instinct takes over. My muscles tense and release, longing for his thickness within me, priming themselves to grip him as he slides inside.

  Cassidy breaks off the kiss and leans his forehead against mine, panting softly.

  “I sort of wanted . . .”

  I open my eyes, ignoring the throbbing deep inside and focusing on what he’s about to say.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking I could take you on a date tonight.”

  “A date? You mean . . . go out?”

  He kisses my nose, then leans away. “No. Here. Have a date here.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “Do you trust me?”

  And the th
ing is? I do. Completely. Even with my stupid heart, which will be shattered beyond repair two weeks from now, I trust him. I still hope that there will be a happy ending for us, even though I can’t fathom it now.

  “You saved my life.”

  He grins at me and nods. “I did.”

  “More than once.”

  “It’s one of my specialties.”

  I giggle because the cocky, playful side of Cassidy is adorable. “Okay. So . . . you didn’t answer my question: what did you have in mind?”

  “Oh, no. You didn’t answer me. Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.” I pout. “But I still want to know!”

  He takes a deep breath and purses his lips, like he’s considering telling me. But at the last minute he shakes his head. “Nope. You’re just going to have to wait.”

  “For what?”

  “I guess you better get ready,” he tells me in a singsong voice that I sometimes use with him.

  I can’t help it. I feel excited, wondering what he’s got planned. Another movie? Skinny-dipping after dark? My mind segues to the condoms he bought. Surely sex is figuring into the equation, right?

  “Are you romancing me to get in my pants, Cassidy Porter?” I ask, grinning at him.

  He shrugs, smiling down at me, two pink spots appearing in his cheeks. “Maybe.”

  “You don’t have to,” I say simply, because it’s true. This man owns my heart and my body, and, I suspect, before I leave him he will own my soul as well. Jem’s is up on Katahdin. Mine will be forever with Cassidy.

  “I want to,” he says, his eyes serious. “You deserve to be romanced.”

  Oh, my heart.

  “Okay, then. What do I need to do?”

  “Um . . .” He looks around the room, his eyes resting for a moment on the trunk beside the bureau. I’ve ignored it, assuming it held extra blankets like the trunk at the foot of my bed at home, but now I wonder if there’s something more inside. “Choose something to wear and get ready. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  “Pick me up?”

  “At your door, er, curtain. I’m a gentleman.”

  I chuckle, nodding at him. “And we’re just staying here?”

  He nods, looking around the room, his eyes serious when they land on mine. “We’re staying here, angel. All night long.”

  He kisses the top of my head and leaves me alone, and I know that the days are dwindling, and I know my heart is going to hurt when it’s over, but I refuse to kill the now grieving an unlikely forever.

  I smile to myself, excited for our date, and jump out of bed to open Mrs. Porter’s trunk to see what’s inside.

  Cassidy

  I’ve read enough books and seen enough TV shows and movies to know that a first date is a big deal, and though nothing about our relationship has been conventional, this is one thing that I’d really like to get right.

  When I was at the store today, aside from picking up a ridiculous number of condom boxes (six, to be exact, which was all they had in stock), I bought some citronella candles, wine, cheese, two steaks, and batteries for my transistor radio. I can pick up WSYY-FM in Millinocket on a clear night, and this one is going to be about as clear as it gets. I also picked up some marshmallows, chocolate bars, and graham crackers because I promised Brynn a campfire, and it would be a shame to have one without s’mores.

  I moved the kitchen table outside, on the grass, and I’ve covered it with an old tablecloth and set it proper-like, with plates, napkins, and wineglasses. It’s Blues Night on the radio, which is fine with me, and the candles flicker cheerfully in the evening breeze. I took an outdoor shower and shaved my beard, then slipped in through the outside door of my room to get dressed. I’m wearing clean jeans, a white T-shirt, and a plaid flannel, because there’s a nip in the air tonight.

  There’s still a little time before I have to “pick up” Brynn, so I pour the wine and uncover the sliced Cheddar I bought at the store. Mostly I’m feeling excited, but the way I’m bouncing around tells me that I’ve got some nervous energy going on too. I want to sleep with Brynn tonight. I’m ready to give my virginity to her. But I want it to be good for her too. I can’t tell her I love her, because I can’t keep her here, and sharing feelings like that would make it harder for her to go. But when we sleep together later tonight, that’s exactly what it will be: lovemaking. I’ve never loved anyone—not Mama, not Gramp, not anyone—as much as I love her.

  I turn away from the house and face Katahdin.

  Behind the summit, the sky is a riot of color, which airbrushes the clouds in a way that feels otherworldly. Garish orange. Intense purple. Delicate lavender.

