Every day was the same.
I woke up every morning, as soon as the sun started to break the sky behind the mountains. I didn’t need an alarm clock, my body was hardwired now, and I went straight from my bed into the shower. The water was always too hot, my skin always red when I emerged, and I’d wipe my hand across the steam on my small mirror just enough to reveal my eyes.
They’d been dead for six years now.
At least, that’s what the calendar said. It could have been six days for all I knew. My measurement of time was skewed, the days blending together, the nights one long, continuous stream of darkness.
Today was no different from yesterday, or from last Saturday, and it would be the same tomorrow.
I dressed without a second thought to what I was putting on, reaching blindly into my closet and dresser drawers until I had on jeans and a thermal. I tugged my boots on next, and they made the same sound they always did as I thumped down the stairs and into the kitchen. Coffee was already made, set on a timer for the same time every morning, and I poured a full Thermos of the dark brew and took a swig before tucking it in my toolbox.
This was the hardest part of the day.
Getting out of bed was difficult, talking on the phone with my aunt who tried to pretend she cared anymore always stung, living my life like it mattered wasn’t easy, but nothing hurt as bad as when I looked at her picture.
It sat right by the front door, my favorite photo of my cousin, Danielle. She sat on the front porch of our old cabin, thick-framed glasses on her face, dark hair piled on top of her head, giant sweater hanging off her shoulders and pulled over her knee caps. Her book sat open beside her, one hand holding the pages in place as she stuck out her tongue up at the camera. I remembered that day like it was yesterday. I remembered what it felt like to wake up to a noisy house, to her and my aunt laughing loudly. I remembered her books and her words of the day and her college dreams and her unwavering faith in me.
But none of that mattered anymore, because she was dead.
And it was all my fault.
Every time I looked at her picture, and I never missed a day, I felt a rusted knife right between the bones of my ribcage. This morning was no different, and I choked on the last breath I took with my eyes on the photo before grabbing my hat and pushing through the front door out into the cool morning air.
The days were slowly getting longer, and I knew there was no outrunning summer now. I hated the summer, hated the memories it brought. I much preferred the dark days of winter, gray skies and snow on the ground. Then again, it didn’t matter what season it was, because in my life, every day was the same.
I didn’t want to lose the guilt I felt, the weight or the pain of it. I stared at that river every morning and remembered. I guess most people would do the opposite, they’d want to bury the hurt and find a new life, find a new purpose. But my purpose died along with Dani, and I didn’t care to find a new life where she didn’t exist.
So I worked with my hands, getting through each day as I did the one before. I helped old man Ron work on his cars, fixed broken pipes, cleaned out flooded garages, repaired hot tubs and broken balconies, helped with maintenance on the rental properties in the community. I almost blacked out as I worked, and before I knew it, I’d be back in my shower, and then back in my bed.
I was halfway through the day when the blur of it cleared in a sudden whoosh.
“See you same time tomorrow,” I said to Ron as I packed my tools away, wiping my forehead with the same raggedy towel I’d had for years before throwing it in my back pocket.
Ron was still under his 1978 Chevy Silverado, tools tinkering, only his legs visible from where he laid on the ground. He’d likely be there all day, unless he ventured down to Momma Von’s for a beer. I liked that about Ron. Every day was the same for him, too—and we both preferred it that way. He only grunted at me in response to my goodbye, and I walked myself out, boots crunching on the gravel until I reached the road.
My feet carried me down the same road they always did, past the same cabins, the same cars, leading me down to the Morrisons’. Their shed needed a new roof and new panels in the back, and that would be the project that would carry me through to the night.
But one cabin wasn’t the same. One car caught my eye. One moment, one look, and the haze I’d walked in for years blew out in a breath.
Because every day was the same.
And then I saw her.
The drive into the small strip of stores and businesses in Gold Bar was short, and I’d enjoyed the windows down and music loud as I made the trip each way. I loved the way the air smelled, crisp and piney, with the promise of hotter summer days to come. And though I’d told myself that I didn’t buy too much when I was at the store, I realized as soon as I popped the trunk back at the cabin that I’d lied.
I stared at the piles of bags, debating which to tackle first before slowly loading them onto each arm one by one and leaving Rev’s new litter box for last. Once I was red-faced and struggling and decided there was, in fact, no way I’d get them all in one trip, I turned to make my way inside the cabin. But I stopped short.
There was a man at the end of my driveway.
He was just standing there, staring at me, a large, rusted toolbox in one hand and rolled up sheet of paper in the other. Everything about him was hard—the bend in his brows, the edge of his jaw, the line of scruff that framed it. And because I was me, of course I noticed what he was wearing, and it was the first time in a long time that I’d seen someone who dressed for efficiency, not for style. His jeans were worn, but not dirty, with plenty of pockets that I could tell were each used in their own way. He donned a simple, deep red thermal with sleeves pushed up to his elbows and slight stains that ran down his chest and abdomen, and a charcoal gray hat sat low over his eyes, shielding them from the sun.
He was tan, and even from the distance his eyes sparked against the warm hue of his skin. They were bright—blue, maybe? Or green? I couldn’t be sure, and I let his potent appearance mesmerize me for just a moment more before I shifted, hoisting the bags in my right hand up enough for me to attempt a half wave.
If possible, his brow lowered farther, and he simply stalked off, clearing the view of my driveway in seconds.
I frowned.
“Well, hello to you, too.”
So much for the friendly cabin town.
I readjusted the bags, ready to make the first trip inside when one of them broke, spilling can after can right onto my foot before they tumbled the rest of the way to the ground. I howled, letting the rest of the bags drop as I mumbled a string of curse words that would have made even Adrian blush.