I miss it, too, but even if we had traps out, the days hauling would have been few this time around. The heart of winter is mainly for maintenance on the boat and equipment. Today, I happily work on it myself, glad for the distraction it offers from my beautiful, sunny neighbor.
It’s fully dark by the time I get home in the afternoon—the early nightfall the other part of winter that works against us. We’d still be on the water if this were July.
I slow the truck as I near Oliver’s drive, peering through the window to make sure his lights are on. A friendly neighbor thing to do, and not a creepy one, I tell myself, even though I can’t ignore the part of me that wishes the house were dark. I wouldn’t mind if every single day of our week off was spent the same way I’d spent the last couple. Tapping my fingers on the wheel, I press harder on the brake, not coming to a full stop but to a crawl.
I shouldn’t. I should drive the last couple of minutes to my house and leave him alone. He doesn’t need me and very probably doesn’t want me. I should go home, check the chickens, and get back to my usual routine. Do the same things I’ve done in the evenings my entire adult life and not let two days with Oliver change that.
Instead, I flatten my palm on the steering wheel and turn toward his house. It can’t hurt to make sure he has heat. Just because it’s no longer snowing doesn’t mean his damn heater is working. He’s probably not wrong about that house being haunted. I’ve lived next door for five years, and most of that time, it’s been vacant. Only two people have lived there for any length of time, and Oliver is one of them. If I thought I could talk him into it, I’d ask him to just live in my guest room and stop trying to do renovations himself. I wouldn’t have thought Oliver to be stubborn, but he’s been as hardheaded as a mule when it comes to getting his hands dirty in that money pit.
I’ve barely got the truck in park when the front door opens and he sticks his head out. I relax a little bit, seeing the smile stretched ear to ear and the wave so vigorous he’s going todislocate his own arm. Turning off the ignition, I wave back—in a slightly less enthusiastic manner—and push open the door. He starts talking before my boots hit snow.
“Hey, Nils! Pretty sure I’m a witch since I was just going to invite you over for dinner, and here you are. I was only going to make enchiladas, but then I thought, it’s still pretty cold, so maybe soup would be good. So, now I’ve got enchiladasandsopa azteca. I was thinking maybe I should whip up some sopapillas for dessert, too. Then, I was going to call you and try to tempt you over.”
He grins at me, dimples carved so deep in his cheeks they’re throwing shadows. His hair, flopped over the left side of his face like he was running his hands through it, looks as bright as the fresh snow on the ground. With his sea-glass eyes on mine, I’m reminded once more of how good he looks in winter.
“Heat working?” I ask, mounting the porch and leaning down to take off my boots. His house is already a war zone; there’s no need for me to add to the mess.
“It is! Hallelujah and further proof that I’m magical. Or maybe that’s you.”
I snort, following him inside and closing the door behind us. Lightness bleeds through my body, tension I hadn’t even known I was holding sloughing away. Maybe he’s not a witch but a siren, luring lobstermen to him with a smile and a song.
“I turned it up, too. I’m not even cold, but there’s something about looking out the window and seeing snow that makes me feel like I am, you know? Oh, I also baked a couple breads today. That was the other thing I was going to offer you. If Spanishcuisine didn’t work, I was going to bring out the homemade sourdough and watch your resolve crumble.”
It wouldn’t have taken much. Nothing at all, in fact. We could be having snow cones made from a scoop of snow from the yard, and I’d have been at his door in minutes, begging to be let inside. Watching the way the fabric of his sweats moves over his ass as he walks, I try to pinpoint the exact moment this happened. I wasn’t always this aware of him, and I don’t think I can even blame the storm for the way I am now. It’s been months in the making, this excited burn in my stomach when I wake up for hauling; the comfort of being around someone who doesn’t need me to talk to understand what I’m saying. It doesn’t feel shocking to find him attractive. It does feel like a bit of a surprise to want so badly to be near him, though.
My preference has always been toward silence and solitude. Dating has always been impossible for me. In middle and high school, I’d watched my classmates shakily take their first steps into relationships, the halls buzzing with chatter about who was paired off that week. I gave up on that dream before it could ever take hold of me, well aware of the fact that I—stupid, stuttering, and poor, wearing clothes that didn’t fit, with dirt perpetually under my fingernails—was never going to be spoken about as part of a couple. Talk about me only ever came in the form of ridicule, and no teenager was going to voluntarily attach themselves to me. Nor did I ever blame them for that. Self-preservation is a skill I learned young. I could hardly fault anyone else for showing it.
Oliver couldn’t act to save his life, though, nor do I imaginehim to be a particularly good secret keeper. If he didn’t like me, I’d know. The fact that he so clearly enjoys it when I’m around is so surprising, it feels like a trick. Like the punch line to a joke years in the making. Leaning a shoulder against the wall, I listen to him talk, his words as scattered as leaves on the wind, fingers quick as he puts together what I suspect is the sopapillas. He’s not even paying attention, gaze constantly bouncing back to me, smile flitting over his face whenever we lock eyes.
