Eliza
The kiss cam pans over the frenzied crowd, stopping on a couple making out, and my world shatters.
Drinking a pint of battery acid would be less painful than seeing my boyfriend on the jumbotron, locked in a passionate kiss with one of my best friends. He’s cupping her face, a soft stroke of his thumb caressing her cheekbone, and my insides freeze.
The bar’s game-night buzz fades into a deafening blanket of white noise, and I’m in a trance, physically incapable of looking away from the large TV hanging above the rows of hard liquor.
The reality around me slowly dissolves. The vintage posters and photos melt into a jumbled mess of colors and the hardwood floor sinks under me, swallowing my chair.
Jared and Caroline are lost in their searing kiss, oblivious to the stadium cheering them on. For me, it’s an out-of-body experience. He’s now tenderly cradling the back of her head with those hands I’m so familiar with and she’s fisting the blue shirt I ironed for his trip, while my stomach drops to the sticky wooden floor.
The cold lemonade glass slowly slips from my palms, hitting the worn table with a resounding thud. It brings me back, my surroundings snapping back into focus, but something is off. An eerie silence has settled over the usually bustling sports bar. A stillness now coats every corner of Old Halson's, and only the faint sound of the TV is audible.
Familiar faces are crowded into the faded red leather booths and around tall tables, staring at me, drinks and hot wings forgotten.
I’m mortified and frozen on the wobbly stool, heart beating erratically in my throat. The weight of the situation hits me like a hailstorm of hammers.
Jared and I were talking about getting married. Kids, someday. And I thought Caroline was my friend. My brain scrambles to make sense of what I just saw but doubt and confusion sharpen the betrayal that’s slicing my chest open.
And it hurts.
My body doesn’t need to wait for my mind to catch up. I focus on my hands as they tremble, a subtle quiver against the smooth wood. The irregular drumming of my heart intensifies, making me dizzy and disoriented. Confusion leads to fear, frost running through my veins. Then the familiar burn of shame spreads through every fiber, making me wish the ground would swallow me whole.
A woman’s voice reaches me from a neighboring table. “Was that—”
“Shh!”
“Poor Eliza.” The voice is familiar, but I don’t have the mental strength to put a face on it.
A callused palm cups my elbow, and I’m reminded I’m not alone. My dazed, tear-filled eyes find Sam, his white eyebrows scrunched in worry and irritation. He dragged me out tonight after his wife found out I’d be alone for a week. They weren’t keen on spending time with Jared and jumped at any chance to meet whenever he left town. This was supposed to be a fun night out with a good friend. How did it turn into the end of my life as I’ve known it for the last eight years?
“Let’s get out of here, kid.” Sam’s voice is low and cautious.
I cling to his words like a lifeline, so I won’t crumble in the middle of Old Halson’s. It’s a small town, so these people are up-to-date on the story of my childhood. I don’t want to feed them even more gossip.
#
I follow him out without a second thought. Not that my brain is capable of any rational thought. It’s stuck on the image of my boyfriend on TV, replaying on a loop.
I welcome the chilly April air filling my lungs and cooling my skin. The moment we’re out of the bar, gossip erupts behind the closing door, and I half expect the people milling around the main street to bombard me with questions.
“Come on. They’ll find out soon enough.” Sam points to the passers-by with his chin.
He’s right. No one escapes the Silver Lake Falls gossip mill. I should enjoy the lack of whispers and side eyes while I can. I’ve gone through this once before and the moment the group chats activate, I’ll have to avoid most places in town.
Walking in silence to Sam’s truck helps me clear my head and I start planning, making lists, anything to keep my mind off the hurt and nausea shredding my insides, and the future I had dreamed about being shattered on live TV.
“Martha’s waiting for us,” he says, rounding the corner to the back of the red brick building where he usually parks his car. He’s sneaking wary glances my way, and guilt gnaws at my insides for making him worry.
“I need to pack,” I realize. “And Jared took my car yesterday.” I’d given him my precious truck because he kept complaining about the company sending him by train. The car isn’t new or expensive, but it was the first one I could afford after saving for years. The first thing I owned, in my name. Humiliation and anger heat the back of my neck.
