“This stupid thing is broken.”
I turn in time to see her toss a Rubik's Cube away from her lap. That’s when I notice she has a stack of books to her right and playing cards laid out in a game of solitaire. She’s been busy since I left.
“What?” she snaps, an angry glint in her eyes.
“You’ve read them all.”
She eyes the books then huffs out a breath. “No. I read a few pages of each. I think I’m more of a movie person. I tried to play solitaire but forgot exactly how to play. And that stupid Rubik’s Cube is rigged. I’m so bored and going stir crazy, and my hair is driving me nuts!”
Do all women swing from subject to subject like this?
“It’s not broken or rigged.” I cross to the discarded toy. I twist, turn, and flip the square colors, back, forth, and done. “There.” I hand her the completed cube, all six colors on their appropriate side.
Her jaw hangs open, and she takes it from me.
“What’s wrong with your hair?” The chestnut-colored locks hang beyond her shoulders and down her back. She’s been wearing one of my knit caps these last few days. To keep warm, I figure.
She inspects the Rubik’s Cube. “How did you do that?”
I shrug because I honestly don’t know. I was given the toy for my birthday when I lived in a group home, and after working with it for a few hours, the solution became easy. I remember being frustrated that no one else saw the cube’s solution like I did. That was around the time I started to hear words like social disorder, speech delay, and superior IQ.
“Wow, well…” She blows out a breath. “Call me impressed.”
My jaw tenses. I hate repeating myself. “Your hair?”
She picks at the tendrils on her chest. “It’s dirty and itchy, and I can’t pull it up.” She makes to move the arm on her bad side and lift it above her head, then hisses and groans in pain. “See?”
“Cut it off.”
Those gray eyes of hers widen. “What? No! It took me years and a lot of deep conditioning treatments to get it this long.”
I grunt and unable to help I turn back to the kitchen.
“Can I ask you a question?”
I almost laugh. Like my answer matters? We both know she’s going to ask anyway.
“What’s the plan?” Her quick inhale tells me she’s getting to her feet.
My muscles tense as I sense her moving closer.
“To get me home.”
I place an empty pot on the table and reach for a jug of water.
“Are you waiting until I’m healed and the weather clears? And then you’ll point me in the right direction and send me on my way?” She’s right at my side now, so close I can feel the heat coming off her body.
I shift to put a few inches between us. “You’d never find your way alone.”
“Okay, so you plan to come with me.”
I grunt and reach for the tin of brown rice.
“Do you have a map?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect!” I sense more than see her search the surrounding space for it. “Let’s bust it out. I’ll feel better knowing where I am… ya know, get my bearings.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” There’s a flicker of irritation in her voice.
I tap my temple. “It’s in here.”
“Your map is in your head?”
I nod once and scoop a dried spice and herb mixture into the pot.
“Great,” she mumbles sarcastically, and grabs a mason jar. “And you’re sure you can get me out of here? With your mind map?”
I don’t answer because it’s a stupid question. And one I feel I’ve already answered.
“How long will it take us to hike out of here?”
“Roughly thirteen hours and three minutes.” I leave her near the table to place the pot on the woodstove.
“Roughly?” She laughs, the sound catching me by surprise.
Did I say something funny?
I place the lid on the pot and nod. “Naismith’s Rule says less. I factored in time for the two-thousand-foot vertical gain, the rough terrain, a slower pace because of your injuries, and less than ideal skill and fitness—”
“That’s rude,” she mumbles.
“—coupled with a regular pack weight, I added a fifty-five percent adjustment to the rule. Once you’re healed enough to make the hike without assistance, weather permitting, we’ll go.”
I bring my lure box to the table and pour myself a cup of water. I down it in one gulp, return my cup to the shelf, and settle into my chair. I get as far as opening the box and arranging my latest project in front of me when I realize the woman has gone silent.
She hasn’t moved. She just stares at me, the mason jar in her hand held in mid-air and her lips slightly parted.
I force myself to hold her gaze, waiting for her to say something. Do something. I tilt my head. “Are you sick?”
She blinks rapidly and snaps out of her catatonic state. “No. Just a little surprised.”
People always seem surprised when they discover I have a fully operational brain. In a world where a person’s value is determined by how socially popular they are—every socialite in Manhattan living proof of that—I’m always cast aside by quick assumptions. My own father thought me trash until he heard the words “genius IQ.” I guess it’s easier to ignore the social and anger disorders once it’s determined that I think on a higher level than most.
People are so weird.
No matter how hard I’ve tried, I fall short in understanding them. So I’ve quit trying.
Nine
Jordan
Two days and the snow kept us mostly prisoners inside the cabin. Other than the occasional trip to the outhouse, I’ve been planted on my ass by the fire going between reading books, sleeping, and staring blindly at the ceiling. Grizzly did take pity on me and gave me a needle and thread to repair the rip in my jacket. He also reminded me how to play solitaire after asking him a zillion times, and he has let me help with making the meals, but most of my day is spent alone in my head thinking.
I always imagined that if I had the time to sit and think for days, I would come up with some revolutionary invention or have a life-changing epiphany. Instead, I wonder things like, if life is unfair to everyone, doesn’t that make life fair? And since tomatoes are a fruit, then wouldn’t that make ketchup jelly? And furthermore, if an avocado has a seed, that makes it a fruit, so would guacamole with tomatoes be a fruit salad? What language do deaf people think in? Do blind people see in their dreams? Isn’t milking a cow the same as juicing a cow? How gross that we drink animal juice.
Maybe I should become a vegan.
I stare at Grizzly’s back as he sits at the table constructing his lures. What I first assumed was a hobby, maybe even an artistic distraction, I’ve now come to learn is more of an obsessive task. He can’t sit still unless his hands and mind stay active.
“Can you teach me how to make one?”
I’ve become so used to his back and all the subtle responses that I swear I could pick his shoulders out of a lineup. The muscled curves under his fitted thermal rise to his ears. I roll my eyes. He hates my questions, I get it, but he’s going to have to get over it.