Page 42 of Liberated By the Logger

Her apartment is temporary at best—a very short temporary, if I have it my way. Sure, her commute to in-person classes will be longer. Although Aspen said for her last year of doctoral studies, her in-person lessons are not as frequent, with most of her learning done in the forest near my place. It’s a point in my favor.

Pleading my case, I mention her commute will be shorter to her field studies living with me at least half a dozen times while driving into town. Aspen nods, deep in thought as she stares out the windshield of my pickup truck.

A minor consolation of driving Aspen to her apartment is me learning where she’s living, if not with me. With the roads into the Rocky Mountain National Park still needing clearing from fallen trees and debris from the storm, I can’t take Aspen to her car she left behind from when she drove into the mountains yesterday. She doesn’t seem overly concerned with me knowing where she lives—I assume that’s a good sign. If she plans on remaining in her apartment, I hope she’s ready to have company. I plan on being with her every chance I can get until I’ve convinced her to move in with me. Either way, we’ll be together. It’s the one bright spot in this whole agonizing scenario I find myself in.

Aspen mentioned her apartment was in the middle of an old, overcrowded building, where the walls are tissue paper thin and the college kids are up all hours of the night. Sensing an opportunity, I barter with her, promising to get high-speed internet and turn one of the upstairs rooms into an office for her to have a quiet place to write her dissertation, anything to sweeten the deal for her to choose to live with me.

She’s quiet, contemplative. I do not know if that is a good thing or a bad thing. There’s still much I need to learn about my woman, though I hope her silence means she’s thoroughly considering my offer.

Ugh! The not knowing is making me paranoid. What if once I drop her off, she ices me out? What if my only shot at closing this deal is right now in my truck?

It’s pretty hard to negotiate with a woman who isn’t engaging in conversation.

Frustrated, I run a hand over my face and try to calm down. Losing my cool will do me no favors.

“My apartment is over here on the right,” she says, finally speaking and not the words I want to hear at all.

I pull my pickup along the curb next to a worn-down, blah-looking, brick building—typical off-campus apartment complexes. I scrutinize the area, looking for any flaws I can use to make my home look more appealing to her.

The area is safe enough, I guess, but it’s still a fair walk to campus. Either way, she would need to drive her car or take public transportation to where her science classes are located. There’s a popular college bar across the street, sure to bring drunks around to her area and not helping reduce the noise issues she already faces with the building residents. A bank is further down the block and many other cookie-cutter apartment buildings. Her building is bookend by a fast-food restaurant and a U-Haul store. It’s constant traffic and constant noise—not suitable for my nature-loving woman.

I’m about to point this all out when Aspen curses. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Alert, I turn to face her. “Is something wrong?”

Ignoring my question, Aspen jumps out of my truck, stalking up the sidewalk.

What the hell? She didn’t wait for me to open her door, busting out like she was going to war. I jump out my side of the truck, speed walking to catch up to her.

“Aspen, darlin’, wait up.”

“You have a lot of damn nerve.”

I nearly halt my walking, completely caught off guard by her hostile tone. It’s not the first time I’ve heard her speak like this, but this time I did nothing to trigger her aggression. Is she talking to me?

My mind spirals, immediately thinking the worst. Maybe I could have laid off persuading her to move in instead of bringing it up every five seconds. Perhaps she’s overwhelmed. I’m an ass for pressuring her. I want to beat my head against her building for driving her away.

“You can take your yurt and shove it.”

Excuse me? My what now?

There’s only one yurt squatter I’m familiar with, and it sure as fuck is not me.

My eyes look ahead to where my woman is stomping toward, seeing Gary hanging out by the corner of her apartment complex, looking like a lost puppy and like he was waiting for her to arrive.

Aw, hell naw! If this shit-stain thinks he can weasel his way into my woman’s good graces again, he can think again.

Bee-lining for the pissant, Aspen reaches him first.

“Go away, Gary. I don’t want you near me again.”

Gary tries reaching for her, but Aspen smacks his hand away. Instead of taking the hint to get lost, Gary pushes into her bubble.

“I fucked up, Aspen,” Gary says, starting with the excuse right off the bat instead of taking accountability for his actions like a decent man. “I smoked waaay too much weed and couldn’t think straight.”

“Being high is not an excuse, Gary. Loads of people do it without making dangerous choices. You put me—me, your girlfriend—in danger, all because you wanted to play hero to some stupid dead trees.”

Gary winces. “I’m sorry. I tried to make it right as soon as I sobered in the hospital. It’s not my fault those nurses and doctors weren’t taking me seriously.”