I mumble as I force myself to put one foot in front of the other, thinking out loud, but Sam interrupts me, his bushy eyebrows drawn together.
“I’ll drive you home first. We’ll get your stuff. You don’t have to stay at your apartment.” Sam’s fatherly concern tears me up, and I clear my throat to dislodge the embarrassing knot. I can’t have a breakdown yet.
Going back home is the last thing I want. There’s no way in hell I’ll wait five days for him to get home, surrounded by his things, being reminded of the life I worked so hard to build. I wish I could leave it all behind but I’m in no position to give up basic necessities. I couldn’t afford it.
“It won’t be long,” I promise.
Sam pulls up in front of the building and I take a few breaths to get my hands to stop shaking. In and out. I’ve got this. I’ve done it before.
“Sure you don’t want me to pack you a bag?” I shake my head and he spurs me on with his reassuring smile. “Take all the time you need, kid.”
As the front door closes with a soft click behind me, I’m more certain of my decision, terrified as I might be. I can’t stay here. The place we’ve rented for the past five years has too many memories.
Did he ever kiss her when we had parties or movie nights at home? The thought runs like ice shards through my chest. No...I can’t torture myself now. I’ll find time for hair-splitting later.
Weird how my childhood routine comes in handy now. A habit I couldn’t shake, even after eight years of stability. The essentials kit was always packed. Documents, cash, some clothes, and the few precious memories I had.
I pass through the living room, ignoring the evidence of our relationship, all our pictures together, the changes I made so we’d have a home that felt like ours, and head straight for the bedroom. I don’t need to pull the switch in the small closet. Jared never tidied up, so I wasn’t worried he’d ever find it. On the top shelf, in the back, I shuffle through old sweaters until my fingers graze the worn-out duffel bag.
It’s so old and tattered that the zipper almost breaks but I manage to open it. Everything is still inside. I shove in some more underwear and clothes until it’s bursting at the seams. In the hiking backpack we never used because Jared is not a fan of the outdoors, I throw the essentials for camping, as a backup.
The silent goodbye to the rest of the apartment doesn’t take long. My soul aches for the squeak in the floor near the small open kitchen and the dent in the bathroom door. The little imperfections made this place my real first home.
After one last look, I know there is nothing else I want to take with me. I won’t be back. It’s a certainty seated deep in my bones.
Leaving the keys under the doormat I’m hit with a painful sense of déjà vu, a laundry basket in my arms, holding what didn’t fit in the duffel bag. The moment slides me back through the corridors of time. A little girl stepping out of house after house until I turned eighteen. Each move leaving me worn out, smaller, brittle.
This one? This one might take everything from me.
“That was fast,” Sam says, getting out of the truck.
He recognizes my old bag and nods in understanding, going for the laundry basket and placing it in the back seat.
“This all? What about the couch?” Sam rolls his sleeve, ready to move furniture. He thinks he can still do that by himself, at his age.
“I just want to leave, OK?” I pull my jacket tighter around me, nervous to hang around much longer in case Jared materializes next to me. It’s stupid, I know, but I can’t stop dreading it.
“I’d leave him to sleep on the floor if you asked me,” Sam mutters.
“Honestly, I don’t want to touch any surface they might have…” Bile fills my mouth. It’s awkward enough and I leave him to fill in the blanks.
“Oh,” he grimaces in disgust. “Right.” Sam pulls at his football-night sweater, visibly uncomfortable. The one Martha made for me is safely tucked in the basket.
“Want to go anywhere else before we head home?”
“Oh, no...” I’m barely hanging on and desperately want to lock myself away. Martha and Sam are better off without my drama.
“Eliza, you know you’re always welcome in our home,” he says in a soft voice, turning to me, but I can’t meet his eyes, or my resolve will crumble. I hate upsetting them.
“I know.” I swallow against the dryness in my throat. “I need to be alone right now. Can you take me to Gram’s cabin, please?”
Sam sighs but doesn’t insist.
“It’s not like I’d take you to ours.” He laughs for my benefit. “That place is waiting for your magic touch, kid.” His abandoned fishing cabin needs more than my DIY skills, but I keep my mouth shut.
