We ascend the hill at dusk. It is late summer, and dry air steals our breath. Beside me, Tucker is shirtless, back aflame with sunburn. He carries our bag with sandwich wrappers and empty beer bottles. One remains unopened. When the glasses clang against each other, I hear the glug of liquid shifting into an air pocket. Tucker and I have not spoken to each other beyond simple pleasantries—Can you pass me that? Turn right at the bend—since we arrived to the countryside three days ago. 

“I am not ready for this,” I say, swatting a cloud of gnats. I make it sound like I am sizing up the hill, but I mean it more so about the party. In an hour, the guests will arrive to our rental, and we are under obligation to entertain them for the evening. We have agreed to it, or rather, Tucker has agreed to it. My hair smells fishy from the river. I estimate how long it will take to shower and vacuum the living room and wipe the kitchen counter. 

“It’s not that bad,” Tucker says, already ahead of me. He means it about the climb. 

The hill is steep, and I feel the sharp poke of rock through my sandals. The road is dirt turned mud from last night’s storm. We slip occasionally and silently offer to pry the other loose by extending an arm or elbow to grab. Tucker’s skin is little help—slick from sunscreen and sweat. I am holding his forearm when I see the light. 

I see the light before I hear the siren. For a moment, it looks as if the trees are pulsing. To our left is a small clearing, allowing a narrow view of the river from which we came. There is a flashing blue light on the water. With each strobe, it jumps onto the bordering trees.  

“Do you see that?” I ask Tucker, who has also frozen with curiosity. 

When the ambulance appears at the base of the hill, I am reminded of the distance. Tucker and I have only spent 72 hours in the countryside, but already the ambulance looks foreign and misplaced here. As if transported from another time. Its wheels spin hard against the

mud, and the truck slides and stalls. The driver honks, and through the windshield, I think I see him wave at us.

“Should we help?” I ask. 

“What could we possibly do?”

“I’m not sure. But it feels like we should help.”

“Marjorie, there is nothing we can do.”

Still, my hand is on Tucker’s arm. I have not moved it. He has not moved either. I look at his face in the flashing lights, at the crease in his thick brow, the hard, thin line of his mouth. It is difficult to tell if he is afraid or just uncertain. Often, the line between the two runs murky. 

“Do you think they’re going to the rental?” I ask, the thought arriving with startling force.

“Why would they go to the rental?”

“What if there was a fire while we were out? Someone could have called about a fire. You turned off the stove, didn’t you?”

“They don’t send an ambulance for a fire, and I never even turned the stove on.”

“They send an ambulance for everything,” I say.

When we first met seven years ago, Tucker’s naivete was charming in that it made me feel superior, and for a long time I mistook his haplessness as a joke. Later, only after we got engaged, did I learn his misgivings had hardened into serious, sometimes dangerous, perceptions of the world. 

“Now what is he doing?” Tucker asks. 

The paramedic jumps from the truck and, with a large bag slung over his shoulder, runs up the hill. He takes deliberate steps to try and avoid sinking, but it is no use. His boots are stones. We watch him trek toward us. At one point, he stumbles to his knees, and I look away in embarrassment. When he rises, mud clings to the bottom of his reflective vest, the navy of his uniform. 

“Good evening,” Tucker calls. 

I glance down at my bikini top, conscious of how naked I must look under the paramedic’s gaze. In a lame effort to compose myself, I shake out the damp hair clinging to my neck. 

The paramedic’s face is covered in a gray-white stubble. I am surprised by the faded patches of hair at his temples because he cannot be more than thirty years old. I suspect there is lean muscle under the heft of his uniform, which is supported by the fact that he scaled the hill at an alarming speed. His forehead glows with sweat as he turns toward us. 

“Do you folks live up here?” he asks, and his features soften with genuine concern. 

I go dizzy for a moment, imagining he is about to reveal some horrible fate to us. Against the sinking sun, everything looks fuzzier and discolored. It only adds to the surrealism of my worry. 

