The Interloper by Kandi Maxwell
Photo by MD Duran via Unsplash
“You should meet, Jonnie,” my friend, Glenda says. “You two have so much in common.” We both hike, camp, and love animals. He has horses, I have wolf dogs. He lives in a cabin he built himself. I live in a renovated barn.
Glenda introduces us at dinner in her home. Jonnie’s almost sixty but doesn’t look it—he’s lean and muscular with thick, chocolate-brown hair that falls in slight curls onto his shoulders. Dark penetrating eyes. He wears well-worn Levis, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and work boots.
I’m forty-eight, thin and strong. I wear jeans, a flannel shirt. My hair is long and wavy. Blonde when younger, strands of brown and auburn now cover the lighter shades.
Glenda’s right. Jonnie and I connect. Conversation flows easy and a bit flirty. Jonnie’s presence is downright disarming. I like him immediately. After dinner, I accidentally leave an address book behind. He saves it for me. Later, he calls. I should come pick it up—an excuse to visit him at his rustic mountain home in Mount Shasta.
I have pictures from that first visit to his home. In one photo, Jonnie sits by the door of the old cast-iron stove where a fire burns brightly in the darkened room. Snow gear and jackets hang on a wooden rack behind the stove. In another picture, colorful Mexican blankets frame a large window.
Jonnie’s cabin feels like home. A hand-made ladder leads to an attic-style loft where a mattress and a few shelves fill the room. The kitchen counter is covered in bright blue and yellow tiles he brought from Mexico; a red and blue Pendleton blanket drapes a table topped with candles, crystals, and abalone shells. Outside, a gray sky behind a forest of sugar pine, hemlock, red fir, and cedar. The sound of a gurgling creek pours through the open window.
Although I live in a different town, I begin to visit Jonnie often. I fill my truck with warm blankets. I buy hearty, multi-grain bread and cheeses. Fruit. Sierra Nevada Pale Ale and coffee. Jonnie packs sleeping bags, a fishing pole and tackle, and we’re off. We drive winding, rugged dirt roads. We park by a river—no campground or amenities. During the day we hike and climb boulders. In the evening, Jonnie casts the line on his fishing rod. It plops in the water with a splash. I gather sticks, pinecones, and downed wood to build a fire. I light a match, watch the dry sticks burst into flame. Wisps of silvery smoke fill the air with the sharp, sweet scent of cedar and fir. When the fire pit fills with hot coals, Jonnie brings me the trout he has caught and cleaned. I cook the fish over glowing embers. When ready, we pull the blackened skin off the fish, eat the steamy pink flesh and sip Pale Ale as the sun lowers in a violet-blue sky.
For a year, we will repeat this pattern. Winter and fall weekends at the cabin, spring and summer camping along mountain streams, rivers, and lakes. I meet his aging parents; we enjoy meals together. I’m in awe of his down-to-earth mother who gardens and practices yoga. I’m invited to his brother’s home for Thanksgiving. I believe my integration into his family means our relationship is evolving, and something smolders inside me. Love’s flame flickers. Jonnie tells me early on he’s not interested in marriage, and I’m okay with that. We have both been married and divorced before. We have grown children. Marriage doesn’t seem necessary, so I assume our relationship is monogamous. And yet, even though Jonnie gives me his full attention when we’re together, there are red flags. Possibilities of another woman. Calls he never answers, but I hear the context on the answering machine —too intimate for a friend.
I know who she is, his friend from Ashland, Oregon; he had done some photography work for her; she occasionally comes down to the hot springs where Jonnie works as a massage therapist. They’ve been friends for a few years.
Months later, as we sit together on the small couch inside the cabin, Jonnie’s phone rings, but he doesn’t answer the call. She leaves an overtly intimate message. I suddenly have no doubts about their relationship. My heart stops. Tears fill my eyes.
“Are you intimate with her?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “Is that a problem?”
When I reflect back, I realize he knew another woman would be a problem. Otherwise, he would have been more truthful about their relationship rather than referring to her as a friend.
“Jonnie, I’m sorry. You told me you weren’t into marriage, but I didn’t know that meant you’re seeing another woman. And I’ve fallen in love with you.” He wraps his arms around me, tenderly wipes away a tear with his finger. “I’m flattered,” he says.
I’m Flattered? No, I love you, too? No reassurance that my deep love is reciprocated. My heart aches, longs for a different response, but I’m painfully aware of the reality of our situation.
And that’s it. I’m the interloper. The other. How could I have been so naïve? Maybe I chose to ignore the warning signs, but the sirens are blaring now. I collect my things, sobbing, and walk to the door. Once we’re outside, Jonnie grabs me, holds me tight, and kisses me goodbye. I look back at the cabin, brush my hand down Jonnie’s shoulder, his arm, briefly touch his hand, then walk towards my truck. The sun is setting as I drive away, Mount Shasta looming in the distance. Brilliant reds and golds color the sky and the mountain, then slowly turn an inky black as the distance between me and the mountain widens.
Kandi Maxwell writes creative nonfiction and lives off-grid in Northern California. She is a retired English teacher and former back country guide. Her stories have been published in Hippocampus Magazine, The Raven’s Perch, The Offbeat, The Meadow and other literary journals and anthologies. Her memoir, Snow After Fire, was published by Legacy Book Press in 2023. Learn about Kandi at kandimaxwell.com.