  Baxter Peak isn’t a pitched peak like you’d see in a child’s drawing of a mountain. It’s smoothed out and mellow, the highest point at a little over 5,200 feet. Compare this with jagged Everest, which stands at almost 30,000 feet. But Katahdin’s been around for 400 million years, created when an archipelago collided with the continent of North America, whereas young’un Everest was formed a mere sixty million years ago. Katahdin might be an old lady, but she holds her own. The most experienced climbers in the world have come away from Katahdin calling her a beast, and for whatever reason, that makes me proud.

  Most important of all, she brought Brynn to me, and for that I will be forever grateful. That said, however, lately I’ve started to wonder how I will bear living here once Brynn is gone.

  As I drove to and from the store this morning, I thought that, when she leaves, maybe it’s time for me to leave for a while too. Maybe not forever, but for a few seasons. I have more than enough money to start over somewhere else or just travel around for a while. Not only have I lived frugally, but I’ve got a complete skill set for off-grid living. I could just . . . disappear.

  But there will be a lifetime of hours to ponder these thoughts later.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight there’s a beautiful girl inside my house, and she’s waiting for me to pick her up for our date.

  Running a hand through my still-damp hair, I grab the bouquet of wildflowers I’ve collected and take the porch steps in a single leap, opening the front door and striding through the living room. At the curtain that separates her room from the rest of the house, I pause, acknowledging the bubbles in my belly before knocking on the doorframe.

  “Anyone home?”

  “Come in.”

  Her voice makes me smile, and I sweep open the curtain to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, looking up at me. She’s wearing a light blue denim sundress that dips just over her full breasts and ends right above her knees, and an open white cardigan sweater. She wears the braided bracelet on her slim wrist, and it makes my heart swell a little because I gave it to her. Her shiny, chestnut hair has been gathered in a ponytail over one shoulder and tied with a light blue ribbon, and her feet are bare.

  Christ, how I wish I never, ever had to let her go.

  “Hi,” she says, grinning up at me.

  I offer her the flowers. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” She leans down to smell them, then looks up at me with sparkling eyes and upturned lips. Aw, Brynn, Brynn, how I love you.

  “I’ve got a vase somewhere,” I hear myself say. “I’ll track it down for you.”

  She lays the small bouquet on the end table, stands up, and spins around. “I had no idea your mom had a few more things in the trunk. Most of her dresses were too small, but I thought I could get away with this one if I wore a sweater.”

  I take a step toward her and drink her in. “I’ve never seen a woman as pretty as you, Brynn Cadogan.”

  She blushes, and for just a second I feel like the king of the world because my actions and my words somehow manage to touch her. I’m not worthy of her, but she’s here, with me, her cheeks pink and her eyes tender.

  “You shaved,” she says.

  “Gramp’s old straight razor,” I say, rubbing my soft jaw.

  “You’re crazy handsome, Cass.”

&nbs
p; “Right.” No one’s ever called me handsome before. Well, Mama. But mamas don’t count—they have to think their sons are handsome.

  She laughs, shaking her head. “Scorching hot.”

  Though I’ve never heard this expression before, the darkening of her eyes tells me it’s a good thing to be scorching hot, and I can’t help grinning down at her, my blush likely matching hers. “Okay. Um, thanks, I guess.”

  “I thought I heard music,” she says, looking over my shoulder.

  “You did. I got batteries for my radio.”

  “And was that candlelight I saw through the curtains?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And if I’m not mistaken, I heard a cork popping.”

  “I can’t vouch for the vintage, but yes, I got us some wine.”

  “A candlelight dinner with music and wine,” she sighs, her eyes soft and tender. “Now you’re spoiling me.”

  It’s because I love you, I think, but I just nod, offering her my arm. “Shall we?”

  She takes my arm with a soft chuckle, placing her hand in the crook of my elbow.

  “Tonight is my first date,” I say as I escort her across the living room and through the front door. “I’ve been waiting for it for a long time.” We step out on the porch together. “I hope I got it right.”

  She gasps when she sees our candlelit table, with the blazing campfire just beyond and Katahdin in the distance.

  “Wow,” she murmurs. “You nailed it.”

  It’s my turn to laugh with pleasure, loving her reaction. “Yeah?”

  “Y-yeah.” She nods, then sniffles, reaching up to swipe at her eyes. “It’s really b-beautiful. Thank you.”

  “Hey. You’re crying,” I say, putting my hands on her shoulders and turning her to face me. “Why are you crying, angel?”

  “You’re the angel,” she leans forward, sobbing against my chest, resting her cheek on my shoulder. “You saved me. You breathed life back into me. I . . . I . . . oh, Cass . . .”

  Her shoulders shake under my hands, and I don’t know why she’s so sad, but I hate it, even though sadness is a part of the Brynn I love. Her trust in the world was stolen when her fiancé was shot, and again when she was attacked on the mountain. She has a right to her tears, and I am honored to be the person she turns to when she needs to cry.