“We’re on vacation,” Tucker answers. 

He does not say this is more of a last-ditch effort, a trip meant to encourage our decision about marriage. One way or the other. 

“Be mindful you get back safely,” the paramedic says. “It’s pitch black out here at night.”

“Of course. We will, thank you.”

“We can handle ourselves,” Tucker says.

It is then the police car arrives, followed by the fire engine. The lights slice the hill with increasing clarity. We watch as the officers and firefighters disembark from their vehicles and trudge up the hill on foot. A parade of emergency responders rushes past us with mud-soaked shoes and jackets. Some acknowledge us with warnings about safety and others press on in determined silence. 

The unusualness of the situation invites me to misjudge my feelings. I am drowsy from the all-day sun, from the aftereffects of the beer. The paramedic is handsome. 

“That was unexpected,” Tucker says simply, the hint of laughter in his voice. 

I am almost startled when he kisses my cheek. It takes me a moment to realize the strangeness of what we have witnessed has disarmed the tension, inviting him to turn kindly toward me. It aroused both of us, I realize, only my arousal was gifted toward a stranger and not my fiancé.

“Yes, it was unexpected,” I agree. 

When we return to the rental, still intact, lamplight greets us from the window. 

##

The rental reminds me of expensive vodka: sterile and cold, odorless. On the main floor, the living room window stretches ten feet high and frames the expanse of woods beyond the deck and our small backyard. The shower off the primary bedroom is narrow, but Tucker and I cram our bodies in there, and he takes advantage of the first real pang he’s felt toward me in weeks. He comes quickly. My back scratches against the calcium buildup, and the water hits at my eyelevel, smearing Tucker blurry.  

Throughout the rental, there are cedar beams everywhere: across the ceiling, along the floorboards, bordering each doorway. The effect is claustrophobic if I think about it too long, and it feels especially tight in the cool square of the living room when our guests arrive. 

Jean and Phil. We met them two days earlier at a café on the main road. Apparently, they live around here. Jean and Phil are noticeably older than us—I estimate they are in their mid to late sixties—and I do not particularly want them here. I suspect Tucker extended an invitation because he is anxious to hold substantial conversation, but he does not want to speak with me. Or at least, he feels he can’t. Tucker is four years younger than I am but has a lot more money. We never talked about either but understood this meant I could tell him what to do, but he didn’t have to listen. 

Phil is Black and carries the bulk of his weight in his stomach. When he turns a certain way, the light winks at me off the silver hoop of his earring. Jean, like me, is white but unlike me is tall, almost repulsively so; when she leans forward to shake my hand, I startle at how her torso curves toward me. She holds a wicker basket, opening covered by a dish towel. When she notices me looking, she folds the towel to reveal a hot loaf of bread. The room warms with the smell of yeast and pepper. 

Tucker fixes us martinis and serves them first to Jean and Phil, then goes back for mine. On the couch, Jean’s upper body pendulums back and forth, a soft rocking I find distracting and, honestly, a little intimidating. It gives the impression she is readying herself to leap. 

“So, how are you enjoying our neck of the woods?” Phil asks. His voice is raspy. It sounds as if he is recovering from a cold. 

“It’s beautiful out here. Marjorie and I went to the river this morning,” Tucker says.

“The water was freezing,” I say. “I mostly laid out in the sun.”

“It wasn’t that cold. It felt nice.”

Jean and Phil are on the same couch, and I am in the armchair opposite them. Tucker sits on the brick hearth of the fireplace, an elbow on his knee and the martini at his lips. 

“I thought I smelled the river on you,” Jean says. She is not being unkind, or at least, she doesn’t think she is. 

“The water pressure in the shower is low,” I say as defense. 

Phil nods at me. “Is it? I can look at that for you.”

“No, please, you’re our guest. You shouldn’t have to check the water pressure.” 

