“Cooties?”
“I promise not to tell anyone that I tainted your honor by sleeping in the same room as you, even,” she says, and there are circles under her eyes and an edge to her voice and it’s been such a long day. “Just sleep in the fucking bed. It’s not even the same bed.”
Part of me wants to, because that would be the normal thing to do. It’s what anyone would do, but I’m not anyone. I’m the guy who came out here to be alone for two weeks and who doesn’t want to be with his family on Christmas; who’s never slept with anyone literally or metaphorically.
I’m the guy who’s thirty-two and still a virgin, technically, which I feel like she’ll somehowknowif I sleep in the same room as her.
“I’m not worried about youtainting my honor,” I tell her, and turn away. “I’ll be on the couch. Sleep well.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” she calls after me.
“No.”
“I’m shorter,” she argues, rising. “I come way closer to fitting on it than you do.”
“You spent last night chained to a tree.”
“So obviously, I can sleep anywhere.”
She looks pissed, tired and bedraggled, her strawberry-blonde hair still in a braid, flyaways escaping. There are circles under her eyes and she looks strange and angular and pale in the shadows from the oil lamp on her bedside table, but I can’t stop looking. I can’t stop feeling like some part of me has gotten detached and knotted up in the past couple hours and I haven’t a clue how to fix it.
When we were kids, I followed her anywhere. Being with Andi felt like chasing a sunbeam: she was alwaysgoing, always laughing, always full of ideas for adventure, so bright I could never look away. She never wanted me to take care of her, and I always loved her for it. Even now, literally rescuing her from a snowstorm, it somehow doesn’t feel liketaking care.
She was the best part of my childhood, and I was the worst part of hers. Maybe the couch is penance.
“Do you need more pillows?” I ask, because I think there’s one more in the chest, but it’s just as sad and flat as the one already on her twin bed. “I figured you’d sleep in your sleeping bag, it’ll be warmer than the blankets they’ve got here.”
She gives me a long, serious look. I swear the shadows under her eyes deepen.Steve Wheeler, I think, and swallow hard because I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing.
“No thanks,” she finally says. “If you get too uncomfortable in the middle of the night, feel free to—”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, and turn away to brush my teeth and leave her in peace.
CHAPTERSIX
ANDI
If I didn’t know better,I’d think I was having this argument with a Yeti.
“Of course I’m coming with you,” I tell the creature who just walked into the cabin, either Gideon or the Abominable Snowman. “You can’t just go off alone into the woods like that, it’s dangerous. What if you get hurt?”
Gideon/Abominable crouches to unlace his boots. There’s a long, annoyed silence until he steps out of them, leaving them in the tray by the door.
“I won’t get hurt,” he says, unzipping his jacket and hanging it on a hook.
“I’m so glad you’ve got magical future-sight powers,” I say, which is a stupid comeback, but I’ve been awake for all of five minutes after sleeping for thirteen hours, so I’m not at my wittiest. “I’m still coming with you.”
“I’m fine on my own,” he says, crossing the room in sock feet, sturdy-looking pants, and what looks to be multiple layers of flannel. “You should stay here and rest, you just spent two nights chained to a tree.”
“I’m rested,” I tell him as he walks past me, bringing the cold air with him. I shiver and cross my arms over my chest, because I’m wearing long johns and nothing else and I don’t need my nipples to help me win this argument. Not that I think they would, since Gideon seems singularly uncharmed by me.
“No,” he says again, this time from the kitchen. “Do you like bacon?”
“Everyone likes bacon, and yes, I’m coming,” I say, following him as far as the doorway, arms still crossed. “What kind of question is that?”
“Vegetarians don’t,” he points out, opening the avocado-colored fridge and peering in.
“They like it, they just don’t eat it,” I say, and finally realize something. “Is there electricity up here?”
