I shift on the benches, tap my finger against my lip while I think. “Cut the second stop at the cabins?” I suggest, andlook up at him.
“Maybe. But I’ve got to explain how the population would be separated, how we could use the different cabingroupings for—”
“You can do that all at one stop,” I tell him, holding out the binder and pen, gesturing for him to change the route so we can shave off the time. He takes a seat next to me, but before he sets to work on the map, he puts an hand on my knee, squeezes gently. “Let’s quit after this,” he says.“You’re tired.”
“I’m fine.”
He shakes my knee, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll checkyou for ticks.”
I give an involuntary shudder. “Gross. If that’s meant to be a double entendre, you ought to know right now that you’re terrible at it.”
He chuckles, bends his head to his task, and I dig deep for the relief and pride I usually feel when I manage to crack open that hard shell of his. But he’s right. I’m tired, and a little wary too, nervous and concerned and it’s hitting me, all at once, that we’re almost done with this, that the presentation is the last major hurdle, and then one more week and this will be done—we’llbe done. I look toward the lodge and see Lorraine out on the porch, deadheading a pot of mums that are fighting the increasingly cool weather. Under Aiden’s plan, the lodge will have to expanded considerably for counseling services offices. He’s got a schematic in his binder that shows half of that wraparound porch removed, a whole new wing that would eliminate the space Paul and Lorraine had used, just last weekend, for a wedding dance floor.
I told him to take out that schematic. Maybe they don’t need to know aboutthat, for now.
When he’s done, we both wave at Lorraine and set out hiking our way back to our cabin. We stay mostly quiet, and when I look over at Aiden, I can see that he’s running through it again in his mind. I think maybe once I catch his lips moving, practicing it out, and my heart tugs in admiration, in something else I don’t want toput a name to.
Once we’re inside our cabin, I decide a hot shower is in order, maybe a nap if I can swing it before we have to meet the group. Aiden passes on the offer to join me, the binder already set out on the desk, ready for him to review again. I purse my lips in an effort not to say anything, to warn him not to overdo it so he doesn’t sound robotic tomorrow, and head into the shower. I turn the water as hot as it will go, stand under it way too long, arranging my body in the way I know now is best for avoiding that stage-five-clinger shower curtain. It’s a little funny, how used to it I am now. I know the water’s harder here, so my soap takes longer to lather. I’ve even gotten weirdly used to my bunk, to waking up close to the ceiling. I’ve got this stretch I do when I’m climbing out of it in the mornings, arching my back while I keep my hands wrapped around the top rail, my whole body lengthening in relief.
When I come out to the main room, though, I see I won’t be doing that stretch tomorrow.
Aiden’s taken apart my bunk, has found a way to detach it from the one below, setting the two beside each other and shoving them together, the once-bare bunk beneath mine made up with clean sheets and a blanket of its own. When I look over at where he sits in the chair, I can see the skin underneath his stubble flushed slightly pink, whether from embarrassment or exertion or some combination of the two. “Felt like we could use a real bed,” he says, shrugging.
“Right,” I say, a little stiffly, ignoring the feeling of his eyes on me while I walk to the dresser, pull outfresh clothes.
“That all right with you? I can put them back.” He’s already up, moving over toward the beds,but I stop him.
“No, it’s okay,” I say, crossing to him, putting my arms around him while I’m still in my towel, probably making his whole front damp. This is so different, this weekend, this affection, this—tenderness. It’s been different for a while, but him showing up to my place has changed everything, and I don’t know what kind of complication sharing a bed is going to do to me. Or maybe I do know, but I don’t want to think about it too hard just now, with those two bunks looming. I lean back from him, adjust my towel, and shrug casually. “It’ll be nice,” I say, forcing my voice into its light, teasing register. “Very civilized.”
He tips his head, some faint curiosity that passes through his expression before he smooths it out, turns back toward the desk. “Very,” he says quietly, and we don’t talk much after that.
* * * *
I think about that bed too much through dinner, but if there’s a silver lining to Aiden’s obsessive preparation for his presentation it’s that he decides to do one more round after dinner, and so I settle into it on my own, pillows stacked up and my ereader on my lap, as near as I can get to my nighttime routine at home.
He comes in late, after eleven, bringing the smell of crushed leaves and cold night air with him, his movements careful and quiet. “I’m awake,” I call to him, waving my book in the air, its screen lighting me up with the faintest glow. I can see him, though, in the light from the entryway, and he looks better—a little tired, but more relaxed too, a different person from what I saw yesterday morning.
“It went okay?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says, turning toward one of the sinks, toeing off his boots while he puts toothpaste on his toothbrush. I’m glad he’s not going to shower—he’ll still smell like the outside when he comes in. “I think it’ll work.” Then, like he’s worried he’s jinxed it, he shoves his toothbrush in his mouth, scrubbing vigorously to shut himself up. It’s a few minutes before he finishes washing up his face and hands. I notice, this time, that he doesn’t forget and shut off the light, and my standard protesting reminder dies on my lips. When he comes into the living space, he undresses quickly, draping his clothes over the desk chair before pulling on a pair of mesh athletic shorts and crawling in beside me.
There’s a moment—a tightening of the air between us, where I think—What now?It’s late, the day so long, and both of us are tired. The kind of sweaty, half-frustrated sex we have doesn’t seem fitting tonight, me with my pajamas and my book. I shut off the screen and set it down on the floor, tucking it slightly underneath the bed, wondering if maybe I should get up, go to the bunk that’s usually Aiden’s, sleep apart again.
The whir of my thoughts is stopped by his arm snaking around my waist, pulling me toward him, and I do what feels most natural, curling onto my side so he can tuck in behind me, his chin resting on the top of my head, the whole front of his body pressed against the whole back of mine. But my spine is stiff, that ramrod posture I used to have at work. Aiden tightens his arm around me and says, gruffly, “Don’t overthink it,” and somehow, it’s enough. I don’t want to overthink it. I just want to be warm and sleepy likethis, with him.
I’m drifting off when I feel Aiden’s body twitch and stiffen beside me, a grunt of discomfort escaping. He lifts the arm he has wrapped around my waist, twists his torso away from me, another small grunt. “I’m sorry,” he says, when I stir, turning toward him. “Sorry,” he repeats, and reaches his arm up, crooks his elbow awkwardly as he tries to reach and scratch at a spot on his back.
“S’okay,” I murmur, moving so I can put my own arms around him, and I scratch right above the spot he tries to reach, and he makes the most gorgeous, satisfied noise, a growly bear delight thatmakes me smile.
“Oh, God. Keep doing that. Harder. A little to the left.”
I press my smile into his chest, loving the way his body shivers in pleasure, the way his muscles bunch underneath my fingers.
“More,” he pleads, shifting so my hands go to where he wants them. “Feels so good.”
“You’re like an old man,” I say, laughing now, all that awkwardness gone. “Or a bear. You should go outside and rub yourself up against a tree, be withyour comrades.”
“Trees don’t have nails like yours,” he says, releasinganother groan.
