Chapter 8: The Trailer, The Rain, The Railing
The rain hadn't stopped in three days.
It fell in sheets against the trailer's thin metal roof, a constant drumroll that had become the soundtrack to everything—sleep, sex, the quiet moments in between. The windows were fogged, streaked with condensation, and the little silver trailer creaked and groaned on its rusted wheels like it was thinking about giving up entirely.
Ben didn't blame it.
He was starting to feel the same way.
Not about Rachel. Never about Rachel. But about the situation. The cramped space. The damp wool smell that had soaked into everything. The way the lantern flickered at night and cast shadows that made the trailer feel even smaller than it was.
Three days.
Three days of fucking on every surface. The fold-down table that groaned under their weight. The narrow bunk that left no room for anything but tangled limbs and whispered filth. The tiny shower where they'd pressed against each other under a spray that never got quite hot enough, his hands braced against the fiberglass walls while she rode him slow and deliberate, water streaming down her back.
He'd lost count of how many times.
Didn't matter.
He wanted more.
Rachel was standing at the kitchen counter now, her back to him, staring out the tiny window at the cedars that loomed like silent sentinels beyond the glass. The trees were dark and wet, needles glistening with rain, and the sky behind them was the color of old pewter.
She was wearing his flannel shirt. Nothing else. The sleeves were too long and the hem hit her mid-thigh, and every time she moved, he caught a glimpse of the curve of her ass.
"You're staring," she said without turning around.
"You're worth staring at."
She laughed. Low and warm. "That's a line."
"It's the truth."
She turned then, leaning back against the counter, and looked at him. Her dark hair was a mess—tangled from sleep, from sex, from the kind of lazy morning that had stretched into afternoon without either of them noticing.
"I'm not ready to leave," she said.
The words hung in the air between them. Heavy. Honest.
Ben sat up on the bunk, the sleeping bag pooling around his waist. "Leave the trailer?"
"Leave the trailer. Leave the property. Leave—" She gestured vaguely at the window, at the rain, at everything beyond it. "This."
He didn't say anything. Just watched her.
"I know it's crazy," she said. "I have a life. A job. An apartment in Portland that's probably flooded by now. I have—" She stopped. Shook her head. "I have things I'm supposed to do."
"But?"
"But I don't want to do them."
She pushed off the counter and walked toward him. The flannel shirt swayed with each step, and he caught glimpses of her thighs, her hips, the dark triangle of hair between her legs.
She stopped at the edge of the bunk and looked down at him.
"I want to stay here," she said. "In this stupid trailer. With you."
Ben reached out and caught her hand. Pulled her down onto the bunk beside him. She landed with a soft oomph, and he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close.
"Then stay," he said.
"It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
She looked at him. Her eyes were dark and serious, and there was something vulnerable in them that she usually kept hidden.
"Because I don't know what this is," she said. "I don't know if this is just—" She gestured at the bunk, at the trailer walls, at the implication of everything they'd done in the last three days. "Or if it's something else."
Ben was quiet for a moment. The rain hammered on the roof. The trailer creaked. Somewhere outside, a branch snapped and fell.
"It's something else," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I've had just sex before. And this isn't it."
She studied his face. Looking for the lie. Looking for the thing that would prove he was just saying what she wanted to hear.
She didn't find it.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She kissed him. Soft and slow, her lips brushing against his, her hand coming up to cup his jaw.
When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. Not with tears. With something else. Something that looked like hope.
"I want you to fuck me," she said.
Ben raised an eyebrow. "Again?"
"Again."
"You're insatiable."
"You're complaining?"
"Never."
She stood up and peeled off the flannel shirt. It fell to the floor, a puddle of red and black plaid, and then she was naked in front of him. Curves and skin and the faint tan lines from a summer that had already faded into memory.
She turned around and bent over the kitchen counter.
Ben's mouth went dry.
The counter was small—barely big enough for the two-burner stove and a coffee mug—but Rachel made it work. She braced her hands on the edge and arched her back, presenting herself to him, and the sight of her—ass up, legs spread, already glistening wet—made his cock twitch.
"Like this," she said. "Just like this."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He climbed off the bunk and crossed the narrow space between them. His feet were bare on the cold linoleum, and the trailer swayed slightly with his weight, a gentle rocking that was almost like being on a boat.
