The word hangs between us. Thoughtful. Like I'm a considerate host rather than the man who's been hate-fucking him in anonymous hotel rooms for months.
"There's more stuff in the car," I say, because I don't know how to respond tothoughtful. "Blankets. Extra sheets. I wasn't sure what condition the linens here would be in."
"I can help carry."
"You don't have to—"
"It’s no problem."
We make two trips to the car. Each time we pass in the doorway, I catch a stronger wave of his scent. Each time, neither of us acknowledges it, though my body is keeping very careful track. The honey is sharper now, the citrus brighter, and there's a warmth to it that makes my mouth water.
I've cleared my schedule for a week. It took three phone calls and a favor I'd been saving for something important.
Alexander Colborne and I were at Yale together. I helped him out of a situation our sophomore year—the kind of situation that would have ended up front page of the tabloids. He's told me half a dozen times since that he owes me, that I saved his bacon, that if I ever need anything, just ask.
Yesterday, I asked.
Now, as far as my father and Warren know, I'm upstate with Alex for an off-grid reset. Alex Colborne is old money and an old friend, and after years in the spotlight, he knows the value of time away from the public eye. Alex has asked his assistant to confirm the story if anyone calls
Warren was almost pleased when I told him. "Good," he said. "Take a few days. God knows you've earned it after dealing with Dean's smear campaign. I'll handle any press questions—tell them you're taking a much-needed vacation that you'd postponed to deal with this mess."
He liked the framing. Carter Crane, so dedicated to defending his family's honor that he delayed his own vacation. It plays well.
I watch Jamie take in the cabin as we carry stuff from the car. His eyes move over the worn leather couch, the stone fireplace with its blackened grate, the braided rug my grandmother made decades ago. He's taking notes of everything the way journalists do.
His gaze lingers on the photographs.
There are a lot of them. My grandmother never believed in minimalism. The walls are cluttered with frames of all sizes: black and white shots of people I never knew, faded color photos from the seventies and eighties, more recent ones of Kate and me. In one, we're standing on the dock, maybe eight and six years old, squinting into the summer sun. I'm grinning with a gap where my front teeth should be. Kate has her arm flung around my shoulders, mid-laugh.
"This is nice," Jamie says finally. "The cabin."
"It was my grandmother's. My mother's mother." I set a stack of blankets on the couch. "She left it to my mom when she died. But no one really uses it anymore."
"Why not?"
"My father thinks it's too rustic. Too far from anything useful." I shrug. "Kate prefers five-star hotels. Room service. Spas. She doesn't see the point of a place where you have to make your own bed."
"But you come."
"Sometimes." I look around the room, trying to see it through his eyes. The worn furniture, the slightly musty smell that no amount of airing out ever fully eliminates, the creaky floorboards. "When I need quiet."
Jamie nods slowly. His eyes are still on the photos, lingering on the one of Kate and me on the dock.
"You were cute," he says. "As a kid."
I don't know what to do with that. The comment feels too intimate, even though we've done far more intimate things than exchange childhood observations.
"Kate put a frog in my bed approximately ten minutes after that picture was taken," I say.
Something flickers across Jamie's face. Not quite a smile, but close. "Sounds like a good sister."
"She's a menace." But I say it with affection, and I see Jamie register the warmth in my voice when I talk about her. I'm not sure I want him knowing that about me, but it's too late to take it back.
We end up in the kitchen again, putting away the rest of the groceries together. Side by side, reaching around each other, navigating the small space. I'm acutely aware of every near-miss, every moment when his arm almost brushes mine, every shift in the air when he moves.
This is strange. Wrong. We're not friends. We're not even lovers, not really. Lovers implies affection at least, if not actual love. We’re certainly not that.
"The bedroom's through there," I say, gesturing toward the door at the back of the cabin. "Bathroom's off the hall. There's a—" I stop myself. I was about to give a tour, like Jamie is a houseguest here for a pleasant weekend visit.