“Are you sure it’s empty?” Sam makes a U-turn toward the exit for the lakeside road.
“Valerie didn’t say anything about reservations for this weekend. Small mercies, I guess,” I say, returning a feeble smile.
Gram Miller’s cabin is ten minutes out of Silver Lake Falls. She wasn’t really my grandma, but the closest thing I had to one. She and her husband took me in when I was sixteen. They were nice, warm people who had already raised their kids, all scattered across the country with families of their own.
Their kindness still overwhelms me. They’re the reason I didn’t end up on the streets of Portland and now have a place to hide away from Jared.
The night becomes darker as the truck follows the dirt road leading to the lake. Tall pines and oaks eat up the sky as they sway, letting stars shine through from time to time. Deep between the trees, I catch glimpses of other cabins and thin columns of smoke rising from the places more secluded from the road.
Sam parks, the car tires crunching the gravel on the driveway. The sound is loud in the dark cocoon of the trees. The only other sounds are the gentle lapping of the lake and the occasional hoots and howls of night critters.
He grabs the laundry basket and goes right in, as efficient as ever. People don’t lock their doors around here. The two sets of keys in existence I leave for guests when they rent the place. The fresh air of the forest and the damp earth around the lake follows us inside, mingling with the strong wood scent.
Sam peers around, making sure he’s not about to leave me overnight with a bear chilling in the bathroom.
The tidy living room and the small sage-colored open kitchen I adore are as I left them after Memorial Day weekend. I can’t afford to hire somebody to clean after tourists, so I always make sure the cabin is spotless.
I do my best to reassure him. “I’ll be alright.” I hug him tightly and his eyes get misty.
“If there’s any—”
“I’ll call you. I promise.”
Sam peers at me over his shoulder one last time, a litany of advice restrained behind his tight smile before he softly shuts the door behind him.
Alone for the first time, my shoulders slump, and all the emotions I’d pushed back claw their way out like a pack of rabid raccoons.
My body is on autopilot as my feet take me to the linen closet and I fix the bed in one of the bedrooms. With my hands busy, my mind is free to go through the entire scene again and again.
The heartbreak bleeds into my limbs. My body aches. It reminds me of one winter when a kid shoved me into the freezing lake.
The soft bed molds around me and the darkness of the room hides my shame. The burning sensation behind my eyes becomes intolerable and the air rushes out of my lungs as a wail I can’t hold back anymore.
In the solitude, I allow myself to sob uncontrollably and mourn the past eight years of my life. To blame myself for being with him for so long, ignoring the red flags. Jared hardly touched me in the past few months. He stopped showing any little signs of affection. I was starved for touch, but he always found an excuse.
What does that say about me? That I’m stupid or willfully naive. I can’t ignore the truth anymore, not when half the town witnessed it, and the other half will find out by tomorrow.
I don’t know how long I’ve been crying before exhaustion settles in my bones and my eyelids grow heavy. Before everything fades to black, I remember it’s already Friday and shoot a text to my boss. The idea of going back to work in a couple of hours is ridiculous. I’ll probably get an earful from Carl, but I’m too drained to care.
#
The solid thud of the front door echoes through the cabin. Alarm bells pull me out of my restless sleep, filled with flashes of Jared and Caroline kissing, memories of waiting alone at the curb, laundry basket in my arms, paperwork, dingy offices, and house doors opening over and over again. My mouth is dry and the back of my hand finds strands of hair plastered to my damp forehead.
I slept through the evening again. The room is pitch black, but that’s the least of my worries as the distinct shuffling of shoes on the floor and a low grunt reach my bedroom. No one would come here in the middle of the night. My mind races straight to Jared driving back early and figuring out I’d hid here.
I’m not ready to confront him.
My fingers quiver atop the floral comforter and I struggle to steady my breath. I slip from the bed as silently as possible, squeezing the life out of the old pillow I’ve kept all these years. Leaning against the doorframe, my ears twitch with the effort of listening closely for sounds coming from the living room.
