Page 29

tempt the lightning and the thunder

Ayla

I park the Navigator and walk out toward the street to my dad who stands, hands on hips, face hard with anger.

“Why haven’t you called?”

“Nice to see you, too, Dad. I’m well. You?”

“Ayla, I asked you a question.”

I want to say So did I, but I resist. “I’ve talked to Mom. You haven’t been home during those conversations.”

“Me.” He stabs a meaty finger into his chest as he leans forward in an intimidating gesture. “You haven’t called me.”

“You’re here now. Let’s talk. Want to come in?”

“No.” The word shoots out like a nail from an air hammer. “I do not want to go in. I want to know why my only daughter hasn’t thought to check on her father after that spectacle last Friday night.”

“You obviously have something to say, Dad. If you don’t want to go where it’s warm, spit it out. It’s cold, and there’s no reason for me to be standing here when it’s comfortable inside.”

He rears back as if I’ve slapped him. “He’s gotten to you, hasn’t he? Turned you against me. I thought you were smarter than that.”

“Now that you’ve refused to tell me what’s wrong and insulted me, I’m going to go.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder back toward the house. “If you want to have a polite conversation, try not barking at me or, here’s a novel thought, asking me how I am.”

I stalk back toward the garage as he screams, “He’s using you. He’s hurting you, and you don’t even see it. Don’t come crawling back when you see through his lies.”

I don’t acknowledge his rant, grab my purse from the passenger seat, and drop the garage door on the red-faced man screaming at the street.

Dumping all my crap in the mudroom, I head to the kitchen and grab a glass of water.

Christian exits his office and props a hip on the kitchen island, studying me. “You’re glowing and gorgeous, but your shoulders are climbing your neck like they’re trying to warm your ears. What happened?”

“My dad happened.” I chug back the glass and refill it.

A warm hand lands low on my back and strokes up my spine and back down. “Sorry, Princess. I wish this wasn’t happening again.”

“Again?” I turn to face him.

He looks away as if calculating some math equation but returns his gaze quickly. “Again. This stopped for a while and started up again right before your accident.”

I hold up a hand. “I notice you never call it a fall. Mom does. Halley does. But you call it an accident.” He holds my gaze, but I don’t give him much time to answer when I go on, “I didn’t trip and fall, did I?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“So someone tried to kill me?”

“I didn’t say that.” He closes some of the distance between us.

“What are my other options? I fell or I was pushed. A hawk didn’t pick me up to set me on a rock while I fumbled the dismount. I either fell or tripped. That would be on me. Or someone else was there and hurt me.”

He nods.Nothing more.Just a nod.

I step out of his hold and turn for the stairs. “I need to be alone.”

“Ayla.” It’s a plea on his lips.

I shake my head as I hit the landing and slide into my studio. Like I said, I need to be alone.

The blinds are drawn when I enter. The dimmer on the wall allows me to cut the harshness of the whites, and I slide to my butt and stare at the moose with the golden eyes who haunts the huge image before me.

An hour later I’m still on my ass, staring at the image. I’ve spent time focused on the mountains and the creek. I’ve studied the bark on the aspens. But it’s always that huge animal that brings me back.

I move to the desk, log into my computer, and find the raw images from last week.

The eagle in flight, the ease with which he let the wind carry him.

The gray sky sliced through with a single sunbeam.

The evergreen fir below him laden with snow.

The sky dissolving in the upper half of the canvas to white.

And one golden eye locked with mine as he banked. I’m positive it was unintentional. It’s not like animals everywhere stare at me. But I feel like there’s a oneness with both of these creatures.

One earthbound, one skyward.

One in the dark, the other in the light.

One from before. One from now.

Maybe there’s something for me to learn. Grounded in shadows, soaring into the unknown brightness.

If that’s not a metaphor for my life—for this injury—I don’t know what is.

And tonight, with the sun long set and the moon bright on the horizon, I can’t help but think that these two feel like the men in my life too.

Stubborn, dangerous, a head-butter by nature, one who fights to the death and never shows its back.

And the one who soars above the fray but has to choose to sacrifice beak and claws to reinvent itself to stay relevant.

It nests high above the buzzards. The one who represents freedom.

