Instead, we’re both shivering by the time we get inside.
The door’s been opened a half-dozen times, and I don’t think it’s just the effect of the chill outside making the living room feel colder. It’s possible the heater can’t keep up.
We’re in a bad spot.
I need to start a fire.
Get out of my pants and dry them.
And make this even more awkward than it already is.
6
Aspen
What doI want to do right now?
To hide in the bedroom and rest or journal or stream a show if the internet will hold up enough for it, which it clearly won’t today. We’re completely internet-less.
But what do I also want to do?
Be near Cash, who has steadfastly refused to take off his wet pants in the time since he got back inside.
I want to fill these containers with water.
Why?
Probably on a well and the power might go out, which will mean no water.
That was definitelynotin the listing for this place.
Or in the email from the owners about procedures in case of snow.
And then—why are you going back outside?
Better to get more wood in to dry now in case the power goes out. No power means no heat.
So he went back outside,in the freezing cold, to get wood to stack just inside the back door.
Shaking off the snow and ice log by log before he set it in the house.
Which brings us to now.
“Why are men so flipping stubborn?” I ask him as he kneels in front of the fireplace, blowing on the embers coming off the burning newspaper that he’s using to try to start the fire now that he’s apparently satisfied that we’re ready for an apocalypse. “I can start a fire. You don’t have to do all of this.”
“I’m not stubborn. I’m efficient. And unlike some people, I know how to start a fire with something other than a blowtorch.”
While I snort like he’s not absolutely right that half the reason I like starting fires at Cooper’s place is that he lets me use his small blowtorch to ignite the wood, Cash blows on the smoldering newspaper again. This time, one of the smaller sticks catches on fire. The embers beneath it glow red, and soon, more sticks are catching, leading to the big log catching too.
He doesn’t leave it alone until the fire’s roaring, then he puts the screen in place on the hearth.
“Can youpleaseget out of your wet pants now?” I ask.
And let me inspect your booboos.
The way he landed on the ground looked like it hurt, and I’ve seen him wince a few times while he’s been running around prepping us for Armageddon.
I don’t care how many of his action movies I’ve seen where his character pushes through the pain. It hurts, and he could probably use—something.