A bag hits the wooden floor, and a deep inhale makes me break out in a cold sweat. Heavy footsteps circle the couch and move toward the kitchen. Jared would’ve yelled my name by now.
It’s a thief. The realization drops to the bottom of my gut like a bag of river stones. I don’t have any valuables here, but I don’t want the place trashed. My phone is buried somewhere between the sheets, out of battery by now, and I curse myself for not remembering to charge it since I got here.
The intruder turns on the warm light over the kitchen island and it floods the corridor up to the bedroom. It’s too late to creep out of the house now, I’m trapped. My palms are clammy and several different plans whiz through my head until I decide against self-preservation. I can’t afford to have the cabin ruined. That’s the single thing I focus on, stepping gingerly into the small hallway.
The intruder’s steps are slow and deliberate. To my horror, they’re getting closer as a looming shadow ripples over the wooden panels of the wall. My heart rattles against my ribs.
It’s now or never.
Holding my pillow-shield and gulping down air I round the corner to a sight I wasn’t expecting. Instead of a petty thief opening the cabinets and pulling the drawers, a frowning, well-dressed man is scanning the rooms, arms crossed over his chest.
If he’s a burglar, he’s the most put-together one I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve met a lot of them.
His clothes are definitely not from a discount store. They’re fitted and show off his broad shoulders and lean frame. His chestnut hair is styled to perfection.
He still hasn’t noticed me. The panic slowly makes room for curiosity, and I take another careless step in his direction. The man’s stiff posture makes me straighten my back, so I won’t look like a creature who’s been living in a cave for the past twenty-six years.
A half a beat later his head snaps in my direction and our gazes collide, bringing back the sense of danger I was so stupid to ignore. I panic and throw the pillow at him with a squeal, in what must be the most idiotic blitz attack in the history of self-defense.
The worn-out pillow barely brushes his torso and lands at his feet with a muffled thud.
He’s confused for a moment, staring at the soft lump on the floor, but his sharp eyes shift in my direction and then turn analytical, taking me in from head to toe. A deep scowl creasing his forehead tells me he’s not pleased with his conclusion.
“Who’re you?” he asks in a steely tone.
I gulp in a breath to compose myself and try to find the best way to handle this bizarre encounter. Maybe I’m hallucinating from exhaustion. But the man looming in my cabin, who rudely interrupted my depression-riddled sleep and scared me to death is now scowling in my direction like he found pubes in his fancy hotel bed.
After the last few days, it’s enough to make me snap.
“I’m the owner of this house! Who the hell are you? Barging in at this hour asking questions?”
He ignores me and pulls out a phone, while I’m left gaping at him. I give myself a second to check him over again, hoping to spot some clue as to his identity. I’ve never met such a man before. It’s unnerving. His posture projects calm indifference, but his sharp features are tense.
My thoughts fly out of my mouth on their own. “You don’t look like a burglar.”
“How very judgmental of you,” he drawls, still on his phone. Is he joking?
“I'm not judgmental! You broke in in the middle of the night! So, are you a burglar or not?”
“Is this The Millers’ Oak Cabin?” He finally graces me with his attention, ignoring my question.
“Yes, it is. Why?” The moment I ask, I get this sinking feeling. Can I be this unlucky?
His eyes roam the cabin, assessing it in a calculated manner that puts me on edge. His gaze falls on my weapon of choice on the floor and he picks it up, twisting the pillow in his hands.
The nicely dressed intruder is stone-faced when his gaze lands back on me. Studying me as if I’m the suspicious one in this situation. He leans against the kitchen island and closes his eyes. A deep inhale expands his chest and stretches the expensive black shirt. After a moment he levels me with a stare that tells me this conversation is taking every ounce of his patience.
“It was rented for me yesterday,” he starts in an even tone. “A woman named Valerie set it up.”
With a twist of his wrist, he launches the pillow straight at me. In my shocked state, I don’t have the good sense to use my hands to catch it, so I get a mouthful of fabric before I scramble and squeeze it defensively to my chest.
Shit. It turns out I am this unlucky, but at this point, it doesn’t even surprise me. Heat creeps up my neck and my entire face burns with embarrassment in less than two seconds.
