There are no windows outside leading in. The door is metal, and the lock is solid. They have no fucking crowbar to break it off. They could shoot it, but catching a ricocheted bullet to the face doesn’t sound like a fun time.
They stand side by side in the small hallway, scowling at the barrier that refuses to give way.
“Plan B?” Nora tilts her head toward the other, weaker door to their left that holds the maintenance room.
The rusted hinges on the lock tell him this might be a whole lot easier. He takes a hunting knife pilfered from the cabin and wedges it into the space between the lock and the door.
“Let me try first,” she offers. “Please.”
He’s using his good arm, but that doesn’t mean the rest of his body isn’t still on fire, so he agrees easily enough. Isn’t trying to prove anything to her anyway. When she takes up his spot and gives it a solid yank, working the leverage, the hinge pops right off.
They can’t get inside fast enough. Their joy only overflows when turning on the power and heat, along with running water, is as simple as flicking a few switches. Still no internet when they turn on the lone, dusty computer, but they’ve got plenty of fuel, so he’ll take it.
She grins at him as warm air begins to filter out the vents. “Things are looking up. We should celebrate.”
“How?”
“Well, first I’d like to take a hot shower and then maybe we can open that bottle of whiskey in the pantry.”
“Trying to get me drunk?” he jokes.
“I’m the lightweight. I think you’ll be just fine, don’t worry, I won’t take advantage.”
He wants her to take advantage, but doesn’t dare admit that. “You’re on.”
* * *
They both smell like flowers. Something called hibiscus in the bottle of soap left behind.
It makes him less weird about getting closer to her now that he’s clean, and when they take up the bed again with her back to the wall and his to the headboard, making a little triangle, every inhale is like heaven when it wafts off her skin.
She unscrews the cap from a bottle of whiskey and offers him a sip, but he lets her go first, laughing when she ends up in a coughing fit.
“Easy there, lightweight.”
She’s unbothered, handing him his turn. “You know, I’m not even sure if I am. I haven’t been drinking enough to know. I think the worst I’ve had was feeling tipsy after some wine coolers. This has never been my drug of choice, by the way.I know some people prefer to go one hundred percent clean regardless, and that’s valid, but I only have a normal amount of fondness for a good drink.”
“I wasn’t worried about that.” He dips his head, taking a swallow.
“Okay, okay, tell me one of your drunk stories.”
“Dunno that I have any.”
“Really?” she asks, skeptically. “No wild parties in Aspen or the south of France?”
“Oh, those,” he replies dramatically. “I dunno if you’re ready for those.”
“Far too scandalous for my delicate sensibilities?”
“Exactly. Actually, I do have one.”
Her eyes brighten and she leans slightly forward, eager to hear more.
“It was the first time I ever took a drink. There was this kid at school, I was seventeen by the way, and he and I would hang out sometimes. Not always. But, sometimes. Well, he shows up with a case of beer one day, and I always thought I’d never touch it because I saw what it did to my dad on those nights he was mourning my mother. He leaned on that bottle after she passed more than he should have. But I was in a mood that day and I thought fuck it.”
He pauses, swirling the bottle thoughtfully.
“So we get pretty lit and as I’m walking home later, thinking I’m sober enough, I hear my brother outta nowhere yelling like he’s in a horror movie. I turn around and here comes Oliver running down the street, one hand holding his pants up, and what do I do?”