The martinis are unusually strong. I am drunk after half a glass, though I’m unsure if I fully sobered myself from this afternoon. 

Jean puts a hand on Phil’s shoulder. “He really is good with that kind of thing.”

“We won’t need you to,” I say, and it is sharper than I intend. “I mean, it won’t be necessary.”

Tucker’s glass is already empty, and he sets it down. “So, how long have you been married, Phil?”

I stare at Tucker. I am not only caught off guard by his sudden question but also by the fact that he’s only addressed Phil and not Jean. 

“Tucker, that’s… maybe they aren’t married.” 

“We are,” Jean says, but then I watch her lean back and let Phil answer, “Ten years,” for her.  

Tucker nods. “That’s a long time.”

“Certainly is,” Phil agrees. He laughs, and I hate what he’s insinuating, how Tucker’s smile rises to greet Phil’s.  

I ask, “Jean, how did you two meet?” 

She stares at a point just above my head, and I cannot tell if it’s only because she’s tall or because she feels she can’t look directly at me. She answers, “I used to teach.” 

“What did you teach?”

“I was a professor at the liberal arts university about an hour south of here.”

“Yes, but what kind of classes did you teach?” 

I do not enjoy feeling like I am interrogating her, but she’s put me in this position. Her students must have been constantly confused. 

“Art classes. Painting, mostly.” 

“Are you also a painter, Phil?” I ask, attempting to connect the dots.

“Oh, me? No way.”

 I wait for him to explain how they actually met. He was also a professor? Worked in admissions? He doesn’t say more. 

I have this terrible feeling that I have somehow misspoken, unintentionally treaded into a private territory. My face grows hot. “I’m sorry.”

Phil squints. “You’re sorry that I’m not a painter?”

“I’m not a painter either,” Tucker says. “I’m not artistic at all, really.” 

“What do you do then?”

“I’m a finance manager.”

“That’s wonderful,” Jean says. “I imagine that keeps you busy.”

“Quite busy, yes.”

Jean extends a palm toward me. “That must be hard for you.”

“He’s at work all the time,” I say. “Sometimes even on weekends and evenings.” 

I try to make my voice light, to slip into this role of longing housewife which Jean suspects I am, but I am also careful to watch Tucker’s reaction. He holds his face still. 

“My job is a demanding one,” he says. 

“So is mine,” I say. “But Tucker always comes home tired, goes straight to bed.”

“I work hard, but that’s how we can afford nice vacations like this one.” 

“Yes, this area is rather expensive.” 

“Marjorie.” 

I glare at Tucker. We are both drunk and arguing in front of perfect strangers. It is absurd that this is the moment when I finally accuse him of not loving me anymore. 

Tucker shakes his head and says, “I apologize.” I cannot tell who he is directing this to because he won’t look up.  

“This house is a lovely find,” Jean says, and I wonder if she is aware we are in the middle of an intense argument or if she is oblivious. She is still rocking. “Though, the climb up the hill was rather difficult on our truck.”

Phil purses his lips. “We’ve been trying to get gravel on the roads for years.”

“Gravel would certainly make it easier,” Tucker agrees.

“You could crunch the numbers,” Jean says, pointing to Tucker. “Create a budget for the gravel.”

“I could, yes,” Tucker says, returning her polite and stilted laugh. 

I do not know how Tucker slipped through our conversation unscathed, why Jean and Phil came to his rescue and left me looking like the instigator. If I was not so angry, I would be in awe.

“Would anyone like me to refresh their drink?” 

The room tilts as I walk toward Jean. Her glass is still full. She must have had one sip. But I am desperate to escape into the kitchen, and I feel like disappearing under the guise of being a good hostess is more acceptable than refilling only my martini. 

“One is quite enough,” Jean says.

I feel she is somehow condemning me, suggesting I should be cut off. As I approach, she shifts her glass out of reach.  

