She nodded. “Well, I understand your meaning perfectly, and I agree. I just know that she’s going to need time to work this through.” A pause, a look at me. “It may take a while. She has a lot to work through.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is, politely, she don’t want to see me.”
A shrug. “She didn’t say so, but that was the subtext to much of her ranting last night and this morning. But it’s also clear to me that she has feelings for you, or she wouldn’t be so upset. So my advice comes from wanting her to be happy. If that includes being with you, she’s going to need time to dig through all this, and if I can get her to agree, perhaps even see a therapist.”
I sat, and thought, and came to a decision. “Well, Mrs. Goode. I appreciate your time and your advice. I think I’ll take it.” I stood up. “How and when you tell her you saw me is up to you. I know myself well enough to know if I’m around town, I’m gonna go nuts wanting to see her, talk to her, bug her, make things better, go back on what I said just to be around her. So if she really does just need time to get this shit in her head and heart worked out, then I gotta give her that time and space.” I scuffed my foot on the step. “I got a cabin up north of Anchorage a ways. I’m due for a hiatus from things anyway, so I guess I’ll just head up there and stay scarce. If and when she wants to see me, tell her my cousin Juneau will know how to find me.”
She frowned. “Won’t you have a cell phone or something?”
I just laughed. “Well, for one thing, where my cabin is, there ain’t even any roads, not so much as a two-track. It’s several hours’ hike in from the nearest two-track. So, cell phones, even if I was to bring mine, which I won’t, sure as shit don’t work. Not within fifty-some miles of where I’ll be.”
Liv nodded. “I understand. Lucas and Ramsey specialize in places like that.”
I smiled. “Well, Lucas and Ramsey specialize in getting there, in showing people how to get there. I grew up there.” A shrug. “Well, not in that cabin specifically, but a place a lot like it.”
She watched me descend the steps. “Ink, I know she’s upset right now, and I do think perhaps you could have been a bit more politic but, overall, I think Cassandra is very lucky to have found you.”
I shook my head. “Mrs. Goode, ma’am, I’m the lucky one.”
She just rested her chin in her hand, smiling. “Good answer. Which means it’s mutual.” She slid a cell phone out of her purse, glanced at the screen, and put it back. “I have to go, I have an early client meeting.”
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Goode.”
“Call me Liv, please.”
Another wave, and I walked away, bare feet padding through the dew-damp grass, leaving footprints on the sidewalk.
About thirty minutes later, I was paying a call to Brock Badd—I found him at the slip where he parked his seaplane—tinkering in the engine compartment. He didn’t hear me at first, having a small Bluetooth speaker perched on the strut nearby, classic rock blaring from it.
Not wanting to cause him to bump his head, I sat cross-legged on the dock, watching him crank a wrench while cursing floridly and continuously. Finally, he pulled out, frustrated, smacking the wrench against his open palm with one last vicious curse.
“Problem?” I asked.
He glanced over at me, blinking in surprise. “Ink. Didn’t know you were there.” He wiggled the wrench. “Damn bolt is stuck like a motherfucker. I like to think I’m pretty strong, but that bitch is on there.”
“I don’t know much about fixin’ shit like that, but I got more bulk to put behind a pull. So I can try, if you like.”
He reached in, fit the wrench on the bolt, and waved at it. “Go to town, buddy.”
I leaned in, peering at the engine compartment—part of the issue was that the bolt he was trying to loosen was in very tight quarters without much room to maneuver. I didn’t think much of my chances, but I grabbed the wrench and pulled, straining as hard as I could.
Nothing.
I tried again, and this time with one hand while smacking at my fist with the other, growling through the strain. I felt it begin to give, just a tiny bit. So I paused, sucked in a deep breath, held it, gritted my teeth, and then put all my strength into pulling at the long-handled socket wrench. Growling through gritted teeth, I felt the bolt give a bit more, and then a bit more, and I renewed my effort until I felt light-headed, and this time I added all my weight.
And then, met with a sudden lack of resistance, I fell backward away from the seaplane and onto my ass on the dock with a thud which made the whole dock shudder. I laughed, stood up, and handed Brock the wrench.
“Well, it’s loose. Not sure if the bolt is even there anymore, but it’s loose.”
He peeked in, snorted. “Damn, dude. I thought for sure I was gonna have to shear it off. Thanks.”
I shrugged. “Bein’ big has advantages, I guess.”
He leaned into the cockpit and snagged a big Thermos, poured steaming black coffee into a Styrofoam cup he produced from somewhere, handed it to me.
“So, what brings you to my slip?” he asked.
“I gotta get inland, and I don’t have a car. Hopin’ you have some time free today to fly me up as near to Talkeetna as you can get.”
He dug in his back pocket for his phone and consulted it. “I have a flight scheduled at ten, should be back by noon. So, if you can wait till around one or so, I can do it for sure.”
I nodded. “Fine by me.” I combed my fingers through my beard. “Just let me know your rates so I can grab some cash.”
He stared at me like I’d grown a second head. “Bro, you new? Family doesn’t pay.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t want to assume, just ’cause my cousin is serious with your cousin.”
