I gingerly tear the page from the book; Nathan is out on the lake, fishing. I heard him motor out early this morning, and he’s been on the far side of the lake ever since. I wedge the painting in his door, between door and doorpost.

I wouldn’t say I’m alive, yet. But…maybe, just maybe, I’m feeling the first glimmers of renewal. Like a seed germinating deep in the thick black wet soil.

I’m not okay. I’m very, very far from anything like okay. I think about Adrian just about once every other breath. I still wake up in the middle of the night and reach for him and tear up and clutch my pillow and scream into it when he’s not there.

But…I laughed, last night. I painted, today.

It’s improvement, if infinitesimal. But still, better is better.

One Little Thing At A Time

I haven’t seen Nadia for days. I wake up early, and she sleeps in. But we have a system—I make her coffee and put it in my old hunting thermos and leave it on her porch. She returns it sometime later in the morning. I made her an easel and got her some watercolor stuff, and now she’s out there most of the day, painting. On the dock, in the yard, under the trees, facing the cabins. She left me one, the first one she did, as a kind of thank-you. It’s good. Like me and guitar, I’d say don’t quit your day job, but it’s damn good.

It’s hard to read Adrian’s story. I put it off, sometimes for days at a time.

More from the heroine’s POV:

Sometimes, I wish he would just…push a little. Nudge me out of my shell. Because as much as I like it in my shell, and as much as I’d get a little spiky and snotty if he DID nudge, part of me wants to be drawn out of myself. I think he’s afraid of hurting me. Of scaring me. Of getting too close too fast even for his own liking.

Just a little, at first, I’d tell him, if he asked. A walk, maybe. Take me fishing, because while it’s boring as hell, it’s something different, something to do besides try and pretend I’m cool, I’m fine, this is fine. I dunno. I just know he’s there and I’m here, and we keep sort of slipping off of each other, not quite connecting, because my hurt is deep and my shell is thick, and so is his. I think we’re also like two soap bubbles floating through the air, bouncing off each other, connecting for a moment, separating.

I read a bit more, another chapter, but I keep thinking about that part. Don’t push, just nudge a little.

All right. Let’s give it a whirl. I’m bored and lonely again, and I’d like to talk to her.