We Were Never Here(48)

    “Damn.” I nodded. “Well, that’s great, then!”

“And wait till you see this place I found—it’s so cute and so close to you!”

“Awesome!” Why were things so weird between us right now? What I wouldn’t give to regain the feeling of closeness we’d had in Chile, pre-Paolo, the two of us together in a safe, warm womb. I wanted it the way I’d wanted to fall back in love with Ben all those years ago, before he hit me—when the biggest problem was that I felt nothing. Now, all I felt was a heavy, hovering anxiety.

Relax, Emily. With a little patience, we’d get through this rough patch and go back to being Kremily. She and Aaron would grow close, too, and my Milwaukee life would feel complete.

And this weekend in the woods? It would be good for us, a perfect place to start.

Kristen cleared her throat. “Hey, you ever gonna turn on some tunes?”

“Right, sorry.” I chose an album, something appropriately upbeat and celebratory, and we wound through the forest without passing another soul. Maybe we really were the only people alive.



* * *



—

We parked on the broad, flat pad near the street, then clambered down a path carved between tall trees—fat firs and slim birches and ragged-barked popples. Pine needles crunched under our feet as we approached the front door. Behind us, the lake was magnificent: rippling and alive, reflecting the bloat of moss-green foliage directly across from us.

Kristen fumbled with the lock and then heaved open the front door. The smell hit me like an old song: pleasantly musty, sweet pine and funk. She began opening blinds, and as sunshine soaked the interior I took in the antler chandelier, the green-and-cream-striped sofa, the stack of logs and old Bon Appétit magazines piled by the stout woodstove. She insisted I take the largest bedroom, the one with a soaking tub in the en suite bathroom. She took her usual room down the hall.

    “And watch out for rabbit poop,” she called as I unzipped my bag. “In the closets and stuff. Apparently a family keeps getting in and making a mess. I wanna kill the little assholes—they ruined these gorgeous moccasins I gave Nana for Christmas.”

“Aw. Bunny just wants a nice Airbnb,” I murmured to myself.

We changed into bathing suits and dragged lawn chairs out to the boat dock (not to be confused with Grandpa’s Pier, on the opposite end of the property). I followed waves with my eyes, watched them scatter around lily pads, get punctured by reeds. An azure bluet dragonfly, pretty as a piece of turquoise, landed on my knee and cocked its head. This is going to be great, I thought. And having Kristen down the street will be wonderful. I needed to stop girding my loins around her. Don’t we elicit whatever we anticipate?

“This place is so healing,” I said, glancing her way. “I feel like it’s already helping me release some stuff. From Cambodia. And…Chile.”

She was quiet, the only sound the waves slapping against the dock. Would she fiiinally open up about it?

“You know what else is good for that?” she said. The lawn chair creaked as she rose from it. “Wine. Let’s run to the grocery store before it gets too crowded.”

She strode toward the cabin, shoulders loose, hips swaying. Like someone without a care in the world.



* * *



—

At the Lakewood Supervalu, we zoomed around the aisles, joking as we piled things into the cart. We tossed supplies for s’mores atop a case of spiked seltzer, nestled bottles of wine among the fixings for burgers and brats. Kristen selected two T-bone steaks from the case: “A dinner fit for the birthday queen.”

Back at the cabin, we chitchatted as we put the groceries away—mundane stuff, purposely avoiding anything about Chile or Cambodia this time. It felt so normal that for a second I forgot about the past, the rough-skinned men who’d attacked us, the lives we’d snuffed out, the people who were looking for them, for us. I felt a sudden, swooping ache for how our lives had been, the friendship we used to have. It felt like homesickness.

    “Oh my God, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” Kristen dropped a loaf of bread and rushed over to me.

“I’ve been so worried. About you, about being caught…about everything.” My voice teetered and I swiped at my cheeks.

“Aw, Emily, it’s okay! We’re not going to get caught.”

I snuffled. “It’s not just that.”

She gazed at me, her eyes tender.

“I just…you’ve been acting so normal. Like this huge and terrible thing didn’t happen. How are you so…fine?”

For a moment she stared at me, lips taut, pink emerging on her cheeks like a Polaroid developing. Then her nose quivered, catlike, and glassy tears dripped.

“Oh, Emily.” She cupped her hands over her face and dropped into a kitchen chair.

Whoa. “Kristen, hey. You’re not alone in this.”

“Aren’t I, though?” She pulled a napkin from the holder and blew her nose, a long, ducklike honk. “You don’t even— I don’t know what you want me to do. How I’m supposed to act. I can’t go back in time and do things differently, Em. I can’t make it all go away. And the way you look at me ever since then—the way you’re looking at me now, like I’m a monster, like the sight of me makes you sick. It was an accident. I never meant for it to happen the way it did. I hate myself, Emily. I hate myself for putting us through that again, and you hate me too.”