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“I’m sorry,” I blurt, clasping a hand over my mouth. “It’s just so . . . Of course. Of course there would only be one bed.”
Oliver walks back to me and closes the door. “We don’t need to blow this out of proportion. Take the bed. I can sleep right here.” He points to the narrow space on the floor next to the table.
“You’re not going to sleep on the floor.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.” He shrugs. “I have my sleeping bag, and maybe the front desk has a cot to spare. It’ll do just fine.”
“Okay, then. That’s settled.” I don’t argue, because there’s not a world that exists where I would agree to share the bed with him.
He offers me a faint smile. “Perfect. I’ll start working on warming the place up.”
“What?”
“There are logs out front and twigs. I’ll start the fire for the night.” He nods toward the door, his hazelnut hair brushing his forehead.
“Oh. Thanks.” I rein in my desire to sink my fingers into the mass of strands that look as soft as silk.
Treacherous, treacherous mind.
While Oliver busies himself gathering what he needs for the fire, I slip into the bathroom, power through a quick shower, and put on a pair of old shorts and a too-large shirt.
When I come out, the fire is already crackling and warming the room. Oliver is sitting at the table, a book in his hand.
“Good night,” I murmur, pulling the blanket off the bed.
He looks up from his book, his gaze tripping on my legs before he clears his throat. “Good night, Charlee.”
I open my eyes to the early morning sun streaming through the cabin, casting the place in gentle honey light.
I stretch my limbs out wide. I can’t recall the last time I slept this well, and a teeny-tiny part of me feels guilty for having made Oliver take the floor. Maybe we can switch tonight.
I make a move to get up, but when I do, I notice the number of covers piled on top of me. There must be at least three. No, four.
Did I get up during the night to grab them? I have a vague memory of a dream where I was reporting from Antarctica and freezing my ass off, but I don’t recall waking up and getting these.
I look around the room for clues, but I only find Oliver standing by the bay window, his back to me. He’s leaning casually against the windowsill, coffee in hand, staring off into the distance.
He mustn’t have noticed that I’m awake. It gives me time to lose myself in his tousled hair curling in big waves at the nape of his neck, just above the white T-shirt he’s wearing. It outlines the edges of his back, working around the solid muscles of his shoulders before it falls to his hips. My eyes glide lower over the simple gray sweatpants he’s sporting, stopping at his bare feet. That sight has more of an effect on me than I can explain.
I feel as if I’m intruding on a private moment I have no business being a part of. Like I shouldn’t know how he looks when he gets out of bed in the morning unless I’ve woken up right next to him. The thought pulls at something in me. And just like the past few days spent with him getting frustrated and feeling a thousand things at once, it’s hard to understand what exactly, but it keeps pulling and pulling until it feels impossible to breathe. I mourned the loss of this love and never looked back. I did that already. So why do I have to welcome him back into my life? How am I supposed to act like I’m totally indifferent to him?
How? How am I supposed to do that?
How am I supposed to ignore the deepest connection I ever made? How can I pretend that my body isn’t aware of him sleeping just a few inches away from me when memories of the intimate letters we shared flash through my mind and heat my skin?
My frustration rises, and I throw the covers off. I still don’t understand how I ended up buried underneath them.
Oliver hears and turns. I look at the covers, then at him.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee. “You were cold,” he says, then turns his gaze back outside.
Pine Falls, December 8, 2017
Hey Char,
I wasn’t expecting the photo you sent with your last letter. It left me all kinds of speechless. Not to sound like a creep (probably gonna sound like one anyway), but I might have stared at it for a solid ten minutes after I opened the envelope.
You want honesty? I might have committed it to memory so, wherever I am, I can close my eyes and imagine the soft lines of your collarbone with the pendant I made resting on your neck.
