Under the Northern Lights(63)

His eyes glazed as he stared at me; then he slowly nodded. “Okay, Mallory.”

We dressed for the harsh weather in silence, our hearts heavy with unspoken words. I followed Michael to his shed, where he stored his tools as well as his meat supply. As I glanced over the shelves of meat, I reconsidered my earlier opinion that he had enough to last awhile. Even though he’d hunted more to compensate for having company, his supplies were lower than they should have been for this time of year. Or at least, they seemed that way to me. Maybe that was just because I was scared to leave him out here all alone, with threats and predators around every corner. Sure, he’d survived five years without me, but all it would take was one bad instance . . . one bear attacking his shed, one wolf lurking in his cabin. One wrong move, and I truly would lose him forever.

Michael grabbed his needed part, plus the tools to install it, and stuffed them into his backpack. After he firmly closed up the shed, we were on our way, hiking through the woods to get to the clearing where his plane was resting, waiting, sleeping. I clasped Michael’s gloved hand as we walked, needing the contact. He smiled down at me, but there was no joy in the gesture, just melancholy.

When we reached the plane, I felt like sobbing. That one piece of machinery symbolized the end of what we’d been slowly building over the last few months. Maybe we shouldn’t have built it in the first place, but we hadn’t planned on the connection between us. Hadn’t planned on it, hadn’t expected it, and hadn’t been able to stop it. It had swept us away without our permission. True love had a way of doing that.

After releasing my hand, Michael pulled the tarp off the engine of the plane. He laid it on the melting snow, then set his tools upon it. I watched in silence as he went about his repairs. Occasionally he asked for tools, and heart in my shoes, I handed them to him. A part of me hoped he wouldn’t be able to repair the plane, but I knew that was a selfish feeling—he truly would die here if he had no way to leave. We both would. But even still, at the end of the day, when the daylight was fading into blackness and he tested the engine—and it started—I was more crushed than relieved.

Tears were streaming down my cheeks when Michael gathered his tools and put the tarp back over the plane. His heart was in his eyes when he looked at me, and I clearly saw the words I’m sorry in his gaze. Since there was nothing to be sorry about, I was glad he didn’t voice them.

“It’s getting dark . . . we should go back.”

I could only nod in response. As we journeyed back to the cabin, disappointment filled me. Why did he have to finish repairing it in one day? Couldn’t he have stretched it out for two, maybe three days? A heavy sigh escaped me. No, there was no point stretching it out anymore. It was time.

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes momentarily leaving the path to search my face.

“Yes,” I told him. Then I sighed again. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

The cabin came into view, lightened by the glow of Michael’s flashlight. When I glanced up at his face, I saw his lips firmly pressed together and his brows visible under his cap bunched in contemplation or confusion. Not wanting to cause him unnecessary pain, I squeezed his hand. “Yes, I’m fine. Sad . . . but fine.”

He nodded. “I know . . . I know how you feel. I feel the same way.”

Even as grief crushed my spirit, butterflies flittered through my stomach. It didn’t seem possible to feel unparalleled joy and crushing despair all at the same time, but apparently . . . it was.

After putting his tools back in the shed and grabbing some meat for dinner, Michael led us back to the main cabin. He quickly checked the perimeter for animals, then unlocked the door and led me inside with a hand on my lower back. I memorized every touch, every look, every word. This was it. This was the last night we’d be together. It could possibly be the last time we ever saw each other. Life was so uncertain. I’d have to save up for a plane, and by the time I had enough money for one, life could have changed on me again. I could say I’d visit, but only God knew if I’d actually be able to. I didn’t want this to end tonight, but regardless of what I wanted, it was ending.

Michael and I went through our routine of making dinner. Silence hung in the air as we ate, lacing the room with tension. How could I say goodbye to this man? How could I leave, knowing I might not ever see him again? Knowing we could be together—and be great together—if he’d only give humanity another chance and come home with me. Or if I said goodbye to everything and stayed here with him. The extremes of our choices were so unfair, but then again, most difficult choices were. That was what made them hard in the first place.

After dinner, I put our dishes in the tub, preparing to wash them. When I turned to go get some water, Michael grabbed my hand. “That can wait,” he whispered. “This . . . can’t.” Then he drew me close to him and crashed his lips down to mine.

There was an intensity in his kiss that hadn’t been there before, an almost desperate need to connect. My body roared to life as his mouth moved over mine. My breath quickened; my heart raced. Michael pulled me tight against his body, and I knew he was feeling it too—the double-edged sword of passion and pain. Even though I knew it would kill me later, I wanted more. I wanted all of him.

He began pulling me toward my bed, and my heart leaped even higher. Was he finally on the same page as me . . . now that we were ending? When his legs hit the back of the bench, he lowered himself onto it, then pulled me with him until we were lying side by side on the moss mattress. Wondering where his head was at, I breathily said, “Michael?”