He shrugs. “They don’t tend to fuss over things that don’t matter.” I pause a half step, thinking of that. Things that don’t matter? Maybe I was way off base and unfair, but Aiden’s talk of the Dillards being “traditional”—not to mention cabins named after Gospels—had me expecting something a lot different here, something a little less…flexible? I want to ask him about that, but he’s forged ahead, head down, making his way up to the second cabin on our right.
When I catch up, he’s paused in front of the door, his body still. Then he turns back toward me, snags a water from the side pocket of his bag, and holds it out. “You look hot,” he says, pushing the bottle at my hand. There’s no kindness in the gesture; it’s like I’ve insulted him bybeing too warm.
“Mr. O’Leary, how you flatter me,” I snipe back, taking the bottle and twisting the cap off with a satisfying crack. He watches as I take a few sips, and I lower the bottle. “Are we going to stand hereall day, or…?”
If I weren’t watching him so closely, I’d miss the way his shoulders raise slightly from the deep breath he’s taking in through his nose. He turns his back to me again, fumbles the key in the door, a quick flick of his wrist to open it.
As soon as I cross the threshold, I drop my pack on the floor, taking another long drink of water to keep myself from letting out the groan of relief I feel at having it off. I’d like to sit down right where I stand, start unlacing the boots that feel too new, too tight, but I’m too curious to check out the cabin and see what manner of domestic lunacy I’m supposed to endurewhile I’m here.
And it is, in fact, domestic lunacy. I’m standing in a long room, cheap tile floors underneath my feet, two sinks bolted to the wall on my left. Past them, two putty-colored stalls, same as you’d find in a public restroom. And past that? A pale blue, very thin curtain hanging from a square of steel rods, a utilitarian showerheadvisible above.
“Nope,” I say, and turn back toward the door.
I hear Aiden’s derisive snort behind me. “This is that mental toughnessyou mentioned?”
I stop, turn back to face him. He’s leaning in the doorway that leads to the part of the cabin I haven’t yet seen, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze assessing. But there’s this quirk at the edge of his mouth, not a smile, but the beginnings of one.I’d like to make him smile for real,I think, surprising myself. It’s the way he holds it back, that’s the thing. It makes me want to chase a smile rightonto his face.
I take a deep breath, look again at the sinks, the stalls, the shower. “Here’s the deal. You leave this cabin when I have to—when I use the facilities, or shower. You can wait outside on the front stoop, and I’ll knockwhen I’m done.”
“Fine.”
“Fine,” I repeat back, brushing past him to see the rest of the cabin.
It’s clear that everything here is designed for functionality, for summers of kids and teenagers. Commercial-grade carpet, a seen-better-days pine dresser with a drawer missing, and two sets of bunk beds, the kind of plastic mattresses I had in my college dorm room, each with a set of sheets and a thick navy blanket folded on top. There’s a desk pushed underneath the cabin’s one window, a compact wood chair to match, and no way is Aiden ever going to be able to sit in that thing, let alone get his legs underneath the desk. Come to think of it, he’s not going to fit easily in one of the bunk beds, either, so at least I’m not the only one who doesn’t quite belong here.
“Top or bottom?” he says, hefting my pack from where I dropped it and bringingit over to me.
“Uh. Bottom?” I say, pointing to the bunk that’s closest to the far wall. He sets his own pack on the bottom bunk that sits a few feet away, and I don’t like this, the thought of us sleeping next to each other, even with a few feet of floor between us. “Top,” I correct.
“Harder to make thebed up there.”
“That’s okay. I’ve never slept in a bunk bed. Might as well get the full experience.”
“Suit yourself.”
For a while we unpack in silence, Aiden making up his bed first, me pulling out my few items of clothing and placing them in a single drawer. It’s a strange sort of quiet, none of the faint mechanical noise I’m used to hearing in my condo—the HVAC kicking on or shutting off, the hum of my appliances, the tinny noise of the television even when it’s switched off. On the drive, at least we had the noise from the car engine, and, when the music had given way to static, the sonorous tones of the NPR station Aiden had found to get us through the rest of the way. So maybe it’s this particular quiet that makes me extra aware of the way he moves, sharp and forceful as he tucks the sheets, as he arranges his bag at the foot of his bed. When even those noises have faded, I turn toward him, and find him standing there beside his pack, one hand clenched around the metal bed frame, his eyes focused on the top bunk.
“I need to go out,” he says suddenly, releasing the bed and heading for the entryway.
“Wait—what?”
He takes a quick look at his watch. “I’ll be back in an hour so we can walk over to the lodge for lunch.”
“Wait—” I repeat, more forcefully this time, but he talksright over me.
“I’ll be on the west trail,” he says, which means absolutely nothing to me. I have no idea why he’d even say it.
“Aiden.” He pauses, turning his profile toward me. He really is handsome, carved planes for cheekbones, his nose bold—on a smaller man, it would be prominent, the first thing you’d notice. But on Aiden it’s perfectly fitted. “You can’tleave me here.”
But hecanleave me here. He’s got no reason not to. There are no witnesses to this; there’s no one here to fake it for. I’m not an idiot—based on what Lorraine said down at the lodge, and based on that hollow look in Aiden’s eyes, this cabin is full of painful memories for him. If we were friends—if he were even willing totryto be friends, I could ask him, maybe, if he’s okay. If he’d like to go for a walk. Or, hell, help me make my top bunk, which I can see now is clearly going to be complicated. At the very least that ought to give him the pleasure of mocking me further.
“One hour,” he says, andthen he’s gone.
Chapter 4
Aiden
She’s on the front stoop when I get back, her elbows propped on her knees, chin resting on her upturned hands, looking almost—amused? When I approach, hands stuffed in my pockets, she looks up at me. Her eyes are fall colors, the burnished gold of an early sugar maple turning for the season, so well suited to this place thatit’s startling.
