Outnumbered

“I want you to be comfortable here.”

I took a long, shaky breath. I knew she was trying, but I also knew I was never going to feel comfortable living with her.

Margot had eventually given up trying to get me to relax, and that was the beginning of the end. When the ice road began to thaw, I found the cabin. A few weeks after that, I moved out of Margot’s place, and I have been alone ever since.

It wasn’t that I didn’t like Margot or didn’t like living with her—I did. That was part of the problem. I couldn’t get rid of the nagging feeling in the back of my head that living with me would never be in her best interest. It was better for me to be on my own and safer for Margot to be away from me.

Even now, I can feel that same tickle running across my scalp. My hands clench and unclench uncontrollably. In my head, I see myself picking up a piece of firewood and bashing in my visitor’s skull just to be rid of her. I close my eyes for a moment, willing the images away.

Solo is the exact opposite—he seems to enjoy the extra company. He keeps crawling around in Netti’s lap and rubbing his head against her. When I bring his warmed milk over, Netti offers to feed the kitten for me.

Solo rolls over on his back and reaches up with his paws as Netti brings the bottle of milk to his mouth. He stares at her adoringly as she giggles and coos at him, and my stomach tightens. Watching Netti with the kitten makes me feel like I’m out of place in my own cabin. I don’t like it.

My hands shake as I go back to the kitchen counter and stare out the window, feeling stupid for feeling awkward. The storm is in full force, and big, heavy flakes fill the air as the wind whips them around the trees. I keep my focus on the swirling snow until the violent thoughts dissipate.

I grab a heavy pan along with coffee and a percolator and the carton of eggs I got in Yellowknife. After hanging the percolator on a hook inside the fireplace, I crouch down and cook the eggs over the fire without looking at the woman or the kitten. When breakfast is ready, I hand her a cup of coffee and a plate full of eggs and caribou bacon.

“You want sugar?” I ask.

“Sugar?”

“For the coffee.”

“Oh, um, sure. Yes.”

I add sugar to both of our cups and sit down on the floor by the fire. Solo comes over to me, sniffing my plate. I push him away a couple of times, but he’s very interested in the smell of the bacon. Though I don’t know his actual age, I’m pretty sure he’s not old enough for solid food yet.

“I think my clothes are dry now.” Netti reaches over and runs her hand along the sleeve of her coat.

“Should be.” I stare at my plate as silence fills the room. Even Solo stops his begging for food, curls up by the fire, and settles down for a nap.

I finish breakfast and wonder if the weather is too bad to deal with the caribou in the barn. Inside the barn itself shouldn’t be too bad, but the short trek there might be ugly. Chopping wood is probably out of the question until the snow stops falling.

“Well, I appreciate all of this,” Netti says suddenly, “but I really should get out of your hair.”

I look up and stare at her for a long moment, trying to decide if she’s completely nuts or not. She doesn’t have a vehicle, and even my Jeep wouldn’t do well under the current conditions. If it were a life-or-death situation, it might still be better to wait until the mass of the storm has passed.

“Have you looked outside?” I shake my head at her.

“No.”

“Maybe you should.” I sound like an ass. It occurs to me that she was asleep when I was listening to the weather radio and that she hadn’t gone near the one window in the cabin, but she should at least be able to hear the wind against the walls.

“I guess the storm is too bad to leave?”

I’m not sure if she means it to sound like a question or not, but I think the answer is pretty damn obvious. I press my lips together. Any words that come out of my mouth are going to sound shitty.

“How long will it last?” she asks.

“Fuck if I know,” I say. “Do I look like a meteorologist?”

The tension is getting to be too much. I grab her empty plate and cup and take all the dishes to the sink, just trying to put some distance between us. I add hot water from the percolator into the sink and grab a bottle of dish soap.

“Let me do that,” she says as she moves up behind me and tries to take the bottle of dish soap from my hand.

“I’ve got it.”

“Please,” she says, “let me do it. You made breakfast.”