He just grinned. “Well, no need to assume. It’s not about blood or relational distance. I’m telling you, you’re family, and family doesn’t pay. All you need to do is ask.” He pulled a paper chart of Alaska from the cockpit, unfolded it, perused it, found Talkeetna, and examined it for a moment. “I can get you right to town, looks like. I’ll file a plan and we’ll figure on lifting off around one, one thirty.” He eyed me. “What’s there, aside from a whole lot of not much?”
“A whole lot of not much is why I’m going there,” I said. “Got some shit happening and I need to get away.”
He nodded. “Well, just a heads-up—Claire had business cards printed up for me recently, as a kind of joke.” He handed me one, and I read it.
Brock Badd: pilot, philosopher, arm-chair therapist.
I laughed. “So you’re gonna try to get the story out of me.”
“Try? You’ll tell it to me and not even realize what’s happening.”
I held out a fist, and he bumped mine with his. “Challenge accepted.” I waved at him. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your engine. See you in a couple hours.”
He was already looking at the engine compartment, and just waved at me.
I headed home to pack.
Once a year, sometimes twice, I took a couple of weeks off from everything and went off-grid, deep into the bush. Usually with Fox, or one of my other cousins, hunting, fishing, canoeing. And usually I planned it way ahead of time, making room in my schedule for the time off, saving cash and paying bills ahead of time.
This was…impromptu.
I spent most of the time leading up to my departure with Brock on the phone, apologizing to my clients for the last-minute change, and pushing them all at least a month out. I’d need that amount of time—how I knew that, I wasn’t sure, I just knew this wasn’t going to be a quick or easy thing.
I told all my clients they’d get their next session half off for the inconvenience of having to reschedule so suddenly, but hey, personal crisis was personal crisis.
I honestly wasn’t sure, either, why I was leaving.
I just knew I had to.
Had to go.
Couldn’t be here in Ketchikan with Cassie, or I’d hound her.
I’d need her. I’d demand her time. Consume her energy. Use her sexually for my own ravenous needs, but I needed an emotional connection. Call me a girl if you want, but sex for me has never been purely physical. It’s a bond with the person. That’s why what happened with Elise was so damned gutting—I’d thought we had that connection, that emotional bond. I’d assumed she got me. But she didn’t. She couldn’t.
Cassie wasn’t ready for that kind of bond. She may want it, but she had to be able to look herself in the metaphorical mirror before she could give any part of herself to anyone else.
And if I was around, I’d just get in the way of that process.
I had to get away, for her sake.
Something told me, too, that I had my own shit to wrestle with, and I couldn’t do that here, in the city. The only way I could get quiet enough in my own head was to be out there, in the silence of nature.
So, I packed some gear—real clothes, due to mosquitos and midges and black flies and no-see-ums and bracken and such, boots, binoculars, my self-defense handgun and bear spray, survival knife, hatchet, matches, canteens…all the various paraphernalia of wilderness survival, the packing of which was second nature to me. I packed a second bag with food items to see me through the first few days, knowing I would hunt and fish for fresh meat as I needed it.
Packed, I shouldered my bag and headed for the door.
Then I stopped, for some reason. Bugged by something—wasn’t sure what.
My phone—I’d been on it all morning and intended to leave it behind. I’d stuck it on the charger and left it there.
But, for some reason, I pulled it off the charger and shoved it into my pocket. Why, I wasn’t sure. It made no sense. I just…had to.
Mystified at my own actions, I shook my head and schlepped my bag across town to Brock’s slip. I was wearing a shirt and hiking boots for the first time in months. It felt odd and unnatural, but I knew from experience that I would feel at home again the moment I entered the forest outside Talkeetna.
I tossed my bag into the fuselage, climbed in after it, and used the available straps to tie it down. Then I sat in the open doorway kicking my feet in space, watching Brock bustle through his preflight checklist once, twice, and then a third time before settling into the pilot’s seat.
He glanced at me, jerked a thumb at the copilot’s place. “Hop in, big fella. Let’s get lost, huh?”
I grinned at him. “Sounds good to me,” I said, plopping my ass into the chair and buckling up.
With a cough, sputter, and belch of exhaust, the twin propellers spun into life, and within another minute we were streaking across the channel, bouncing on the waves, skidding, skipping, momentarily weightless, and then angling skyward, floating upward, buoyed on the magic of physics.
Cassie
My phone blared the most annoying, jarring, skull-splitting song I could think of—“Chop Suey!” by System of a Down. It was my alarm, and it was going off at the ungodly hour of five in the morning.
I groaned and rolled over toward the edge of the bed.
Why had I set my alarm for five a.m.?
Oh yeah. To work out. Mobility exercises. Regain my strength and endurance and flexibility. The road back to dance.
Because…
Why?
Why couldn’t I just go back to sleep? Accept my fate. Let myself go. Just be fat and lazy and stupid and useless the rest of my life. Never dance again. Screw the workouts. Screw the relentless internal drive to move, to follow the music and the rhythm and the movement across the floor as if pulled by invisible strings.
I groaned again.
