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It catches me off guard—himbeing caught off guard. It doesn’t normally happen. Ever.
“No, it’s fine. It’s a lot of work. And you’ve been doing it for so long.”
“Don’t remind me,” he winces. “But I’m nearly there. Just a few more weeks of writing. I do want to get back into the field, though. And see some birds again.”
Right. His degree is in wildlife ecology. I know better than most how important it is to him—how much he’s willing to sacrifice for it. His focus is on the conservation of seabird populations. I’ve never asked him specifics about it, and maybe I should feel guilty about that. But Carter isn’t even my friend anymore, and I’ve done everything I can to keep him from being one for the better part of the last decade.
I guess I’ll feign interest right now to keep him from asking anything personal aboutme, though.
“That sounds fun. Which, uh, birds are you excited to see?”
Wow. I’m truly a scintillating conversationalist.
“The puffins! Their colonies have been recovering for a few years and?—”
“Oh my god, puffins are so cute,” I say enthusiastically, accidentally sloshing some of my drink over the side of my glass.
“And nasty fuckers too,” Carter says, “with beaks like razors. But yes, they are adorable.”
“Awww,” I say, feeling a smile crack my face.
“Look,” he says, pulling out his phone.
He leans in close to me and starts scrolling through photos he’s clearly taken himself while on field research. I try to pay attention to the photos of awkward fluffy chicks and orange-beaked birds, but all I can think about is how close he is. He’s so close I can smell his piney, woodsy scent. I can feel the heat from his body, especially as his arm brushes mine and he flicks to the next photo. And it’s actually nice—to be near him again. To be able to feel him.
Wait, what? What am I doing? Why am I letting him get past my barriers so easily? Barriers I had to erect solelybecauseof him. I stumble away from him, my drink sloshing again.
“Ange?” He sounds confused and concerned.
And I’m too weak to stay any longer, so I say, “I have to go to the bathroom. But thanks for showing me those photos! So cute.” I put my drink on the table nearby and all but run out of the room and into the hallway.
The lodge is beautiful: broad planked wooden floors and soft rugs, with lots of windows and natural light. We’re all staying in a collection of cabins and yurts in the woods beyond, so it takes me a while to locate the bathroom in the main building.
Thankfully when I do, it’s as nice as the rest of the place. Granite countertops, a separate powder room, and actual towels for drying one’s hands. The calming scent of lavender and mint fills the space. I sit on the small couch in the powder room and take a deep breath in.
I count to four and then release it slowly, counting to eight. I do this a few times. It’s something I started doing when I was in nursing school and knew I needed to develop practices for being calm while in the ER. I need to be able to think clearly, not panic, when someone comes in with a finger cut off or after a bad accident. But even though I’ve trained myself to stay calm in those situations, staying calm while interacting with Carter Steel still evades me.
And I don’t just need to be calm. I need my defenses to be bulletproof. I remind myself of why, exactly, I hate him so much:
He was my crush from middle school to high school.
We had one week together when we were twenty.
He texted me one measly time afterwards, and never responded to the messages I sent back. He completely and utterly cut me off despiteyearsof knowing one another, and then he acted like everything was fine the next time I saw him the summer after it all happened. He’s continued to act like nothing happened ever since. Not one fucking time has he brought it up or apologized or even acknowledged what that week was like.
Maybe it doesn’t sound that bad. We had sex a few times, went to dinner once or twice, and nothing came of it. This shit happens all the time. People ghost and give up on one another and move on to the next person. But I can locate the root of all of my trust issues in Carter Steel. And I’ll never forgive him for that.
2
CARTER
I’ma man who always knows what the right thing to do is. I’m dependable, insightful, wise.
But I never know how to handle Angela Burns.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I say under my breath. She’s fleeing the room, literally repulsed by my presence, and I watch as she goes. Her long blonde hair flowing behind her is the last thing to disappear beyond the doorway she rushes through.
I should be used to this feeling by now. I can count on one hand the number of times Angela has let me talk to her for more than five minutes in the last seven years. I’m plenty used to her fleeing my presence, avoiding me, and coming up with reasons not to speak to me no matter how our paths might intersect. One summer a few years ago, we went out to dinner with Jamie, Cat, and Hunter, and she sat across the table from me and still managed not to say more than “Hello” and “Goodbye” to me the entire time. And this was despite me trying my hardest to talk to her. But she’s the master of a well placed smirk or eye roll in lieu of a real response.