I clear my throat of the swelling unease, but the words stick like maple syrup on their way out. “She probably texted me. I’ve been staying here since Thursday night.” I pinch the bridge of my nose to keep the tears at bay. “With my phone off.”
I press harder and roll my lips as a last resort because I really don’t want to cry in front of the surprise tourist.
“Probably not the smartest decision,” I admit, even though last-minute reservations are not a thing around here.
“Obviously,” he drags out.
“I’ve been out of sorts.” I’m rooted to the spot, clutching my pillow, disoriented by how quickly my life continues to fall apart.
He breaks the strained silence that’s threatening to give me a panic attack, but this time he sounds tired and resigned. “If I were a thief my job would’ve been too easy. The door is unlocked.” Then with clear distaste, he asks, “Why?”
“We don’t lock our doors here...I thought you were…” Stop talking, woman! “Never mind.” My body finally jolts into action. I look around for things to pick up, but I’ve mostly been sleeping, so all my stuff is still packed away in the bedroom.
“In that case, yes…I’ll leave you to it.” I spin around so fast that I clip my shoulder against the wall. I double over in pain, clutching my throbbing arm, probably giving the impression I’m off my rocker. My hair’s a mess, my eyes are puffy and sore. I’m wearing the same long shirt I had on at Old Halson’s, creased from sleeping in it for almost two days straight. And no pants.
The embarrassment lights me on fire and I don’t know how to get out of his sight fast enough.
“I’m going to pack. My bags are in one of the bedrooms.” My voice wavers, dangerously close to breaking. “Won’t take long. Sorry again.” I can’t even look at him.
“Sit down,” he says in a gravelly voice.
My knees give at his command, and I sink into the closest chair, goose bumps erupting all over my skin. I blink slowly, shocked at my body’s response and the sharp tightness in my belly. I can’t help but gape at him.
What just happened?
My gaze is locked onto his slightly parted lips and his eyes widen for the briefest moment before his face hardens and we’re stuck in a staring contest once again.
I hold the pillow tighter in a futile attempt to cover myself.
“Were you going to smother me to death with that?” he points to the pillow and I shrug, like it wasn’t one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.
“The pillow was the only solid object in reach, short of taking the nightstand,” I croak out.
“You’re not here on holiday.” He leaves me no room to deny it. “Are you hiding?” The intruder continues his interrogation, unbothered by my discomfort.
I’m not going to spill my pathetic life story to him, no matter how in control he thinks he is.
“There’s a smaller lodge five minutes away. I’ll move,” I say, evading the question.
“Why didn’t you go there in the first place?” Clear suspicion laces his voice.
Damn it, he’s persistent.
“You ask too many questions,” I shoot back, getting annoyed.
“I want to be prepared if the police come and question me. When a girl ends up dead in the forest it’s usually the last known person who talked to her.”
I need to give him something so we can get this midnight interrogation over with and I can disappear.
“Well.” The truth is, the other place is a dump. No disrespect to the Duntons, but if they’re serious about letting me use it, I’d have to put some money into it. Money that I currently don’t have. “It’s not necessarily ready for visitors, but it’s going to be OK for me.” I smile at him through the lie, doing my best impression of a totally chill, normal, no-drama human being.
He’s shaking his head even before I’m done explaining. Some strands of hair fall over his eyes as he pushes himself off the counter. My pulse quickens.
“I won’t be responsible for sending a crazy woman out into the forest at night.”
The annoyance rolling of him in waves makes my adrenaline spike and my hand flies instinctively to rub the jagged scar above my temple.
“But—”
“It’s the middle of the night. The listing mentions two bedrooms.”
With each step closer he comes into sharper focus. The expensive shoes, the effortless grace in the way he moves, and how tall he really is.
“Are you going to kill me in my sleep?” He asks, sounding almost bored.
“What?” I gasp, horrified. I can’t tell if he’s joking or not. And I want to defuse the tension before mortification chokes me to death. “No! That’d be bad for business,” I lamely tell the floor.