He stood behind her. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. He ran his hands up her thighs, over the curve of her ass, and she shivered.
"You're cold," he said.
"I'm not."
"You're shaking."
"That's not from the cold."
He smiled. Then he positioned himself at her entrance—just the tip, just barely—and waited.
"Tell me what you want," he said.
"I want you to fuck me."
"How?"
"Hard."
"How hard?"
She looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes were dark and fierce, and her lips were parted, and she looked like she wanted to devour him.
"Hard enough that I can't think," she said. "Hard enough that I forget my own name. Hard enough that the neighbors three miles away hear me screaming."
Ben laughed. "We don't have neighbors."
"Then hard enough that the fucking trees hear me."
He pushed inside her.
She gasped—a sharp, sudden sound—and her hands clenched on the counter. He didn't give her time to adjust. He just pulled back and slammed into her, hard, and the trailer rocked on its blocks.
"Fuck," she said.
"Yeah."
He fucked her. Hard and fast and relentless, his hips slamming against her ass, the sound of skin on skin filling the tiny trailer. The counter groaned. The coffee mug rattled. Somewhere in the back, a stack of hiking guides slid off the table and hit the floor.
He didn't care.
All he cared about was her. The way she felt around him—tight and wet and impossibly hot. The way she pushed back against him, meeting each thrust. The way her breath came in short, sharp gasps that turned into moans that turned into something close to screams.
"You like that?" he said.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I like it."
"You like my cock inside you?"
"Yes."
"Tell me."
"I love your cock." She was panting now, her words coming in fragments. "I love the way you fuck me. I love—" She broke off as he hit a particular angle, and a sound like a sob escaped her throat.
"Don't stop," she said. "Don't you dare fucking stop."
He didn't.
He grabbed her hair with one hand—not hard, just enough to pull her head back—and used the other to grip her hip. He fucked her like he meant it, like he was trying to prove something, like the world was ending and this was the only thing that mattered.
The rain hammered on the roof. The trailer rocked. The lantern swayed on its hook, casting wild shadows on the walls.
"Ben," she gasped.
"Yeah?"
"I'm going to come."
"Not yet."
"I can't—"
"Not. Yet."
He slowed down. Not much. Just enough to keep her on the edge, to draw it out, to make her crazy.
She moaned in frustration. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
"Beg."
She didn't hesitate. "Please. Please let me come. I need it. I need you. Please, Ben, please—"
He slammed into her one last time, hard enough to make her whole body jolt, and then he reached around and found her clit with his fingers.
"Now," he said. "Come now."
She came.
It was violent. Her whole body convulsed, and she screamed—a real scream, loud enough to scare birds from the trees outside—and her cunt clenched around his cock like a fist. He kept fucking her through it, riding the wave, and when she finally went limp beneath him, he let himself go.
He came with a groan that was almost a roar, spilling into her in hot pulses. His knees buckled. His vision went white. And for a moment, he was nothing but sensation—heat and wet and the impossible tightness of her around him.
Then it was over.
He pulled out and collapsed onto the bunk, dragging her with him. She landed on top of him in a tangle of limbs, and neither of them moved for a long moment.
The rain kept falling.
The trailer kept swaying.
And somewhere in the distance, a loon called across the lake.
"Holy shit," Rachel said eventually.
"Yeah."
"I think I saw God."
"What did he look like?"
"Like your cock."
Ben laughed. "That's blasphemy."
"I'll take my chances."
She shifted, curling into his side, her head on his chest. Her hair was damp with sweat, and her skin was flushed, and she smelled like sex and rain and something sweet underneath.
"You know," she said, "I meant what I said."
"About what?"
"About not being ready to leave."
He ran his hand through her hair. Slow. Gentle.
"I know."
"So what do we do?"
He was quiet for a moment. Thinking. The rain kept falling, steady and relentless, and the trailer creaked on its wheels.
"We figure it out," he said.
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She propped herself up on his chest and looked at him. Her eyes were softer now—post-orgasm soft, vulnerability soft—and there was something in them that made his chest ache.
"I don't want to be a vacation," she said. "I don't want to be a thing that happened in a trailer during a rainstorm. I want—"
She stopped.
"You want what?"
