Their Steamy Cabin

1. Savannah

ONE

My feet ache,my back aches, and my face aches. I didn’t even know the third one was even possible, but putting in long shifts as a waitress has revealed a whole lot that I wish I didn’t have to learn.

It’s probably all the forced smiling I have to do. Those are muscles, too, and get worn out like any other. It just doesn’t feel right to think that “smile fatigue” could really be a thing though.

I’m glad my shift is over for the day and that I’m finally driving home. Thunder cracks in the sky. A storm is brewing, and I’m glad that I’m dodging the worst of it. As I pull into the parking lot, and shut off the old busted Ford, only one thing is keeping me going, letting me put one foot in front of the other to climb those old steps to my father’s and my old apartment.

That chicken Alfredo.

Yesterday, I found a recipe online. It looked absolutely fantastic, and I followed it perfectly. The result was every bit good as advertised, and having another big bowl of leftovers is getting me through the day. It feels kind of pathetic to have that be the only thing keeping me going, but you have to look forward to what you can sometimes.

I step into my home, a small apartment with one and a half bedrooms. How do you have half a bedroom? I can’t call the place I sleep a full bedroom. It doesn’t deserve such a title.

The entire place smells of depression. The scent of booze, and of other substances, the types that were illegal just a few years ago. All of it is a damn mess. Filthy dishes, dust, crumbs anywhere and everywhere. I haven’t had the energy to clean up with all the extra hours I’ve been putting in at the restaurant, and he certainly wasn’t going to help any.

It was a place to sleep, I remind myself. I get through the day. I hang on. I hope something better can come along, trying to push myself toward them where I can. I wash a bowl and fork, before going to the fridge. It’s a mess, too, but I start to dig around for my chicken Alfredo, figuring Dad must have just pushed it back farther.

It’s not there. A bit of panic hits me as I look over to the sink, and see that the plastic container where I had put my pasta last night is sitting there, empty, not even with soap and water to soak it.

No. I told him that was mine. That I was looking forward to eating out of that for the next few days.

Then he goes and does this. I ask him to not do one thing, and still he goes and does it.

I’m shaking with frustration. Is it too much to ask for the person I live with to respect my wishes?

“Savvy, my little sweetie,” I hear from behind me. It was once a voice that brought me joy, but has now only brought me misery.

My father, Jack. He’s a damn wreck. Wearing a stained T-shirt and sweatpants with the same grubbiness, shambles up to me. “Dad, I told you to leave the chicken Alfredo for me,” I say, trying to keep my cool.

“What? What else was I supposed to eat?”

“I don’t know. The canned soup and frozen pizzas that you usually go for?”

“But that Alfredo was right there. You can’t expect me to resist it when it’s right there.”

“Yes, I can. I can expect you to have the tiniest bit of self-control.”

This is why I can’t have nice things. Why every time I push myself to make something fancier than the ordinary, it all ends in tears.

“Listen, it’s no big deal,” he says. It shouldn’t be a big deal, no. But for me? It feels like the biggest deal. I can’t understand why. “Look, Savvy, I need, like, fifty bucks.”

I’m trembling in place, my body getting hot as I look at him.

He’s been unemployed for God knows how long. Nothing but a few odd jobs here and there to barely keep the rent paid. He said he’s waiting for the right job to come along for his qualifications, but it’s been a year. Take something. Anything. I can’t keep this up alone.

I’m nineteen. I’ve been working full time since I was still in high school. All to help my dad. All to try to get him to that next job. I should be in college, but we need the money now. I should be out doing anything, instead of trying to help someone who is nearly fifty years old to pay his bills.

All he does is make my life miserable, taking whatever little joys I have left.

“No,” I say, my teeth gritted. “I’m not giving you fifty dollars, Dad.”

“Huh? Why? You surely have that in tip money, sweetie.”

Something in me cracks. It’s not from this, but all the weight, all the trauma, everything, all of it finally breaks through the walls of my fragile psyche and knocks it down.

I head for the door.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he calls out, making a grab for my arm to stop me, but I’m too quick for him.

“Somewhere. Somewhere that’s not here.”

“You tell me where you’re going, young lady.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything. So I’m not, Dad. I’m a grown woman and I can make my own way.”

He stamps his feet like a child. “You’re not going anywhere. I gave you permission to use my car for work, not for joy-riding.”

He’s technically right. It is his car.

But I don’t care.

I need to not be here. If I have to keep looking at him, I’m only going to get angrier. And I know where all our sharp knives are. For his sake, and more for mine, I have to leave.

The rain has already started to come down, the storm in full swing. So much for dodging it.

I hop into the car. Dad follows me out, screaming at me. “Savannah Lynn Summers, you get back here right now!”

If it was Mom saying that, I would have stopped. But Dad had finally lost the last bit of any respect I had for him. I kick the old Ford into reverse, pull out, and drive out of the parking lot, hitting the road with no clear goal.

Maybe I should have just gotten food or something. Maybe that would have calmed me down.

But through the pouring rain, and the flashes of lightning, I just drive. Nothing else matters. I need to get away from all of this, and the farther I am from my useless wretch of a father, the better off I know I’ll be.

The rain is intense. Common sense tells me I shouldn’t be driving through this: the windshield wipers unable to keep up, the winds strong, the thunder roaring louder and louder. I think I’m heading right into the storm, but I keep going. If a tornado touches down and flings this car out into the countryside, at least it’d help me be even farther away from my problems.

