Page 14

Eight

M arley

I wake up to the sound of birds and the realization that I'm completely naked, wrapped around Cade like he's my personal heater. The storm has passed sometime during the night, leaving the air clean and crisp and smelling like pine and rain.

Also, my entire body feels different. Used. Claimed. Like every nerve ending has been rewired to respond to his touch.

"Morning, little girl," he murmurs against my hair.

The endearment sends the same shiver through me it always does, but this time there's something deeper underneath it. Something that makes me want to curl up smaller and let him take care of everything.

"Morning." I try to sit up, but he tightens his arms around me.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"We should probably get dressed. Head back to camp." I gesture vaguely toward the door of the hunting blind. "The storm’s passed."

"The outside world can wait." He rolls us so I'm pinned beneath him, his weight solid and reassuring. "I want to play with my girl first."

"Play?" The word comes out smaller than I intended.

"Play." He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, his touch gentle. "When's the last time you played, Marley?"

I think about it. Really think about it. "I don't know. Maybe when I was six? Before my parents decided I was too smart to waste time on childish things."

Something dark flashes across his face. "Six years old?"

"They wanted me to focus on developing my intellectual potential instead of—"

"Instead of being a kid." He sits up and pulls me into his lap, arranging me so I'm straddling his thighs. "Well, we're going to fix that."

"I don't know how to play." The confession feels embarrassing. "I don't remember."

"That's okay. Daddy's going to teach you." He reaches for his backpack and pulls out a small object I can't identify. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to." His voice has that firm edge that makes my stomach flutter. "Trust me."

I close my eyes, hyperaware of his hands moving around me, the warmth of his body, the way the morning air feels against my bare skin.

"Open your mouth," he says softly.

Something small and sweet touches my tongue. I bite down and taste honey and nuts and dried fruit.

"What is it?" I ask, opening my eyes.

"Trail mix. I make it myself. Even coat it with my own maple syrup." He holds up another piece. "Not because you calculated the optimal protein-to-carb ratio, but because it tastes good. Call it breakfast, until I get us back to camp and cook something more substantial."

"That's silly. You make syrup?"

"It is silly and yes, I do. I’m not just here for looks you know, I have depth." He deadpans as he feeds me another piece, watching my face carefully. “I like putting things I make in your mouth.”

Eating without calculating feels revolutionary, like I'm breaking some fundamental rule I've been following my entire life.

"Now what?" I ask.

"Now we see what other rules we can break." He stands up and starts getting dressed, but slowly, like he's in no hurry to rejoin the real world. "Tell me something you always wanted to do but couldn't because it wasn't academic enough."

"I..." I think about it while I pull on my clothes, still damp from yesterday's rain. "I always wanted to learn to skip stones. I saw kids doing it at a lake once and it looked like magic."

"Perfect." He shoulders his pack and holds out his hand. "There's a stream about ten minutes from here."

The stream is clear and shallow, with smooth rocks perfect for skipping scattered along the bank. Cade finds a handful of flat stones and demonstrates the technique—low angle, good spin, follow through.

His first stone skips seven times across the water before disappearing beneath the surface.

"Show off," I mutter, picking up my own stone.

My first attempt plunks straight down into the water with all the grace of a brick.

"Here." He moves behind me, his chest pressed against my back as he adjusts my grip. "Feel the weight of the stone. Don't think about the physics of trajectory and water tension. Just feel it."

"But the physics are important for—"

"Marley." His voice is patient but firm. "No thinking. Just feeling."

I try again, focusing on the sensation of the stone in my hand instead of the calculations running through my head. This time it skips twice before sinking.

"Better," he says. "Again."

We spend an hour by the stream, and with each attempt, I feel something loosening inside me. The need to be perfect, to understand everything, to analyze every action before taking it.

By the time I manage a five-skip throw, I'm laughing like I haven't laughed in years.

"I did it!" I spin around to face him, and the pride on his face makes something warm bloom in my chest. "Did you see that?"

"I saw." He pulls me against him and kisses me, hard and possessive. "I'm proud of you, my good girl."

The praise hits me harder than it should. When's the last time someone has been proud of me for something that isn't an academic achievement? When's the last time I've felt accomplished for doing something purely for joy?

"Can we do it again?" I ask.

"We can do whatever you want." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "This is your time, Marley. Your time to be young and curious and free."

Something about the way he says it makes my throat tight. "I don't know how to be free."

"I know." His voice is gentle. "That's why Daddy's here to teach you."

The walk back to camp should be awkward—me processing the fact that I've just lost my virginity to a man I've known for three days, him probably wondering what the hell he's gotten himself into with a nineteen-year-old grad student.