She bit her lip. Looked away. Looked back.
"I want to be real," she said. "I want us to be real."
Ben cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs traced her cheekbones, her jaw.
"We're real," he said.
"How do you know?"
"Because I've had fake before. And this isn't it."
She searched his face. Looking for the lie. Again.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She kissed him. Then she settled back against his chest, her ear over his heart, and he held her close.
They lay there for a long time. The rain kept falling. The trailer kept swaying. And Ben closed his eyes and let himself feel it—the weight of her against him, the warmth of her skin, the steady rhythm of her breath.
He didn't know what came next. Didn't know if they'd figure it out or fuck it up or something in between. But for now, in this moment, in this cramped metal box in the middle of the Canadian wilderness, he had this.
And this was everything.
"Hey," Rachel said after a while.
"Yeah?"
"I'm hungry."
"You just ate."
"Not that kind of hungry. Food hungry."
He laughed. "There's beans. And crackers. And maybe some peanut butter."
"That sounds terrible."
"It's what we've got."
She sighed. "Fine. But you're cooking."
He kissed the top of her head. "Deal."
She got up and pulled on the flannel shirt again. Then she opened the trailer door and stood in the doorway, looking out at the rain.
"It's still coming down," she said.
"Yeah."
"I like it."
"The rain?"
"No. This. All of it." She turned to look at him. Her hair was a mess, and her cheeks were still flushed, and she was wearing his shirt and nothing else.
"I like being here," she said. "With you."
Ben sat up. The sleeping bag fell away, and he didn't bother to cover himself.
"Then stay," he said. "For now. For as long as you want."
She smiled. Slow and warm.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She turned back to the window and watched the rain fall, and Ben watched her—the curve of her spine, the line of her legs, the way the flannel shirt hung off her shoulder—and he thought about how strange it was.
Three days ago, he'd walked into the greenhouse with her.
Now he couldn't imagine waking up without her.
The rain fell.
The trailer creaked.
And somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled like a promise.
The thunder rolled and faded, and Rachel stood in the doorway for another minute before she pulled the door shut and turned back to face him.
The trailer felt smaller with the door closed. The lantern flickered. The rain kept drumming on the roof like it had nowhere else to be.
"I'm serious about the food," she said.
"I know you are."
"So feed me."
Ben got up and pulled on his jeans. They were the same jeans he'd been wearing for three days, and they smelled like smoke and sweat and the particular musk of a woman who'd been riding him in a cramped shower.
He didn't care.
He opened the tiny cabinet above the two-burner stove and assessed the damage. One can of beans. Half a sleeve of crackers. A jar of peanut butter that had seen better days. A box of instant oatmeal that Anna had left behind for emergencies.
"Beans and crackers," he said.
"That's not a meal."
"It's what we've got."
Rachel leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. The flannel shirt hung open, and he could see the curve of her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach.
"We could go to the cabin," she said. "See if Anna and Jordan have anything."
Ben looked at her. "You want to walk through the rain to beg for food?"
"I want to walk through the rain to eat something that isn't beans from a can."
"It's a ten-minute walk."
"So?"
"So you're naked under that shirt."
She smiled. "I'll put on pants."
"You don't have any pants. You've been wearing my shirt for three days."
"I have shorts in my bag."
"Then put them on."
She didn't move. Just stood there, leaning against the counter, looking at him with that sharp-edged smile.
"Come with me," she said.
"To the cabin?"
"To the cabin. For dinner. To see actual human beings who aren't each other."
Ben considered this. The rain hadn't stopped in three days. They'd barely left the trailer except to piss in the woods and once—just once—to stand on the little porch and breathe air that didn't smell like sex and damp wool.
"Fine," he said. "But you're wearing pants."
She pulled on a pair of cut-off shorts that had been stuffed in her bag since the wedding. They were denim and faded and showed off her legs in a way that made Ben want to drag her back to the bunk.
He didn't.
He pulled on a shirt and his boots, and they stepped out into the rain.
The walk to the cabin took longer than ten minutes because the path was muddy and slick and Rachel kept stopping to look at things. A mushroom growing on a fallen log. A spiderweb beaded with water. A cedar tree so tall it disappeared into the low-hanging clouds.
"This place is incredible," she said.
"It's a forest."