“No, really, it won’t be a bother.” 

When I grab for her glass, it slips and falls. The martini fans across the floor, and the glass’s stem snaps in half. “Oh, shit,” I say. Jean looks horrified, though from my cursing of from the broken glass, I’m unsure. 

“I’ll get it.” Tucker stands. He pauses to rest a hand on the mantle. With the other hand, he reaches for his forehead and closes one eye.

“Let me clean up the glass, at least. It was my drink.”

“It’s not your fault,” Tucker assures Jean. “I am so sorry about this. Marjorie is not feeling like herself this evening.”

For a moment, I feel eerie déjà vu. Tucker telling his friends I had a developed a fever when I made a joke no one understood.

“I’m feeling fine.”

“I can get a towel,” Phil says. 

“No, please. I’ll get it. Marjorie, you grab a broom.”

“You can get the broom. I’m going upstairs.”

“You are not going upstairs. We have guests.”

“I’m not feeling like myself.” I throw Tucker’s words back in his face. “Maybe I should lie down.”

When I look back at the floor, Phil is on his knees, sweeping the glass with a bare hand. Jean wipes the martini with a dishrag. I tell them to be careful, but I do not tell them to stop. 

##

I first kissed Tucker six years ago. We had known each other for just shy of a year and would occasionally text flirtatious messages with little consequence. I never imagined Tucker and I could date because I doubted his ability to be sincere and monogamous. To be wealthy and authentic is impossible, I thought. In the months following our initial meeting, I went on several dates with other good-looking men—even three or four really good ones. 

We happened to be at the same bar on a July night. All the windows were open, hanging like slack jaws, and the night was stiff and smooth as whiskey. I noticed Tucker at the counter. He was with some friends, all clean shaven and broad-shouldered like him. They looked well-mannered and intelligent because of their dark-colored clothes, the rolled sleeves and gleaming watches, like professors colluding after a particularly tough lecture. Occasionally, the group hinted at a propensity toward rowdiness, a man slapping his palm against the bar, the swell of coarse laughter. I noticed the men making lewd gestures when a group of women walked by. The crassness of them against their sharp dress and styled hair allured me. There were as respectful as they were dangerous, but they were smart enough to know which situation called for which behaviors.  

Tucker always knew the right spots to laugh, knew when people were performing for his sake. Like when Phil retold the story of a childhood hunting trip, all these open-mouthed stares and dramatic pauses. Jean covering her face in mock horror, peeking between her fingers. Even though Tucker was upset with me, he could still indulge these people with his attention and make it feel real. I liked this quality about him as much as I feared it. 

Before I left the bar that night, I kissed him. We were both bleary-eyed and staggering. I thought it would be funny, another joke for his buddies. They would tease him and whistle while I walked away. I even laughed myself afterwards, but Tucker just stared at me and kissed me again. I didn’t laugh the second time. 

As we sit across Jean and Phil at the dining table, Tucker puts his hand on my back. I figure it is just for show, but even after Jean excuses herself for the bathroom, he leaves it there.  

It is going on ten o clock. The window behind Tucker is bathed in darkness. His pale figure is startling in front of it. His eyes are as red as his sunburn. 

Like the first time we kissed for real, the both of us eager and sweaty and desperate, I want whatever I feel to be true. But I also miss the spontaneity of longing—how it can sneak up and tackle you when you least expect it, how it can grip you silly and passionate and make you feel unequivocally wanted. I have not felt that way in a long time.

There is a knock on the door then. We all turn our heads toward it. 

Tucker rises and steadies himself against the door knob. 

It is the paramedic. Even from underneath the sludge on his face, thin and watery from sweat, my heart jumps with recognition. He grips the handrail and bends at the stomach. I wonder if he is going to be sick or is only catching his breath.

“Are you okay?” I ask, rushing toward the door. 