Why have you forsaken me…
I had to get out of bed to shut off the alarm because I’m a diabolical person and put it across the room so I couldn’t talk myself out of getting out of bed. So, I got out of bed, trudged listlessly across the bedroom to the dresser and shut off the infernal noise. I stood there, glaring at the time readout on my phone: 5:02 a.m.
Idiot phone.
Idiot me.
Idiot leg.
Idiot car wreck.
Idiot Ink.
Idiot life.
I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember how I’d managed to do this every day of my life for more than ten years—up at five, bike the three blocks from home to the studio, dance until six forty-five, ride home, shower, change, and get on the bus to school by seven thirty.
Then, at college and professionally, I’d often had to get up even earlier, four thirty some days.
Awful.
I stared longingly at my bed, rumpled and probably still warm. It’d be so nice to just climb back in.
But no.
No.
This was the first day of the rest of my life.
Screw Ink and his ultimatums and his rejection.
I didn’t need him.
Sure, I wanted him. Sure I needed his heat and warmth and safe arms and his…
Huge cock.
I giggled, because the thought came up, and I had an image of him, naked in the moonlight, on his back, hard and beautiful and sliding easily and silkily through my fist…
My mouth…
My sex.
Stop, stop, stop, fucking stop, Cassie.
Bad girl. Thoughts of his cock won’t help.
And he wasn’t right.
He just wasn’t…wrong either.
And, girl, it’s okay to want him, but you can’t have him right now, because you have your life to get back on track.
Which means being able to walk without a damned limp, at least. Plus a few other things.
But, baby steps first.
Before I can dance, I have to able to move smoothly. Walk. Run. Bend. Squat. Lunge.
Then I can leap and spin and roll to a handstand and to a forward somersault.
And to do any of that, I need a habit. A pattern. I need my muscle memory to kick in. Something familiar to rely on.
And my whole life, that bit of familiar has been a five a.m. wake up, followed by coffee. Then a few minutes to think and clear my head. Some stretches, some warm-ups.
I’ll start there.
For me.
Not for Ink.
It’s not for him. It has nothing to do with him, or with anything he said to me.
I’m still mad. And I have every right to be. Mostly.
I think.
Maybe.
Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I won’t see him till I can dance again. Run, perhaps. Or at least walk without limping. I used to run three or four miles every day—after my first practice of the day—not fast, not super hard, just a decent jog, because it cleared my head and loosened up my tight muscles.
I missed running, truth be told. It was meditative, for me. Time for solitude. I’d put in my earbuds, crank up a bouncy hip-hop playlist, and let my body move without worrying about a single damn thing except the next step, the next turn, the next breath.
I knew that was my next immediate, short-term goal: run a mile.
Just one.
Should be easy.
Right?
Wrong.
I’d very clearly misunderstood the necessity of working on my basic mobility, of keeping my muscles on a regular schedule. That one mile was brutal. And it hurt like hell. My chest hurt, and my leg was killing me.
I’ve danced through bleeding blisters and twisted ankles and pulled muscles, but that was nothing compared to this.
Mom came home for lunch and found me lying on the floor, sweating like a pig, crying.
“Cass? What’s…what’s going on?”
I shook my head. “I can’t even touch my toes, Mom! I’m flexible enough, but it just…hurts. One single squat and I’m shaking.”
She sighed, and left the room without a word.
“Okay?” I said, to the empty room.
She came back moments later with a towel and a bottle of water. “Here.”
“Oh.” I sat up, slowly, and took them from her. “Thanks,” I mumbled.
<
br /> She watched me towel off and sip the water, and then her expression shifted to the thoughtful aha! expression she got when she had an idea.
“What?” I asked.
“I have an idea.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not seeing a therapist—psychological or physical.”
“Cass—”
“No, Mom. Just…no.”
She sat on the floor beside me and took my hands. “Cass, just listen.”
“Mom—”
She gave me her hardest glare, used her Mom-est voice. “Cassandra Danielle. I am your mother and you will hear me out.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”
She skewered me with another glare. “Try that again, and this time endeavor to sound something like a mature adult instead of a petulant child.”
“Yes, Mother,” I droned. “Speak on, oh wise one.”
She cackled. “Smart aleck.” She gave a prim, motherly smile. “Now. My idea is that Lucas has a nephew named Baxter who owns a recreational gym. It’s mostly a club for boxers, MMA fighters, and heavy-duty bodybuilders, but I’ve met Baxter on several occasions and he’s a great guy. He’s trained me several times, and he’s an absolute darling. More to the point, he’s an incredibly talented personal trainer. Many of his clients come to him for help rehabbing sports injuries. I know I’ve seen several people in his gym who were professional athletes. He’s one of the best.”
“I don’t need a personal trainer, Mom. I’ve been keeping myself in peak professional athlete physical condition, on my own, for years.”
She smiled. “I know that, dear. But that’s different than getting your body back where it should be after a serious injury. He’s not a therapist—well, I actually think he is, technically, but he promotes himself largely as an athletic conditioning and recovery coach. He can help you.”
I sighed. “Mom…I don’t know.”
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