"It's more than a forest."
She was right. Ben had been to forests. This was something else. The cedars loomed like silent sentinels, their needles glistening with rain, and the ground was soft with moss and pine needles and the particular spongy decay of things that had fallen and were slowly returning to the earth.
The cabin appeared through the trees like something out of a dream—golden light spilling from the windows, smoke curling from the chimney, the smell of woodsmoke and something cooking drifting through the rain.
Rachel stopped.
"What?" Ben said.
"It's beautiful."
"It's a cabin."
"It's a home."
He looked at her. She was staring at the cabin like it was the answer to a question she hadn't known she was asking.
"Come on," he said. "I'm hungry."
They climbed the porch steps, and Ben knocked on the door. It opened a moment later, and Jordan stood there with a dish towel over his shoulder and a wooden spoon in his hand.
"You're alive," he said.
"Mostly."
"We thought you'd drowned in the trailer."
"We thought about it."
Jordan laughed and stepped aside. "Get in here. You're soaked."
They stepped inside, and the warmth hit Ben like a wall. The string lights were on, and the hearth was crackling, and the whole cabin smelled like garlic and onions and something roasting in the oven.
Anna was at the stove, stirring a pot. She turned when they came in, and her face split into a grin.
"Rachel!"
"Hey, you."
They hugged, and Ben watched Anna's eyes flick over Rachel's shoulder to him—assessing, curious, maybe a little smug.
"Good to see you too," he said.
"I bet it is."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
She turned back to the stove, and Jordan handed Ben a beer. It was cold—actually cold, from the little propane fridge they'd installed—and Ben took a long pull and felt something loosen in his chest.
"Venison stew," Jordan said. "Shot it last week."
"You hunt now?"
"I've always hunted. You just never asked."
Ben took another sip of beer. "I'm learning all kinds of things about you."
They sat down at the long pine table—the same table Jordan had built from the trees they'd felled—and ate stew and fresh bread and a salad made from greens Anna had grown in the greenhouse.
It was the best meal Ben had eaten in months.
"So," Anna said, halfway through. "How's the trailer?"
"Cozy," Rachel said.
"That's one word for it."
"What's another word?"
"Small."
Ben laughed. "It's not that small."
"It's a tin can."
"It's a home."
Anna raised an eyebrow. "You're defending it."
"I'm stating facts."
"There's something wrong with you."
"I know."
Jordan passed the bread. "You two seem—" He paused. "Good."
Rachel looked at Ben. Ben looked at Rachel.
"We are," Rachel said.
"Good."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. The fire crackled. The rain kept falling outside, softer now, more like a whisper than a drum.
"So what's the plan?" Jordan said eventually.
"What do you mean?"
"You've been in the trailer for three days. You've got jobs. Lives. Apartments. What's the plan?"
Rachel set down her fork. Looked at Ben. Looked at Anna. Looked at Jordan.
"We're figuring it out," she said.
"That's not a plan."
"It's the start of one."
Jordan leaned back in his chair. The string lights cast soft shadows on his face, and his eyes were thoughtful.
"You could stay," he said.
"Stay where?"
"Here. On the land. There's plenty of room."
Rachel's fork clinked against her plate. "You're serious?"
"Why not? We've got thirty acres. The trailer's already here. You could build something. A cabin. Whatever you want."
Ben felt something shift in his chest. Something that felt like possibility.
"A cabin," he repeated.
"A small one. Nothing fancy. Just—" Jordan gestured vaguely at the room around them. "A place."
"You built this with your own hands," Rachel said.
"Mostly."
"Could we do that?"
Jordan looked at her. Then he looked at Ben.
"You've got two hands, don't you?"
"I don't know how to build anything."
"You'll learn."
Rachel was quiet for a moment. Then she looked at Ben, and there was something in her eyes that he hadn't seen before. Something that looked like hope.
"What do you think?" she said.
He thought about Portland. He thought about his apartment—the one-bedroom with the leaky faucet and the neighbor who played music too loud. He thought about his job—the job he'd been meaning to quit for a year.
He thought about waking up next to Rachel every morning. For real. Not in a trailer. Not during a rainstorm. Not as a thing that happened.
Just as a life.
"I think," he said slowly, "that we'd need wood."
Jordan smiled. "There's plenty of trees."
