Chapter 79
The outside world was dark. Blanketed in glistening snow, it looked white and innocent, but the truth was it was hostile and dangerous and full of people who left young children to fend for themselves.
Axel’s truck was a temporary sanctuary. His full voice claimed my attention, delivered the message of Christmas, and made a solemn vow that everything would get better. And I believed him.
Until the song ended and Mariah Carey took over. I couldn’t take the intrusion and silenced her wailing by turning the volume all the way down.
“I fucking hate Bing Crosby,” I blurted out after a second’s silence.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t me—”
“No.” I interrupted him before he could finish his apology. “That’s not what I meant, even though I realize it would be hard for you to take it any other way.”
He chuckled. “I think I’m gettin’ used to your lack of filter.”
“What I meant to say was that I’ve hated that song every time I’ve ever heard it. Until now. You made it…magical.”
“Awww, thank you, Daniel.”
“Danny.”
“I thought you didn’t wanna be called Danny?”
“I changed my mind,” I said.
“Want me to take you to the hotel now?”
“I guess,” I sighed. I didn’t want to say goodbye to him. I wanted to know more about this concrete pourer who sang in perfect Latin, but I didn’t want to make him feel pressured. I’d been the one suggesting I stay earlier, so this time it was up to him.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Look, I ain’t got a guest room. But I have a huge comfy couch. You could spend the night at my place. And I can take you where you need to go tomorrow.”
“Yes! I’d like that.” I didn’t even care that I sounded way too eager.
“Yeah?”
I nodded.
“Awesome.”
We passed the turnoff to my mom’s house and a mile or so later he took a narrow road leading straight into the woods. We drove for another couple of miles before he turned into an even narrower road taking us into a small clearing, surrounded by tall red pines. He stopped in front of a log cabin.
“Home sweet home.”
As the engine cooled and made clicking noises, I studied his small house. It was too dark for me to make out any details except for the large windows and rustic stone chimney. He’d wrapped twinkling lights around every bit of wood on the porch, making it look inviting and cheerful.
“Still wanna come with?” he asked and I nodded.
We trudged through the snow, eager to get out of the cold, and soon we were safe inside.
The entire downstairs of the cabin was one open space with a high, church-like ceiling with exposed beams. One side of the house was an open loft under the sloping ceiling. It was sprinkled with several small skylights, like peepholes out into the universe. His bed was directly underneath them, and I imagined how he’d lie there at night and gaze at the bright stars.
“Make yourself at home.” He crossed the floor to the fireplace already prepared with a stack of wood. He scrunched up old newspapers and lit the fire, and soon it was crackling away. I gravitated toward it, hypnotized by the dancing flames.
“Why don’t you keep warm, while I do some shoveling? There are drinks in the kitchenette if you’re thirsty.”
My gaze flitted between the alluring fire and the outside snow. “You want help?” I asked, desperately hoping he’d say no. When he shook his head, I wanted to jump with joy.
“Stay inside. It won’t take long” Grabbing a thick scarf from a shelf beside the door, he wound it around his neck several times. He finished off the attire with a black beanie, gave me a quick wave, and was out the door.
I shrugged out of his fleece jacket and toed off my shoes and placed them by the door before I gave in to my curiosity and explored Axel’s home. A large bookcase overflowing with books drew my attention. He had hundreds of books, everything from Harry Potter to Dostoyevsky. From Neil deGrasse Tyson to Lord Byron.
With wide eyes, I stared at the poetry books. Never in a million years had I expected to find poetry in his house.
“Stop being so fucking judgmental, Danny,” I muttered as I took down a paperback edition ofLeaves of Grass. Its spine was broken in several places and it fell open by itself on a dog-eared page. In the upper left corner was the number twenty-four.
I didn’t read poetry; I knew of Whitman, of course, but that was it. Curious about what Axel apparently liked so much he’d read it over and over again, I began reading. The passage started out with a description of the poet himself, and I was drawn to the decadent feeling of the words, but it really didn’t grab me until it turned sexual. My eyes grew rounder the more I read, and I plopped down on the nearest chair.