Instead, it feels natural. Easy. Like we've been doing this dance for years instead of days.

"Cade?" I say as the camp comes into view.

"Yeah?"

"What we did last night..." I feel my cheeks heat up. "Was it good? I mean, I know I don't have any experience to compare it to, but—"

He stops walking and turns to face me so suddenly I almost run into his chest.

"Look at me," he says, tilting my chin up. "Last night was perfect. You were perfect. And if you ever doubt that again, I'm going to put you over my knee and remind you exactly how good you are."

The threat sends heat spiraling through me. "Promise?"

His eyes darken. "Careful what you ask for, little girl."

Back at the camp, I settle on a log with my notebook while Cade puts everything straight and starts to cook, finally ready to work on the thesis notes I've been scribbling at every turn. But the words that come out aren't the clinical observations Professor Harrison is expecting.

Note: Subject displays remarkable intuitive understanding of environmental factors. More importantly, subject challenges preconceived notions about education vs. experience. Traditional academic metrics fail to capture the depth of knowledge gained through direct application...

I stop writing and stare at the page. This isn't a thesis anymore. This is me trying to justify why everything I've believed about learning and life is wrong.

"How's the writing going?" Cade asks as he pulls cooking gear from his pack.

"Terrible." I close the notebook. "I can't figure out how to turn 'my instructor is teaching me to be human' into academic language."

"Maybe that's the problem." He looks up from his work. "Maybe some things aren't meant to be turned into academic language."

"But I have to. My defense is next Friday, and Professor Harrison expects—"

"What do you expect?" He sets down the cooking gear and gives me his full attention. "Not what Harrison wants, not what your parents want. What do you want to say about what happened here?"

I think about it. Really think about it. "I want to say that I’ve learned more about myself in three days than I did in two years of graduate school. I want to say that maybe intelligence isn't about how much you know, but about how willing you are to admit you don't know everything."

"So say that."

"I can't. It's not academic enough. It doesn't follow proper research methodology. It's too personal."

"Says who?"

"Says... everyone. The academy. The standards for—"

"Bullshit." He stands up and walks over to where I'm sitting. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're scared to write what you really learned because it means admitting that everything you've been taught about success and intelligence is wrong."

The words hit too close to home. "I can't just—"

"Can't what? Can't disappoint them? Can't risk failure? Can't trust yourself to know what's right for your own life?"

"It's not that simple."

"It is that simple." He pulls me to my feet and backs me against the nearest tree, his hands braced on either side of my head.

"You want to know what's complicated? Spending the rest of your life doing something that makes you miserable because you're too scared to disappoint people who don't even see who you really are. "

"And who am I really?" The question comes out as a whisper, and it’s not rhetorical. I want to know. I want him to give me the answer.

"You know the answer to that, just as I do.

You're brave. You're curious. You're smart enough to question everything, including the path other people laid out for you." He twirls my hair between his long fingers like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

"You're the kind of woman who kisses strangers at weddings and follows them into the wilderness.

You're the kind of woman who learns to skip stones and laughs like she means it.

You're the kind of woman who could change the world if you stopped trying to live up to everyone else's expectations. "

The words make something crack open in my chest, something that has been locked away for so long I've forgotten it exists.

"I don't know how to be that person," I whisper.

"That's okay." He leans down to kiss me, soft and sweet. "That's what Daddy's for."

When he pulls back, there are tears on my cheeks that I don't remember crying.

"Hey," he says, wiping them away with his thumbs. "What's this about?"

"I just..." I struggle to find words for the feeling overwhelming me. "I never knew I was allowed to want different things. I never knew I was allowed to just... be. I don’t know, it feels like I’m spinning and I can’t stop it."

"I’ve got you. You are spinning but it will stop.

I’ll make sure. You're allowed everything, little girl.

" He pulls me against his chest, and I bury my face in his flannel shirt.

"You're allowed to want things that don't make sense on paper.

You're allowed to change your mind. You're allowed to choose a life that makes you happy instead of one that looks good in Christmas letters. "

I cry against his chest—ugly, messy tears for the childhood I've never had, for the dreams I've never been allowed to chase, for the person I've never been allowed to be.

And he holds me through all of it, one hand stroking my hair while he murmurs reassurances against the top of my head.

"That's it," he says softly. "Let it out. You're safe. Daddy's got you."

When the tears finally stop, I feel empty and full at the same time. Empty of all the expectations and pressure I've been carrying. Full of possibility I've never allowed myself to consider.

"Better?" he asks.

"Different." I pull back to look at him. "Like I'm not the same person who drove into Wildfire in her little Honda.”."

"You're not." He cups my face in his hands. "The question is, who do you want to be now?"