“Yes, please.” She sits at the counter while I start the kettle for the French press. An awkward beat passes when neither of us seems to know where to look.
I follow her eyes as they roam curiously around my place. The large fireplace before the too-small couch. The bedroom furniture I bought on sale a few months ago taking up too much space behind it. The small square dining table that seats four below a chandelier meant for a table at least twice as wide. And this kitchen. Right now, it’s the best looking spot in here, uncluttered and spacious.
“This all looks brand new.” She nods at the appliances as her hands smooth over the shiny countertop.
“That’s because it is.”
She nods.
I nod.
Another beat of silence that has me wondering about those boxers again.
“It’s nice. I . . . I kind of love the whole style.”
Don’t break out into song.
“Thanks.” I remember what I’m doing here, and pick up the spatula, pointing it at her as I take the lid off the warm pan. “Veggiefrittata okay?”
“Sounds good.”
I slide a plate toward her, and watch as she makes a bite with her fork. She pauses before eating it.
“There aren’t any peppers in it,” I say.
Her eyes snap up. “What?”
My hand goes to the back of my neck, rubbing. “I thought you might be wondering since you don’t like them . . .”
She shakes her head, and quickly takes the bite, eyes closing momentarily. “This is really good.” She says, sounding impressed, then swallows. “But, um . . . I wanted to thank you. For . . . finding me.”
“Oh.” My muscles relax. I didn’t know I’d been tense. “I’m really glad I found you.” The words are quiet.
She holds my gaze for a moment before returning to her food. Words rise and die in my throat until I finally look away and plate some breakfast for myself. We eat and sip coffee in uncomfortable silence. There’s so much I want to say to her, and I sense she has something on her mind, too. The air is thick and icy as tension builds between us, but neither of us says a word as we watch the snow fall out the window.
When I collect our laundry, she follows me to the door that leads to the rest of the cabin. I look down at her. “Put on those slides,” I say, nodding at a pair of sandals by the door.
I shove my socked feet into my work boots and open the door.
She walks slow, as if unsure she should even be here. But she takes in every detail of the unfinished space, poking her head into a bathroom where I just finished tiling the shower. We walk into the small laundry room, the only space back here that’s completely done. She meanders out,presumably to scope out the rest of the rooms, as I throw a load in the washer.
When I’m done, I find her in the largest bedroom. Mine. She stands in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the creek, burbling beneath sheets of ice. She looks so right standing here, and I can picture her still here once it’s all finished, I’ve swept the dust, and the furniture is in place.
“Look,” she says, pointing.
On a large patch of ice, dozens of mallards huddle together. One or two paddle around in the freezing water, dipping their head down before popping back up again.
“Looks cold.”
On cue, she shivers and folds her arms. “Cozy, I think. To have everyone work together to keep one another safe.”
“Maybe,” I say.
She looks up. “You don’t think that’s what they’re doing?”
“I think it’s a sweet thought. But I wonder if some of those ducks would rather be on their own, not part of the group.”
“They’d freeze,” she says. “Besides, no one really wants to be alone.”