“So, yeah, anyway. How was the boat today? Shiloh texted to see how everything was going and mentioned you were doing repairs. I wanted to come help, but he said it wasn’t necessary. You know, I think we might end up with more days off this winter than days working. It’s like Shiloh got a personality transplant.”
I smile at him. He grins back before biting his lip and turning back to his hands. Shiloh didn’t get a personality transplant; he got a Ewan.
I don’t know anything about cooking, but I know it smells amazing in here. I wasn’t hungry before I walked in the door, and now my stomach is grumbling loud enough that I’m pretty sure Oliver would hear it if he stopped talking. I stand and watch until he finishes, enjoying the view. Stepping forward, I help him plate before taking both into the living room. As I do, I think about my own living room—recently so full of life and Oliver—and have a fleeting wish we were there instead. He could cook dinner in my kitchen just as well, if not better, than his own. We could eat in front of a working fireplace. I wouldn’t have had to go searching for him after work—he would havebeen right there.
Annoyed at myself, I slide the crate closer to the couch to make it easier for us to reach. I’m not sure it’s big enough to hold all the food Oliver cooked. Hell, I’m not sure my stomach is big enough to hold all the food Oliver cooked. He follows behind me, humming what I’m pretty sure is an AC/DC song and smiling. I like that I never have to wonder what he’s feeling. Everything is there, written on his face and laced through his words like sunshine shining through water. He flops down next to me on the couch, knee bumping against mine, somehow managing not to spill any water from the glasses in his hands.
“Thank you,” I say when he hands me mine.
“You’re welcome. Thanks for coming and saving me from what was probably going to be an epic food coma and stomachache.” His eyes catch on the cold fireplace, and he frowns as he plucks the words straight from my head. “Too bad we aren’t at your house. Much better ambiance for a dinner date than this dump.”
He smiles when he says it, patting a hand on the arm of the couch to let it know he doesn’t have any hard feelings. I wonder if he really does think the house is haunted. Opening my mouth to ask him, I pause when he blinks and bites his lip, turning his face away and leaning forward to grab his plate. His cheeks are red. As easy as it is to tell when he’s happy or upset, it’s just as easy to tell when he’s embarrassed. I wait, watching him. He usually tells on himself before anyone has a chance to probe, but this time, he’s silent. Popping a bite of enchilada in his mouth that was probably too hot by the way his eye squints closed, hepointedly doesn’t look at me.
A minute later, he takes a gulp of water, puts his glass down hard on the coffee table crate, and brings one knee up on the couch so he can face me.
“So, are you seeing anyone?” he asks. I stare at him. Is he joking? I shake my headno. Surprise and something close to relief slips across his face. He relaxes against the back of the couch. “Oh, good. Or not good. You know what I mean. Are you, uhm, interested in anyone?”
Frowning, I put a spoonful of the soup into my mouth and then immediately wish I’d gone for the enchilada instead. At least then I could buy myself more time with chewing. Oliver and I have never once had a discussion about love lives, and I have never missed that aspect of our friendship. I don’t want to know what he does with his free time or who he does it with. I don’t want to know who else other than Dryden he spends time with at the Temptress. There is nothing I’d like to think about less than Oliver making dinner for someone else, kissing them, and sleeping in the same bed.
Which isn’t fair. Oliver isn’t a pretty toy I can take out to play with whenever I’m in the mood. He’s a whole person with a life and needs of his own, separate from mine. And he’s beautiful. He’s too good for most of the world, but he deserves to find someone if that’s what he wants. Which I assume it is, given the random segue into dating talk—a conversation that has never once come up between us in the time I’ve known him. Inhaling, I meet his eye and shake my head.No, I’m not interested in anyone.
He deflates a little bit, expression uncertain as he reaches for his abandoned plate. He hasn’t eaten all that much, but he’s usually pretty slow. It’s hard to eat when you’re talking. Worry buzzes in my chest. Being around Oliver means being part of his energy. Right now, that energy is sad, and I’m pretty sure I’m the reason, even though I did nothing more than shake my head.
“Are-are-are-are you-you?” I ask him, worry tightening into self-consciousness in my gut. I need a field guide for this sort of conversation—helpful signposts and maps to aid me in deciphering the clues I have no hope of figuring out on my own. He shrugs, tilting his head from side to side as he chews.
“No. Yeah. Well, maybe. Sort of, I guess. You know how it goes,” he replies, which even for him is a fairly incoherent response. I nod as though I know what he means.
I suppose I do, in a way. I’d said no when he asked the question, which isn’t fully the truth. I’m interested in Oliver. I’m interested in helping repair this horrible house and showing him how to take care of chickens, eating dinner together and giving him more of my clothes to wear. But am I interested in someone attainable? No. There’s no sense in me admitting to a pipe dream. I’m already too familiar with the feeling of being laughed at to put myself in those situations on purpose.
