Out of the Woods

by Hannah Bonam-Young

Cyrus and Chellie both want to scream at the top of their lungs: You do not belong here. I want to yell back: I know, I told him that too. Too fucking bad. He chose me.

“Something that’s all yours,” he interrupts. “Something you should be proud of,” he says, pressing his forehead to mine. “That is what I should have said on the night of the fundraiser when you asked.” “Oh…I—” “It’s how you show up for people, the way you give them your all…You made Libby feel like she was the most special person in the world tonight. You make everyone around you feel that way. Me, Win, Bo, August. You love so deeply, it’s hard for me to understand. It seems exhausting, but you do it anyways. You leave yourself open for anyone who needs a safe place to land, even near-perfect strangers. That is all, uniquely, individually, perfectly you. Something to be proud of that is all yours.”

“Hey, you.” I try my best to project a relaxed tone, hitting the button to turn to the next page despite not having read a word. He gives me no verbal response. Instead, I hear his flashlight hit the ground and a low, familiar, needy, anguished growl.

“See something you like?” I ask, leisurely turning to look over my shoulder. My husband is on his knees at the entrance of the tent—which is half open between us—looking tortured.

“Touch me,” I say breathlessly. He shakes his head, not losing his weighted gaze as I rub one finger down my slit and back. “No,” he says, his voice low. “Make me pay for it, baby.” Caleb drops down to lie on his stomach, resting his chin against the side of my bent knee. “Show me what I’ve been missing.”

“That’s my good wife,” Caleb says, moving to my side.

Bo walks toward me and extends a hand in my direction. I immediately place my palm against his, and he wraps his fingers tightly around my whole hand. “It’s just you and me, kid.”

“Yes, definitely. You’re in his top five favorite people, remember?” Caleb had one too many gin and tonics at Bo and Win’s wedding reception and made a very long-winded toast that concluded in him ranking his all-time favorite humans. Bo was fifth, Win was fourth, Gus was third, and Leonard Nimoy was a close second, apparently, to me.

“It’s only seven P.M., Chellie. I’m at a client dinner.” Well, excuse the fuck out of your wife for not knowing what time it is in Beijing. “I don’t know your schedule, Cyrus.” Tell him, girl.

“I don’t really like white wine, but I do want to give when I’m able, help when I can, and not waste my one shot at life.” “You remember?” I ask, pouting up at him. “You remember my speech?” “Of course I do.”

When Caleb mentions my plan for university, Bo’s ears perk up and he and Win both smile at me proudly, then each other. It’s a small, subtle type of smile that says She’s going to be all right.

“You deserve good things.” Win lifts her chin on an exhale. “And I think you were right. I think we do. I think we have them. I think Marcie would be very, very proud of us.” I nod softly in reply. “You know what? I agree.”

Filled with gratitude, I send up a prayer of thanks for the first time, directed at no one in particular, but anyone who’d hear it. Thank you for Gus. Thank you for Win and for Bo. Thank you for interfering, for intervening, and making them a family. Thank you for Caleb. Thank you for bringing him into my life exactly when I needed him. For allowing me to find my soulmate earlier than most so I would never have to be alone. Thank you for making him kind. Thank you for my mother, for the time I had her. Thank you for this one, beautiful, messy shot at life. I promise to not waste another moment of it. Amen.

Six years ago, I finished writing A So-called Little Life. A novel heavily inspired by my mother and a story that she had loved, wherein one woman, on her deathbed, is able to visit the hundreds of different lives happening concurrently in alternative universes. Since then, I’ve written three other novels and published two.

For the leading role, we’ve been blessed to have none other than the Tony Award–winning actress Gianina Rossi, whom I know better as my dear friend, Nina.

“Of course, baby.” Caleb smiles, dipping down to kiss me. “I’m so proud of you,” he says, bringing his hand to my neck.

“We did it,” Caleb says, wrapping me up in his arms from behind as I set our hammer down on my desk. “The ten-year plan is complete and then some.” I laugh, admiring the wall. “We’re getting old, Linwood,” I tease. “No, baby,” he says, tucking his chin against my neck, those aged but familiar features that I love so much burrowed into the side of my face. “We’re just getting started.”