Under the Northern Lights(36)

He stopped speaking as words failed him. Frustration rose in me. I’d wanted him to stop pulling away, to embrace the moment . . . but maybe he was right to cut it off before it began. He was being smart, and I couldn’t blame him for that. “It’s okay . . . I just . . .”

As an awkward tension built between us, I noticed Michael reach down and play with his ring finger like he was twisting a piece of metal that wasn’t there. I knew where it was—in a plastic bag buried deep in one of his bins. “Your ring . . . you’re still used to wearing it, aren’t you? Is that why you kept it?”

I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth, but the words had already been set loose. There was no putting them back now. Michael’s eyes were huge when he snapped his gaze back to mine. “What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice tight, like the words hurt him.

Wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut and let the awkwardness extinguish the moment between us, I quietly told him the secret I’d been holding on to for far too long. “I found your wedding rings . . . attached to a picture of your wife. She’s very beautiful.” And I can see why you’re not ready to move on from her. Especially with someone who isn’t sticking around.

Michael’s eyes went even larger. “You found . . .” He looked around, then rubbed his bare hands. “We should get the wood before we freeze.”

He took off without a second glance at me, and all I could do was stare in shock at his retreating form. I’d figured he wouldn’t be happy that I’d been snooping, but I hadn’t expected him to passive-aggressively brush it off and ignore me. Following him, I said, “I’m sorry. It was back when I first got here, and I just wanted to know something about the man who’d rescued me. You’re not always forthcoming with information, so I—”

He spun around to face me then; his eyes were heated when they met mine. “So you took matters into your own hands, right? Is that why you asked me if I was married? If it hadn’t worked out? You couldn’t ask me directly about the rings without admitting you were spying on me, so you made sure it came up in conversation?”

I tossed my hands into the air. “Yes, that’s exactly what I did. I’m sorry I went through your stuff, but can you really blame me for wanting to know who I was living with?”

The spark in his eyes died, and his voice dropped. “No, I can’t blame you for that. I get it . . . and it’s fine.”

It didn’t feel fine as I watched him continue walking to the shed to load his arms up with wood, but he was dropping the conversation, so I decided to drop it too. I never should have brought it up anyway.

Things were silent between us as we collected some logs and trudged back to the cabin. All of the beauty I’d admired earlier seemed to be gone now, swept away by my word vomit. I hadn’t meant to admit my faults, hadn’t meant to cause him pain, hadn’t meant to ruin Christmas. As Michael stoked the fire in the stove, I tried to somehow salvage the remainder of the day.

“I really am sorry, Michael. Please don’t be mad at me all night. It’s Christmas.” I smiled at the end like I believed those two words were enough to solve any dilemma. And they should be. Temporarily, at least.

Michael looked over at me on my new ultrasoft mattress and let out a low sigh. After closing up the stove, he walked over to sit beside me. “I’m not mad. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?” I asked, grateful that not only was he still talking to me, it seemed like he wanted to open up to me as well.

“I just . . . it’s hard to think about those rings. Hard to think about what they symbolized . . . what I had. You poked a tender spot is all.” When he looked back at me, his eyes were full of age-old pain.

Knowing I’d brought this remembered sorrow upon him made guilt swell inside me. “Because you two didn’t work out? I’m so sorry to remind you of that . . . especially on a day like today. That was callous of me.”

I hung my head in shame, and Michael let out another sigh. “We did work out, Mallory. We were . . . great together. Amazing even . . .”

There was so much pain in his voice that shivers raced down my back. “What happened then?” I asked, lifting my head to look at him.

As I watched, his eyes misted over. “She . . . died. She meant everything to me, and one minute she was there beside me, and the next she was gone. Forever.”

That certainly explained the rings, the picture . . . even the isolation suddenly made sense. He was still in mourning. I had no idea what to say to that, what could possibly ease his pain, so I said the only thing that I could think to say. “I’m so sorry, Michael.”

A tear rolled down his cheek before he hastily wiped it away. “It’s fine, I just . . . I don’t want to talk about my past anymore, okay? It’s over—it’s behind me—and I have no desire to reminisce about it. Deal?”

He stared at me unflinchingly, but I could see the turmoil and emotion rampaging through his eyes. It wasn’t over, not for him. There was nothing I could do to help him, though, except agree to let him keep his privacy. “Okay . . . deal.”





Chapter Thirteen

Michael was right about feeling better once the holidays were over. It was like a weight had been removed from my chest, and I could breathe again. Or maybe that feeling was because living at the cabin with Michael was going really, really well. Every day we seemed to get just a little closer; as the temperature was dropping outside, things between us were warming up, and there was a deep well of friendship between us now.