“A caffeinated boot,” I pointed out, taking my own sip and immediately regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.
“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted,” Holly said, taking another sip anyway. “Why am I still drinking it?”
“Because caffeine,” I said, forcing down another mouthful of what might charitably be called coffee-adjacent liquid.
“Because caffeine,” Holly agreed.
It was ridiculous. We were stranded in a cabin with prehistoric provisions and enough snow outside to bury a small town, and somehow, I felt better than I had in months. Maybe it was the great fuck, the sleep that actually made me feel rested, the caffeine, or maybe it was the way Holly looked first thing in the morning—rumpled and beautiful and completely herself without any of the careful presentation she maintained around other people.
“Okay,” Holly said, finishing her coffee with the determination of someone completing an unpleasant but necessary task. “I’m sufficiently caffeinated to attempt snow removal. What’s the plan?”
I plunged one leg forward into the snow and immediately sank to my knees. “Jesus,” I gasped, the cold seeping through my jeans. Holly followed, wobbling as her right boot disappeared entirely.
“Motherf—” she yelped, grabbing my arm to keep from falling. “This isn’t snow. This is frozen quicksand.”
Three steps later, she lost her balance completely, toppling sideways into a drift. I reached for her hand but missed, watching as she flailed dramatically before disappearing up to her waist.
“My boots,” she moaned, extracting one leg to reveal a sleek leather ankle boot now caked with ice. “These are Frye. They cost more than my first car payment. This is your fault,” she growled, as I hauled her upright. “You and your attractive face and your property inventory needs.”
“My attractive face is not responsible for the weather,” I pointed out, though I was discovering that digging through two feet of snow was significantly more challenging than anticipated.
“Your attractive face is responsible for me being here,” Holly countered, as we trudged some more and finally reached the shed. She pulled the door open with a triumphant “Ha!”
The shovels were ancient and possibly older than the coffee, but they were functional. After making our slow and curse-filled way back to the car, I got to work, jamming my shovel into the snow with a grunt. “This is like trying to dig through concrete with a spoon.”
Holly tossed a shovelful over her shoulder, her breath clouding in front of her face. “At least concrete doesn’t keep falling back into the hole.” She straightened, pressing a gloved hand against her lower back. “God, my kingdom for a snowblower.”
“Your kingdom being...?”
“Right now? My parents’ house and an age-old Civic whose lit-up check engine light is a permanent fixture on the dashboard.”
She attacked the drift again, then paused mid-scoop. “Did you just make that snow angel on purpose, or did you fall?”
I looked up from where I’d landed after slipping on a patch of ice. “Tactical rest break.”
“Fuck that! Get digging, Hayes!”
Her incandescent rage was glorious.
We went silent, except for the occasional puffing, as we dug and dug some more.
“I can’t feel my feet,” Holly announced after we’d managed to clear roughly half of my car.
“That’s normal,” I said, though I was beginning to question whether we were actually making progress or just moving snow from one location to another.
“This is not normal,” Holly said, gesturing at the winter wasteland around us. “Normal is having heat and indoorplumbing and coffee that doesn’t require archaeological expertise to consume.”
“You’re very high maintenance for someone who grew up in Vermont,” I observed, pausing to catch my breath.
“I’m not high maintenance,” Holly protested. “I just have reasonable expectations about not freezing to death before noon.”
She glowered at me and went back to digging, leaving me to do the same.
It took another hour and several strategic breaks for warming up by the fire, but we finally managed to dig out enough of the car to make escape theoretically possible. By the time we finished, we were both soaked, exhausted, and covered in snow.
“I look like a snowman,” Holly said, examining her reflection in the car window. Her hair was escaping from her ponytail in every direction, her cheeks were bright red from the cold, and she had snow stuck to every available surface.
“You look beautiful,” I said without thinking, and then immediately realized that probably wasn’t the kind of casual, no-complications response she was looking for.