He lifts a hand and apologizes for the disruption. I notice a thin flashlight at his waist, the beam coloring the grass blue. He tells us he got disoriented wondering through the woods in the dark. I wonder if he came back for me. I tell him to come inside, and we can get him something to drink. 

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” Tucker says. 

As the paramedic passes us, his smell startles me. The funk reminds me a vegetable about to turn, like the rich soil under roots. 

Jean arrives from the bathroom, her hands still wet. She sees the paramedic at our dining table, a sticky hand on his scalp, and frowns in confusion. “What’s going on?”

I bring the paramedic a glass of water, and he gulps. Some dribbles past his chin, and the water runs brown when it meets our table. Tucker grimaces and makes a show of cleaning the mess. I explain to everyone what happened earlier. 

“You know, today, on the hill, I wanted to help,” I say when I finish the recap. I want the paramedic’s perception of my character to soften. 

He shakes his head. “No need to worry about that. I know you and your boyfriend had some trouble yourself.”

I feel for it, but I realize I am not wearing my ring. I left it in the shower. Neither Tucker nor I correct him. 

Phil looks to the paramedic. “So, what was the emergency?”

Silence settles between us. I watch the paramedic recalibrate. His eyes shift, and he wets his bottom lip with a quick tick of his tongue. 

“Maybe he can’t tell us,” Jean says.

Phil tuts. “He can tell us. It should be public knowledge.”

The paramedic concedes. “A local resident died.”

“How sad.” I say. “That’s terrible.”

“Yes, well, it happens.” The paramedic exhales, and it sounds, distantly, like a laugh. An attempt to cover his sadness, maybe.

Phil asks the paramedic for a name and then is relieved to learn he does not know the deceased. The paramedic says the man lived alone.

“He had no family?” Jean asks. 

“Maybe, but none that we know of at this time.”

“I didn’t even know there was another house out here,” I say. “He must have been so lonely. I heard you could die of that. Loneliness.”

Tucker asks, “How did he die?”

We all stand around the dining table, taking turns asking the paramedic questions. He asks for another glass of water, and I retrieve one for him and one for myself, to stave the hangover. 

After he’s had a drink, the paramedic says, “Heart attack.”

Our conversation abruptly ends when Jean announces she is tired. I think this is rude of her to do when the paramedic is telling us about a man who lost his life today, but Tucker agrees that it is getting late. Jean finds her empty bread basket in the kitchen, and she and Phil say their goodbyes. Tucker scoops me into his chest while he waves at the door. I spill my drink on the carpet under his rough grip. 

The paramedic also stands. Dried mud flakes to the floor. 

“I was serious about taking care out here at night,” he says. “It’s easy to get turned around.”

We both thank the paramedic, his story nudging us toward the kind of temporary civility that trails in the face of death. Once he leaves, the rental retains his smell. 

Tucker and I did not sit right away. He rubs his temples with his fingertips and says he’s going to get an ice pack for his head.

“That was a sad story,” I say. 

He agrees, from the kitchen, that it was. I follow him. He rummages through an opened bottle of vodka, a box of frozen waffles. 

“No, I mean that is a really sad story.”

Tucker jumps at my sudden appearance and closes the freezer door. He accuses me of sneaking up on him.

“Do you want to give me a heart attack?” he says and laughs. 

I notice the blue ice pack in his hands. He wraps it in a paper towel and holds it, briefly, across his eyes, sighs into its shock of relief. 

I wonder what we are doing here. 

“Are you coming to bed?” Tucker asks, taking my pause as some sort of hesitation to initiate a round two. When he passes, he pinches my breast, and I take a step away. 

“Your hand is cold,” I say when he looks hurt. 

I tell him to go upstairs, and that I will meet him there. I want to clean some things up. I hear his footsteps creak above me, the moan of our bed as he settles. The air stills. 

When I turn off the kitchen lights, everything, including me, disappears under shadow. If I hurry, I wonder if I could catch the taillights of the ambulance.