When I find the courage to lift my head, the most intimidating stony gray eyes cut through my failed attempt at humor. I couldn’t see them clearly when he was sitting on the other side of the room and now I’m stuck speechless again. He’s a striking man, a slightly crooked nose the only chip in his polished appearance. Not perfectly aligned, at odds with his curated exterior. I find myself wondering how he got it. I can’t imagine him getting into a fistfight.
A heartbeat later the wheels start turning.
“Wait. Are you going to murder me while I sleep?”
“I’m too tired for this,” he says with a groan. “I just want to go to bed.”
He takes his phone out again and types something very fast while stepping even closer, his legs almost hitting my knees when he turns the screen. I want to concentrate on what he’s showing me, but I’m dazed by a hint of expensive leather and old whiskey cellars. It’s a heady scent that makes me imagine men smoking cigars on yachts and driving around with a chauffeur.
“Did you read it?” he asks in a low, exhausted voice.
It shakes me up into checking the phone. It’s a message to Valerie.
Arrived at the cabin. The owner is here and will spend the night.
“There. Now I can’t make you disappear without incriminating myself,” he says in such a business-like manner, it’s absurd. It’s impossible to read him, irises of solid gray, impenetrable as the thick ice that covers the lake in the middle of winter.
“The direction of your thought process is alarming.” I can’t help the humor lacing my words.
“I need to rest.” He ignores my dig. “Which bedroom?” he asks, swiping through his hair, ruining the GQ look.
He leaves my personal space, and I can finally breathe properly. Leather bags in hand, he zooms past me when I wordlessly point to the left door.
“Wait!” I manage, common sense finally making an appearance. “What’s your name?”
He’s got that laser-focus glare again, scanning me for a second. “Carter. Rawlings.” The sound of the shutting door puts an end to the conversation.
“I’m Eliza,” I tell the empty living room.
A few moments pass until I gain control of my body and my brain quiets enough to feel the effects of tonight’s surprise. My muscles hurt from how tense I’ve been for the last half hour, I’m parched, and my head hurts. Some water and food would help, but I’ve been cooped up in here and keep the fridge empty between rentals. Water will do until tomorrow.
As I drag myself to the kitchen and reach into the cabinet for a glass, I spot a note resting against a familiar jar of herbs—tears well up again. I have to accept I’m a crier now. Gratitude swirls in my chest, as warming as a spring breeze, knowing Martha brought over my favorite tea blend while I’ve been dead to the world.
On the fridge door, another handwritten yellow Post-it.
Call me if you need anything else. Or even if you don’t. Martha
I open the door to find the fridge fully stocked. Have I been so out of it since Thursday night that I didn’t hear them come in, carrying so much food? And why can’t I stop crying?!
This is the kind of friends Martha and Sam are. They kept caring for me even after I moved out of the Millers’ house eight years ago. Inviting me over and feeding me a week’s worth of delicious homemade food. They insisted on taking me out whenever Jared was “busy”. I shake the thoughts of his “trips” out of my head because I don’t want to start bawling again.
Quietly, I sneak back into my bedroom balancing a bowl of Martha’s heavenly mac and cheese and a water bottle. Before I plop in the middle of the bed, I retrieve the laptop from between the folded shirts in the laundry basket. The man’s name sounds familiar. I have to look up my mysterious guest, or I’ll never be able to sleep with him in the house. He doesn’t seem dangerous but there’s an edge to him that I’ve long learned to be careful of.
Hundreds of articles pop up in the search. Financial news bulletins about inheriting the family tech company after his father’s death and his decisions as CEO of Rawlings Enterprise. Opening some gossip blogs with pictures of him and various beautiful women at fancy events makes me feel stalkerish so I close them quickly.
The most recent article mentions his absence from the public eye over the past four months. The company has remained silent on the matter. Great. Another reason to feel like moose dung. The man needed to get away for some reason and I just crashed his holiday.
At least I can whip up something for breakfast as an apology, in the hope he won’t ask for his money back, or even worse, leave a bad review.
On second thought, I move a chair under the doorknob and retrieve an old pepper spray I bought when I was fifteen from the duffel bag. I drift into a fitful sleep, clutching the cold metal of the spray can, a reminder of the last time I felt unsafe.