"We'd need money."
"Anna's got a freelance gig that pays. You'd need something."
"I can work."
"Doing what?"
"I don't know. Something."
"Do you know anything about construction?"
"No."
"Then you'll learn. That's what I did."
Rachel reached over and took Ben's hand. Her fingers were warm, and her grip was steady.
"Can we do this?" she said.
"I don't know."
"It's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got."
She squeezed his hand. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. Let's do it. Let's build a cabin."
Ben stared at her. "You just said you had a job. An apartment. A life."
"I said I had those things. I didn't say I wanted them."
"What about Portland?"
"What about it?"
He didn't have an answer.
Jordan stood up and cleared the plates. "You can stay in the trailer while you build," he said. "It's there. It's paid for. Use it."
"We can't—"
"You can. We want you to."
Anna nodded. "We haven't had anyone stay this long since we moved in. It's nice. Having neighbors."
Rachel looked at Ben. Her eyes were bright. Her smile was small but real.
"Neighbors," she said.
"Yeah."
"I like the sound of that."
After dinner, they moved to the living room. Jordan built up the fire, and Anna poured whiskey into mason jars, and they sat in the mismatched pine chairs and talked about the future.
Where they would build. How much it would cost. What kind of wood they'd use. Whether the greenhouse could be expanded to support two families.
"You'd want a greenhouse?" Rachel said.
"Absolutely. Fresh greens year-round. You can't beat it."
"I don't know anything about gardening."
"I'll teach you."
"And I'll teach you how to build," Jordan said to Ben.
"What if I'm a terrible student?"
"Then you'll be a terrible student who knows how to build."
Ben laughed. The whiskey was warm in his chest, and the fire was warm on his face, and the company was warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
"Where would we build?" he asked.
Jordan pointed out the window. "There's a clearing about an acre past the greenhouse. Good light. Good drainage. Close enough to share the well, far enough for privacy."
"How far is far enough?"
"Far enough that we can't hear you fucking."
Rachel choked on her whiskey.
"What?" Jordan said. "You think we didn't notice you spent three days in that trailer?"
"We didn't—"
"You did."
Anna was laughing. "Oh my God, your face."
Rachel's cheeks were red. "Shut up."
"It's fine. It's natural. New relationship energy."
"We're not—"
"You are."
Ben put an arm around Rachel's shoulders and pulled her close. She resisted for a moment, then relaxed against him.
"So what if we are," he said.
Jordan raised his glass. "To new relationships."
Anna raised hers. "And new cabins."
Rachel raised hers, sighing. "And new beginnings."
Ben raised his glass last. "And to friends who don't judge."
He looked at Jordan. Jordan grinned.
"I'll always judge you," he said. "But I'll let you build a house anyway."
They drank.
The rain kept falling. The fire kept burning. And somewhere in the distance, the trees kept watch.
Later, when the whiskey was gone and the fire had burned low, Ben and Rachel said their goodbyes.
"You sure you want to walk back in the rain?" Anna said.
"We've got rain jackets."
"It's a long walk."
"We'll manage."
They stepped onto the porch, and the cold air hit them like a slap. The rain had softened to a mist, and the clouds were thinning, and somewhere behind them the stars were trying to break through.
"I can't believe we're doing this," Rachel said.
"Me neither."
She looked at him. "You're not freaking out?"
"I'm absolutely freaking out."
"You don't seem like it."
"I'm good at hiding it."
She laughed. Then she took his hand, and they walked down the porch steps and into the trees.
The path was dark, lit only by the flashlight on Ben's phone. The cedars loomed on either side, dripping with rain, and the ground squelched under their boots.
"Hey," Rachel said.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad we stayed."
"Me too."
"We're going to build a house."
"We are."
"It's going to be terrible."
"Probably."
"And we're going to do it anyway."
He stopped walking. Turned to face her. The phone light illuminated her face—damp hair, flushed cheeks, eyes that were bright in the darkness.
"Together," he said.
She smiled. "Together."
They walked the rest of the way in silence, and when they got back to the trailer, they didn't bother with the lights. They just stripped off their wet clothes and fell into the bunk, and Ben pulled her close and listened to the rain fade and the thunder disappear.
And somewhere in the distance, the trees kept growing.