Page 23 of I Will Always Love You (Maybe)

“Hey,” she says, glancing up at me and resting the hook and ball of yarn in her lap. There’s a look on her face, one that I can’t totally decode, but the energy is different. Not really dark, per se. But not as bright as before. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, that was my cousin Leo,” I say, tugging a blanket up and over my hips. “You met him, sort of, at the clinic. I just wanted him to know I was safe, but wouldn’t be able to make it into work until the storm eases up.”

And just like that, the energy in the room lightens. “Ah… That guy at reception was your cousin?”

“Yeah. He’s the one that got me the job. And thankfully, for the most part, we get along. Otherwise, it would be so awkward at Thanksgiving, you know?” I grin. “He said the clinic is closed today because of the storm, and they don’t know when they’re going to open back up.”

“I guess that’s good for you, so you don’t have to find someone to cover your shifts, huh?”

I nod as Colby picks back up the yarn. She wraps the yarn around a finger, puts a hook into it, and tugs it into a knot. “You like crocheting?” I ask, jutting my chin to the blanket. “I always thought I’d like to do that, but the couple times I tried, I lost patience.”

A soft grin passes on her face. “We’ve got nothing but time. Want to try now?”

Another quiet activity. I don’t know if I can do it. My body and brain feel the burning need to run. I’m tempted to see if Colby has a treadmill or row machine or something in one of the rooms. But that really feels imposing to start using her workout equipment along with her extra toothbrush and clothes, and the very last thing I want to do is overstay my already fragile welcome.

Colby lifts herself from the chair and drags a large wicker basket in front of me. “Here,” she says and opens the top. “Go ahead and pick a color.”

Whoa. Inside the bin are dozens and dozens of all different colors and sizes of yarn. My fingers run over the fabric, some thick and heavy, some butter soft, others with frays, and a couple with sparkles which surprise me. Nothing about Colby screams sparkles. “Jesus. You really are prepped for the apocalypse, aren’t you?”

“You want to know a secret?” Colby says, sinking back into the couch by me.

“Absolutely.”

“Years ago, right after I turned twenty-one, I auditioned to be on the show Survivor.”

My mouth drops open. “Stop!” I laugh. “Are you serious? I love that show. What happened?”

Colby shrugs and returns to looping her hook into the blanket. “I actually made it through the online application, went to the casting call, even had an interview. But I was cut as a possible contender pretty early on.”

“Isn’t there part of you that’s relieved?” I ask as I pull out a soft blue skein of yarn. “All those bugs, and wild animals, and no freaking food. And no Wi-Fi? How are you gonna watch any Reels, or stream shows? That sounds pretty terrible, actually.”

This elicits a solid giggle from Colby. “It does sound kind of awful when you put it like that. But I think deep down, there’s a cavewoman in there that needs to be let out every once in a while. I’ve always had this sort of survivalist mentality. I think that’s partly why I love being out here so much. In nature, chopping my own wood, those kinds of things.”

A quick flash of Colby chopping wood stirs my insides, but I push that voice down, as low as it will go, and instead nod my head toward the rack in the corner holding several shotguns. “I did notice the shotguns the first day I was here.”

“Those… Yeah. For protection, mostly. I don’t hunt,” she says. “But I also don’t want to be hunted, if you know what I mean. By a human or an animal.”

This, I can definitely understand. I love animals and humans. But it doesn’t mean we’re safe from either one of them. After a bit, Colby shows me the basics of crocheting. She’s patient, demonstrating on her hand how to do a single stitch, guiding me through how to work in a slipknot, talking to me about how to pinch the yarn so it doesn’t slip off the hook and unravel. When I try a stupid amount of times to do my first stitch, everything in me heats with irritation. She scoots right up next to me, and that lavender sage scent seems to disarm me almost immediately.

“Here, like this,” she says, over and over, coaxing me, encouraging me, never leaving my side.

For the next few hours, the wind fluctuates against brutalizing the windows, to settling down, and Colby and I slip into a comfortable silence. She makes us grilled cheese sandwiches and the stew from last night for lunch; after a few swear words, and one minor meltdown where I say that crocheting is not for me, I master my first few rows on a scarf.

The news plays in the background, mentioning that the storm should ease by tomorrow, and road crews will be hard at work to catch up. Images of plows barely keeping up with what’s coming down, warnings to stay sheltered in place and leave the roads open for emergency vehicles only, and segments on indoor family activities fill the next hour.

“What will the clinic do if you’re stuck here when they open up?” Colby says, handing me a glass of water and some orange slices that I never asked for.

I can’t help but smile at the food. Even though I’m not hungry, it’s nice. It’s been so many years since I felt like anyone was taking care of me. Not that Colby’s taking care of me. She’s more hospitable than anything, but she’s thinking about me, and there is something warm and fuzzy knowing that I’m in a person’s thoughts.

“There are enough local staff that can hopefully cover if I can’t make it in. But with the weather and limited staff, I think they’ll reschedule the wellness exams and vaccinations and just stay open for more emergency and urgent care type of appointments.” I tug on a long piece of thread and wrap it around my finger. “What about you? I know you work from home, but I actually don’t know what you do for a living.”

Colby looks down at the yarn and chews on the side of her lip. “Oh, nothing fancy like you, with saving animals’ lives and all.”

Am I being paranoid? Yes, we’re crocheting, but it really feels like she’s avoiding my gaze. “Oh… are you in the CIA?”

She chuckles and only peeks at me for a brief second. “Well, I wouldn’t be a very good operative if I said yes, now would I?”

And then, nothing. No follow-up, no offer for additional information, literally nothing. Um… What’s happening here? She doesn’t say anything for the longest time, and each second that ticks by, the air is being siphoned from the room.