“About that,” Holly said, turning away from the window. “I’ve conducted a thorough inventory of the kitchen supplies, and our options are limited to one jar of what might have been instant coffee sometime around two decades ago, a sleeve of crackers that sound like maracas when you shake them, and half a jar of peanut butter that I’m not entirely convinced isn’t older than I am.”
I trailed behind her into the kitchen, where open cabinet doors and pulled-out drawers revealed the aftermath of her desperate hunt for sustenance. The ancient jar of Folgers crystals sat on the counter like a sad monument to forgotten vacations, its contents having formed some kind of crystallinestructure that looked more like a science experiment than a beverage.
“That’s definitely seen better days,” I admitted, picking up the jar and giving it an experimental shake. It made a sound like sand in a bucket.
“I tried to scrape some out,” Holly said, showing me a spoon that looked like it had been used to mine for precious metals. “But I’m pretty sure those aren’t coffee crystals anymore. They might be fossilized.”
Despite everything—the snow, the questionable provisions, the awkward morning-after energy between us—I found myself laughing. The situation was so absurdly domestic, so completely different from the intensity of yesterday, that it felt like we’d tumbled into some kind of alternate universe where it was determined to test whether we could handle practical challenges as well as we’d handled physical ones.
“What’s so funny?” Holly asked, though she was fighting a smile herself.
“This,” I said, gesturing around the kitchen. “Yesterday I was doing inventory for my parents. Today I’m conducting archaeological surveys on instant coffee with a woman who just criticized my snow observation skills.”
“Your snow observation skills are terrible,” Holly said, but she was definitely smiling now. “That’s not ‘more than expected.’ That’s ‘call the National Guard.’”
“Noted,” I said, moving to investigate the crackers. They did indeed sound like instruments when disturbed. “How are your wilderness survival skills?”
“Terrible,” Holly admitted cheerfully. “I can navigate corporate bureaucracy and plan events for five hundred people, but ask me to start a fire without matches and I’ll probably burn down the forest.”
“Good thing we have matches,” I said, relieved that at least one aspect of our situation was manageable.
“Good thing you know how to use them,” Holly countered. “Because my fire-making skills are limited to ‘throw wood at flame and hope for best.’”
We stood in the tiny kitchen, grinning at each other over our mutual incompetence in outdoor survival, and for a moment the awkwardness that had been building since we woke up dissipated. This felt normal, comfortable even. Like we were a team figuring out a challenge together instead of two people trying to navigate the morning after incredibly good sex.
“Okay,” I said, moving into practical mode. “First priority is getting that car dug out. Second priority is getting back to town before your mother calls in search and rescue.”
“Oh god,” Holly said, her eyes widening with panic. “My mother. She’s going to think I was murdered by a serial killer who preys on women foolish enough to go north in a Vermont winter without supplies. How exactly do we dig out a vehicle that’s buried under approximately fourteen feet of snow?”
“Slight exaggeration,” I pointed out. “But first, we see if there are any shovels in the shed outside,” I said, moving toward the door. “Second, we accept that this is going to take a while and probably involve a lot of creative cursing on both our parts.”
“I can handle the creative cursing,” Holly said confidently. “That’s definitely within my skill set.”
I opened the front door and immediately regretted it as a wall of cold air hit us like a physical force. The snow was deep enough that stepping outside would mean immediately sinking in up to my knees, and the path to the shed was completely obliterated.
“Nope,” Holly said immediately, backing away from the door. “Absolutely not. I refuse to freeze to death before I’ve had coffee.”
“We need shovels,” I pointed out, though I was already closing the door again because holy hell, it was cold out there.
“We need coffee more,” Holly said firmly. “Or at least something that resembles coffee. Even if it’s technically geological formations.”
I looked at the ancient jar of Folgers and made an executive decision. “Right. Emergency coffee, it is.”
“Emergency coffee?”
“Trust me,” I said, filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove. “I’ve made coffee in worse conditions.”
“When?” Holly asked skeptically.
“College. Law school. That year I lived in a studio apartment with a hot plate and dreams of legal glory,” I said, opening the jar and attempting to scrape out enough crystalline formations to approximate coffee. “The key is lowering your expectations to subterranean levels.”
“My expectations are already there,” Holly assured me. “At this point, I’d settle for hot brown water that contains caffeine.”
“Good, because that is probably what you’re going to get.” I managed to excavate what might have been coffee grounds from the jar and dumped them into the boiling water, creating a mixture that looked like swamp water and smelled like regret.
“Voilà,” I said, presenting Holly with a mug of the questionable brew. “Emergency coffee.”
She took a tentative sip and immediately made a face like she’d been poisoned. “Jesus Christ, Declan. This tastes like someone dissolved a boot in water.”
