Chapter 11: The Cabin Arrives
The kiss broke. Susanna’s lips tingled, numb. Lisa’s breath was warm against her cheek, smelling of spearmint gum and the tinny red wine they’d shared in the car.
“See?” Lisa whispered, not pulling back. Her hands framed Susanna’s face. “Perfect.”
The kerosene lamp on the rough-hewn table guttered, throwing jumpy shadows that made the wallpaper seem to crawl. The pattern was faded roses, choked by brown water stains. The air was a solid thing, cold and thick with the smell of wet earth, mildew, and beneath it, the sharp, clean scent of pine—but it was a trapping scent, not a freeing one. It pressed in from the single window, black and starless now.
Susanna forced her eyes to focus beyond Lisa’s shoulder. One room. A stone fireplace filled with old ash. A wrought-iron bedstead, the mattress bare but for a faded quilt folded at the foot. A chipped enamel sink, a pump handle instead of a faucet. No wires. No smooth rectangle on the wall where a phone might live. Just logs, and nails, and the immense, listening silence of the woods.
“It’s cold,” Susanna said. Her voice was small, swallowed by the room.
“We’ll fix that.” Lisa finally released her, turning with a dancer’s energy. She went to the duffel bag she’d dropped by the door, unzipping it with a sound like a gasp. She pulled out a bundle of newspapers and logs from the back seat, already prepared. “You get the bed ready. Sheets are in the blue bag.”
Susanna moved to the bed, her body obeying on a delay. The blue canvas bag yielded flannel sheets, worn soft. She shook one out over the thin mattress, the action mundane and surreal. Each rustle of fabric was deafening. She could feel Lisa’s attention on her back, a physical heat, as Lisa crumbled newspaper and arranged kindling in the hearth.
The match struck with a crisp snap. A tiny, hopeful flame caught, licking at the newsprint. Lisa knelt, feeding it slowly, her profile sharp and intent in the growing firelight. The orange glow painted her cheekbones, hollowed her eyes. She looked like a storybook witch, conjuring.
“Come feel,” she said, not turning.
Susanna finished tucking the last corner and went to the hearth. The heat was immediate, a slap of dryness on her skin. She held out her hands, the bracelet catching the light. The silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of pine sap and the hungry sound of the fire taking hold.
Lisa leaned back on her heels, wiping her hands on her jeans. She looked up at Susanna, a slow smile spreading. “Told you. Cozy.”
“It’s a long way from the city,” Susanna offered. It was a neutral thing to say. A fact.
“That’s the point, silly.” Lisa stood, brushing past her to retrieve the wine bottle from the table. She took a long, direct swallow from the neck, her throat working. She held it out. “Loosen up. We’re on vacation.”
Susanna took the bottle. The glass was warm from Lisa’s hand. She drank. The wine was cheap and sour, but it was a task, a thing to do. She handed it back.
“Remember that place we stayed in after we first met?” Lisa said, drifting to the window, peering out into the absolute dark. “That motel with the vibrating bed? You laughed so hard you choked.”
“I remember.” Susanna’s stomach clenched. That memory was gauzy, soft at the edges. A different Lisa, or perhaps the same one seen through a different, broken lens.
“This is better,” Lisa stated, as if settling an argument. “This is real. No buzzing, no people through the walls. Just us.” She turned, her expression open, almost pleading. “We can be us here. Without all the… static.”
Static. That’s what she called it. The arguments. The slammed doors. The silent treatments that felt like vacuums. The sound of pages burning in the sink.
“Yeah,” Susanna breathed. The fire popped, sending a ember skittering onto the stone hearth. She watched it die.
Lisa was beside her again, fingers tracing the line of her jaw. “You’re so quiet. Thinking too much. Always thinking.” Her thumb brushed Susanna’s lower lip. “What’s in that pretty head?”
Escape routes. The mileage back to the highway. The weight of the fire poker next to the hearth. The way the lock on the door looked thick, and old, and very solid.
“The story I’m trying to write,” Susanna lied smoothly. “The one about the lighthouse keeper.”
Lisa’s eyes glittered. She loved this, the idea of being Susanna’s muse, the sole audience for her creations. “You can work on it tomorrow. At the little table. I’ll sit by the lake. Give you space.” The promise was seductive, and Susanna knew it was currency, to be spent or revoked on a whim.
“Okay.”
“Good.” Lisa kissed her again, softer this time. Then she pulled back, her gaze drifting over Susanna’s shoulder toward the bed. “It’s getting warm in here.”
She stepped away and began to unbutton her shirt, her movements deliberate. The firelight played over her skin. Susanna watched, a familiar dread and fascination coiling in her gut. This was the ritual. The shift from curator to claimer.
“Come on,” Lisa said, her voice dropping to that intimate, rough register that bypassed thought. “Let’s not waste the fire.”
Susanna’s fingers went to the button of her jeans. They felt stiff. As she stepped out of them, her eyes swept the room once more, a frantic inventory. The single door. The one window. The duffel bag, where she’d seen Lisa pack the car keys—into a side pocket, she was sure of it. The wine bottle, half-empty. The lamplight, and the dark, and the deep woods holding their breath outside.
Lisa held out a hand. Her smile was all teeth and shadow.
Susanna took it. The fire roared, filling the room with a false, trembling daylight, as she was led to the bed that was no escape at all.