It’s an hour before I realize how far from the city I’ve gotten. The rain doesn’t relent, not one bit. But in my anger, my sadness, whatever is the primary emotion driving me away, I didn’t once look at the fuel gauge. I’d been planning on getting a refill on it tomorrow morning before work, but obviously I wasn’t thinking.

Not until it was well under the E part of the tank.

I swing the car around and start heading back to town. I have no idea where I am, but I’m sure I saw a gas station not too far back. I cling on to one of the things told to me by my aunt when she taught me to drive, that the fuel gauge is often simply a suggestion at best, and a goddamn liar at worst.

In this case—the gauge is telling the truth. The car sputters, and I’m losing acceleration. Not wanting to strand the thing in the middle of a dark road where no one can see it, I pull off onto the shoulder. The car barely makes it before the engine coughs and wheezes its final death.

Are you kidding me?

I have no idea where I am. My phone’s service is dead, this far out into the boonies, which understandably adds to my fear.

So not only am I tired, hungry, angry, and aching, I’m terrified and alone, out in the middle of nowhere, in the heart of an endless thunderstorm.

I shiver, the car’s heater dying with its lack of gasoline. Add cold to the list of my miseries.

So this is how it ends, huh? Stranded in my dad’s crappy car, in the sticks, freezing to death during an electrical storm.

Do I get out and try to walk it? I didn’t even bring an umbrella. I look to the woods, and I hate my father even more for not letting me join the Girl Scouts all those years ago. Said the fees were too much and we couldn’t afford it, all while carrying a bottle of some expensive scotch. Sure, Dad. We couldn’t possibly afford it.

A pair of headlights blaze by in the night. The roads were empty as I drove up here, most people having sense enough to not drive in a storm like this. I think about hitchhiking, then remember all the tales of how cute, starry-eyed teenage girls ended up, in horror stories, and how the last thing anyone ever hears of them are from cold cases on true-crime podcasts.

I tremble again. What other options did I have? Sit here and freeze to death? Cold and miserable? May as well stand out in the rain and play the serial killer slot machine.

As I mull over my fate, a pair of headlights flash my way. A vehicle rolls up toward mine. I squint, and I believe it’s the truck that passed me about five minutes ago.

It pulls up next to my car, and I hold my ground.

Maybe I don’t need to try to hitchhike to find my serial killer; maybe he’ll just find me instead.

The storm crackles in the distance, a particularly strong roar of thunder. The truck door opens, an umbrella pops out, and a flashlight follows. It shines my way, blinding me. The figure approaches my driver’s side window and proceeds to knock on it.

Realizing I don’t exactly have anywhere to run, I roll the window down. The figure huddles over and looks into my car.

And goddamn, is he handsome.

Piercing blue eyes, a thick red beard, a jaw so stone cut that I can see it even through the beard. He’s wearing a flannel, and it’s so damn tight around his biceps that I can’t help but like what I see. His hair is drenched, despite him holding an umbrella. He must have been fleeing the storm too.

Well then, at least my serial killer is sexy. Whatever little solace that is to me, I take it.

He looks me up and down, too, him shaking his head at his prey. “What are you doing out here, miss? This ain’t the time or place to be car camping.”

I grin his way, nervous as hell. One, because he’s hot. Two, because I still don’t know his intention. “I ran out of gas,” I state.

“Well, damn, that’s not good.” He scratches his head. “And I used the last of my own jerrican to get back home for the night. That’s some awful-ass luck right there.”

“Yeah. I’m all about that—bad luck—it seems.”

The way he looks at me, the way he talks. My suspicions of him being a serial killer are quickly going away.

Not completely, mind you. The scariest monsters are the outwardly gentle ones.

He looks over my car. “No one drives a car like this out here. You ain’t from Evergreen Valley, are ya?”

I shake my head. “No. I live in the city.”

He strokes his beard in thought. “You’re a bit far from the city. And I say that as a bit of an understatement.

“I... uh... kind of got lost.”

“That’s some damn impressive getting lost.” He shakes his head. “If ya out of gas, I can’t get your car back on the road. But I don’t think any other good Samaritan is going to pass by to help you. Hell, you’re lucky I saw you stranded, out of the corner of my eye.”

“You’re the only other soul I think I’ve seen for an hour.”

“Why don’t you come along with me for the night?” he says. “My cabin ain’t too much further. It’s warm and dry, and we can deal with your car troubles in the morning.”

I swallow and take a deep breath. Going along with strange men in the middle of the night is such a bad idea. But I’m not in a good place. I may as well take my chances with him, because the best-case scenario without him is freezing in this car until the storm passes, then walking cold and hungry down the road until I reach the gas station. One which might be miles from here.

“Um... okay. Sure, thank you.”

“Don’t need thankin’. Just doing what any reasonable fella would do.” He offers me his hand. “The name’s Hunter. What about yours, lovely?”

I can’t help but blush as I accept his grip. “Savvy,” I reply.

“Savvy? Kind of an cute name. I like it.”

“It’s short for Savannah.”

“Oh, hey, that’s an even lovelier name.”

I giggle. God, he’s such a charmer. I open the door and climb out, him covering me with his umbrella. The wind and intensity of the storm don’t make the cover perfect, but it helps, and really, it’s the thought that counts.

“Come along now. Let’s get dry and warmed up. I got some beef stew cooking, too, if you’re hungry.”

Beef stew? It’s no chicken Alfredo, but it’ll definitely do.