“And it’ll be in the single digits, he said,” Andi goes on. “There’s a risk of. Uh. Frostbite, probably.”
“And the weather could do anything.”
“It could.”
“Probably best to stay here a little longer,” Andi says, tipping her head back against the wall, looking at me through her eyelashes. “For safety.”
“Safest thing to do,” I agree, thinking about the way her throat flexes when she breathes. I bring the phone back up to my ear.
“I think we’ll wait it out here,” I say. No response. I sigh, unmute the phone, and repeat myself.
“Sounds like it’s for the best,” Dale agrees. “And anything could happen. You know what they say about the weather here.”
I slide my hand up again, still underneath Andi’s shirt, and she makes another tiny noise when I scrape a thumbnail over her nipple, even through the thick fabric. I have no idea what anyone has ever said about the weather.
“If you don’t like it, just wait ten minutes,” Dale goes on, thankfully oblivious.
“Right,” I agree.
“Stay warm,” he says. “I’ll keep you updated on the avalanche situation, but I’ve got a feeling y’all are gonna be hiking out and coming back for the truck at a later date.”
Dale goes on a little about the logistics of clearing a road, and I half-listen at best because Andi is heavy-lidded and flushed, watching me through her eyelashes, running one thumb through the trail of hair below my bellybutton. Every part of this makes that guilty feeling tug harder at me, that sickly sense ofyou shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s outweighed by the warmth of Andi’s leg, slotted against mine.
“Thanks for calling,” I say when I think Dale’s done talking, though it’s hard to be sure when you’re not really paying attention. “We’ll keep you updated on our status.”
“Be safe,” he says, and the line goes blank. I toss my phone toward the couch and have my mouth back on Andi’s before it lands. We kiss hot and slow for a few more minutes, and I don’t want to stop, but the world starts to crowd in.
Not to mention the formless, baseless sense that I shouldn’t be doing this. There’s no reason why not, just the feeling that I like it, so it’s bad and I should stop.
After a while more Andi puts a hand on my face and I pull back, touching our foreheads together. Her back’s still against this wall and I’m practically folded around her, like she’s a gravity well I’m crumpling into.
“It’ll be dark soon,” she says. It’s not late but she’s right; sundown comes early this time of year, especially in this weather. “Do we need to do anything?”
I take a deep breath and will myself to remember anything that needs to be done besideskiss Andi again. “We should get more water and firewood, at least. If it gets cold enough the creek might freeze and we won’t want to go out to get firewood.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I can feel her forehead scrunch under mine, and then she says, “I’ve been drinking creek water?”
“Filtered.”
“I’ve been drinkingfilteredcreek water?”
“It’s good for you.”
“Fish pee in that,” she points out, and I draw back a little more, enough to straighten her shirt and my sweater that she’s wearing. “And animals drink it, and stuffdiesin there, and…”
Or all the things that have happened in the past week, this is somehow the one that’s scandalizing Andi the most. I’m trying not to smile about it.
“The tadpoles and fish pee get filtered out,” I tell her. “Not that you need to worry about tadpoles this time of year.”
“I don’t think I was meant for roughing it,” she says, but she’s half smiling again, hooking a finger around my belt loop in a way that feels so natural I almost don’t notice. “When we get back, I’m taking the longest shower and turning the heat up until the house istropical.”
“You’re doing great,” I reassure her. She makes a face, but it’s cute.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
GIDEON
The wind startsa few hours after sunset and the snow comes with it. There’s a “birds of Virginia” thermometer on the back porch, facing the kitchen window, and we can practically watch the red needle fall fifteen degrees. It says it’s seven out when I finally stop watching.