And here I am, blown by the wind, between the two, drawn to the shadow when I know I should be chasing the light.

I am so lost in my thoughts that his voice startles me. “Your talent never ceases to amaze me. How do you find these moments?”

“I’d love to say it’s skill, but ninety percent of it is showing up.”

“This—” He extends a palm to my screen. “Is far more than showing up.”

“Thanks. The ten percent sometimes is a showstopper.”

He leans in over my shoulder and sets a cup of coffee on my desk. “This image certainly is. What will you call it?”

I hadn’t thought about it, but since he asks, I probably should. “Good question. I don’t know. Freedom Flight maybe? That’s not right. We’ll see.”

He moves to the sofa and takes the corner, not balancing on the edge, but settling in as if he’ll stay a while.

“Princess, I’m angry.” He holds up a hand to preempt my interruption.

“Please let me say this. For two years, I’ve had the most enviable life.

I have everything a man could need and what most men could rarely hope for.

It’s not the house, though I do like it.

I have the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen for a wife.

You’re smart, funny, talented…” He looks around the room.

“You’re sexy as fuck, fiery, feisty, and sharp-tongued.

You challenge me when most women would cower.

As cheesy as it sounds, you make me a better man.

Not just because I want to be that for you and with you, but because together, we’re…

I don’t know, beyond words.” He pauses and holds my eyes.

“It’s one thing to accomplish your goals.

It’s something else to watch the person you love achieve theirs.

I’m living the best life anyone could dream or concoct.

And three months ago, the rug was pulled out from underneath me. ”

“I—”

“Please, baby, let me finish. I promise the floor’s yours after this.”

He waits for my acquiescence and continues, “The world flipped upside down the day of your accident. Yes, I’ll call it that.

I can’t imagine you fell. And it’s unthinkable to me that you were pushed.

Neither option is acceptable to me. And since you won’t let me wrap you in bubble wrap or keep you naked in bed, which would be my preference between the two, I’m stuck in a position.

On one hand, I love you more than my life itself and need you safe.

On the other hand, I want you to have everything you desire.

And, these days, that’s a war between what I want and what you want. ”

He pauses and looks toward the moose high on the black wall.

“Some days, you’re the woman I’ve known and on other days, you’re a stranger to me.

I guess that’s how you feel with me too…

And I hate it. I so badly want you to remember me, remember us, be an us again.

You know that band of wild horses in Oregon? ”

I shake my head.

“You told me about them once and that you want to find a way to get shots of them sometime. I don’t want to break you.

I want you—your unbridled spirit, you running wild and free, you being exactly who you were designed to be.

And I still want you to come home to me.

To choose me. To have shelter from the storm—that is, when you don’t want to play in the rain, and tempt the lightning and the thunder.

You’re mine to protect. You’re mine to love. I love you, Ayla, and I need you.”

He stops and drops his head, studying his knuckles. When his face rises to mine, the anguish written there is palpable.

I leave the chair and move to perch on the sofa next to him. I extend a hand to his thigh, my pale skin a stark contrast to his dark trousers.

“I don’t know what to say. Most days I know who I am and what I want.

Some days this life”—I look around the room—“is as foreign to me as Timbuktu must be. All the time is me trusting beyond my comfort zone to become someone I don’t know and being asked to trust a situation that feels like a shirt that’s two sizes too small.

The old me trusted you. It’s like she made a recommendation to this me that you’re solid and can be believed, but I’m trying to learn it for myself. Does any of that make sense?”

He nods.

“I’m trying. That’s what I’m saying. I’m trying. You’re trying to get back to a place I’ve never been. I don’t know the way, and no one will show me the map.”

“Will you try to at least trust that I’m driving you safely and that we’re going to the same place?”

“If you’ll be patient with me that the motion sickness is real and that the whole drive is scary. And I hate being scared.”

“Hate being scared.” His three words are spoken at the same time as mine, creating a chorus in the room.

I lean his way and push up on my feet, pressing my lips to his, opening my mouth to slide my tongue inside. His groan echoes in the quiet space, and he takes control, flipping me onto my back on the blue velvet sofa, and holds his body over mine.

“What do you need from me?”