There’s a pause. Not a long one. But long enough.
“Sorry to have intruded,” she mutters, and closes the bathroom door with more force than necessary.
I stand in the hall like an idiot and listen to the lock click.Perfect.Day one and she already hates the situation.
I take a breath, then two, and go back to the living room to stoke the fire. It gives my trembling hands something to do. The generator’s half-revived hum is comforting and suspect at the same time, like a smoker’s cough pretending to be a working engine. I feed the fire until the logs catch bright again, then strip off my wet jacket and hang everything near the hearth. My sweater clings damply to my skin, and I peel it off, toss it onto the chair, and pull on a dry thermal.
When Ally emerges from the bathroom wrapped in an oversized towel with steam clinging to her hair, I look away, desperately pretending I’m not in the middle of remembering every soft-edged detail I’ve tried my whole adult life to forget.
Once she comes back to the room, she’s in yoga pants and a beige knit sweater, both clinging slightly from dampness, but at least she isn’t shivering.
“I didn’t see my bag,” she says, frowning.
“It’s by the door. I was going to bring it in, but you came in looking like a frozen Muppet and I, uh, panicked.”
Her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. She loses that battle after half a second. “Glad to know my near-death experience evokes Muppet imagery.”
The laugh that escapes me is too soft, too relieved. “You made it here alive, didn’t you? That’s impressive in itself. The roads are pure hell.”
“Trust me, I know.” She rubs her forehead. “I’m still vibrating from adrenaline.”
“Sit,” I say, pointing to the couch. “Warm up.”
She considers refusing. Ally Montrose’s pride is practically a living organism. But then she sighs and lowers herself onto the shabby two seater sofa. The firelight casts warm shadows across her face, letting me notice how her normally sharp, bright expression looks worn out, softer at the edges.
Hurt.
I sit in the armchair across from her, keeping distance. Close enough to talk. Far enough to keep my heart from doingsomething stupid. “So,” I start, because silence is worse, “what happened with your team Christmas?”
A muscle in her cheek twitches. “Josh fucked Olivia.”
I go completely still.He what?!
Anger radiates off her, a palpable thing. But the obvious wound isn’t entirely cloaked by it. “Jesus, Ally.”
“Yup.”
“You OK?”
“Nope.”
I wait, still reeling from Josh’s stupidity. He hadher, and he chose someone else?! Unfathomable. She stares at the fire, jaw set like she’s trying to hold back all the things she doesn’t want to say. Or shout.
“Look,” she murmurs after a moment, “I really… I just don’t want to talk about it, OK? Not with you. Not tonight.”
That hits harder than it should.
Not withyou. What the fuck does that mean?
Regardless, I nod. She gets what she needs from me, always. “OK.”
Her shoulders drop a little. Relief, maybe. Gratitude, maybe not. But I’ll take whatever she’s willing to give.
“Thank you,” she adds, softer.
I have a million questions, and I want to tell her she deserves better, that her ex is a moron of the most extreme type, that she is brilliant and extraordinary andno-oneshould get to breakher like this. But that’s a boundary I realized I could never cross years ago.
So I say nothing.
