Trapped With My Teacher

Something seems to snap in his eyes. He tugs his wrist away, breaks my grip. “Then why even bother asking? You clearly already know everything.” He surges to his feet.

I follow. “Because surely after all of this, I deserve a real answer, Tony. Not some bullshit platitudes.”

“Of course you’ve decided what you deserve. Spoiled girls like you always deserve whatever they want, whenever they want it, don’t they?”

My jaw drops.

He seems just as shocked by that statement as I am, at least. He grimaces, shuts his eyes. “Corina, I’m sorry—”

“No.” I grab my coat from where I’ve left it beside the front door, from when we went out to listen to the radio last night.

“Listen to me—”

“Why, so you can insult me some more?” I throw on my coat. Stuff my arms into it, then zip it up. “So you can act like you know me just because we spent the last week holed up fucking in this cabin? You don’t know shit about me, Professor. That much is clear. Spoiled?” I whip around and grab the doorknob.

“Where are you going? Corina, you can’t go out there.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” I yank the door open. A gust of freezing wind hits me full in the face. It makes me shiver, double over, clutch my jacket tighter. But it also hardens my resolve. I’m over this. Over this cabin, over playing house, over sleeping next to a man who’s made my life a living hell for the last three months and who clearly isn’t sorry about any of it. Who believes he’s just giving me what I deserve for being a spoiled brat.

I pull up my hood and step outside.

“Corina, please come back and talk to me about this.”

“Talk to yourself. I’m done listening to you dance around the truth.” I slam the door behind me and storm out into the night. I know which way the road is. If nobody’s driving up here on their own, I’m going to them. I don’t care if I have to walk all the way down this mountain. I’m getting the hell out of here.

10

Dangerous

A half an hour or maybe longer—it’s hard to tell time out here—I’m regretting this decision.

Just like the weatherman said, tonight—the last night of this week of storms—is getting bad again. Fat flakes descend around me, sticking to my hair, my face, melting on my jacket. And I can’t even find the road, let alone follow it. I walked past my car, straight ahead toward the path I drove down to get to this cabin the day I got stranded. But there’s nothing along this road except for snow, snow, and more snow.

Assuming I’m even still on the road. I can’t tell. Not with the snow several feet deep for miles around.

I turn around, defeated, realizing I need to head back. However pissed I am at Tony, it’s not worth dying of exposure out here in a failed attempt to find rescue.

But then I freeze, startled. Because I’d forgotten about the fat flakes sticking in my hair. Or rather, they’re coming down a lot heavier and faster than I expected. Heavy enough and fast enough to start to bury the footprints I’ve left in the snow so far.

I speed up, jogging back along my tracks as far as I can follow. But after a certain point, the tracks disappear, and despite squinting through the dark night, I can’t make out the glow of our cabin windows anymore, or see the wood smoke anywhere. My chest tightens. Panic starts to set in.

What have I done? I won’t last long out here. Not without shelter. Not without some indication or way to find home again.

Then I hear it.

Faint, to my left, but getting louder when I hold my breath and strain my ears.

“Corina!”

Tony. Shouting. Knowing I’ll need it—some sound, some direction to follow home.

I start to jog toward the sound. A few moments later, I crest over a hill of snow and catch a glimpse of the cabin, its cozy yellow lighting more inviting and appealing than ever.

“Tony!” I call back.

“Corina, come back,” he shouts.

I’m running now, as fast as my quickly numbing limbs will allow me to move. I didn’t realize how stiff they’d gotten or how deep the cold had settled into my bones until I tried to move. I reach the cabin door, panting, shivering, and nearly collapse when I stumble up to the threshold.

Tony is standing just outside, in full snow gear. He holds a rolled-up magazine to his mouth to amplify his voice. The moment he sees me, he drops it and rushes to grab me. “Thank fuck,” he gasps, scooping me up into his arms before I can protest.

I can’t protest, actually, I realize. I’m shaking too hard. And my throat feels dry from panting, running in the freezing cold air. I open my mouth, but the only sound that comes out is the chatter of my teeth.