We shovel my front walk and driveway after bringing the groceries in. Some I leave in my car with Nils’, intending to bring them over to his house so I can make dinner for tonight. The unspoken agreement between us always tends toward spending our time at his house as opposed to mine. I’m happy with the arrangement. Happy to be in any house, anywhere, so long as Nils is there with me.
Kicking the snow off the bottom of my boots, I rub my glove under my nose. There are a lot of things I actually enjoy about winter, but the constantly dripping sinuses isn’t one of them. Nils reaches over and pushes my beanie down where it had ridden up, exposing my ear.
“Should I pack a bag?” I ask carefully, still feeling a little awkward about requests like that. It feels presumptuous and a bit like I’m backing him into a corner, making it harder to say no. He smiles, gloved fingers dragging gently down my neck as he lowers his hand back to his side.
“Yes. So I don’t have to miss you in the morning.”
Chapter Seventeen
NILS
“Are you free tonight? Would you like to come over for dinner?” Reaching into one of the empty nesting boxes, I carefully lift out the egg nestled in the straw. Slowly, for the dozenth time, I repeat, “Are you free tonight? Would you like to come over for dinner?”
Checking the rest of the boxes, I keep practicing until all the edges are worn smooth on the sentences. Pausing, I think of what else I might want to say to him.
“You look nice,” I say to the empty coop, the chickens softly clucking in the yard through the open doors. “You look nice. You look beau-beautiful.”
I stumble over the switch. Nice doesn’t seem to fit quite right, though. Not for Oliver, who has eyes the color of gemstones and divots in his cheeks when his smile is wide, wavy hair like spun gold shot through with silver, as soft and bright as his personality. Beautiful is much closer to accurate, although still not perfect. There really aren’t any words for howI feel when I look at him—like I’m falling, but at the same time have my feet planted firmly on the ground, like a cozy blanket is curled around my shoulders, and the smell of spring is forever in the air.
“You look beautiful,” I say again, pleased when it comes out right.
The rest of the nesting boxes are empty, so I take my single egg and duck out into the fresh air. As harsh as the rest of this winter has been—record-breaking, if my dad is to be believed—today is practically balmy. The sun is high in the sky, air crisp but the sharp edges of cold burned away. The snow still on the ground is packed hard and, in places of direct sunlight, starting to melt. It’s a tease. A little reprieve meant to remind us of what’s coming soon, before winter decides it’s not quite finished and the ice returns.
I leave the chickens scurrying over the frozen ground, looking for the feed I scattered. They’ll need to go back inside where it’s warm soon, but I’ll let them have a little freedom and fun before they’re locked away again. Their clucking sounds like discontented grumblings today, as though they’re opinionated about the winter we’re having and the subsequent amount of time they’ve had to spend inside because of it.
Kicking my feet on the back step of the porch, I knock the debris off and head inside. My eyes land on the cell phone lying on the island, and my brain immediately circles back to thinking about Oliver. Rinsing the egg in the sink, I give myself a couple more minutes of practice.
“Are you free tonight? Would you like to come over fordinner?”
It feels easy right now, but that doesn’t always mean anything. Easy when I’m alone and calm is a hell of a lot different than things remaining easy when I’m talking to others and anxious. I’ve grown extremely comfortable with Oliver and even Shiloh, though. So comfortable, in fact, that I’ve stopped practicing words on my drive to the harbor in the morning and only rarely stutter when we’re out on the boat. It’s been a long, long time since stepping foot on theDrifterhas caused stress of any kind.
But now Oliver has slipped into that gray area where ease and discomfort live together. He does make me a little nervous, but it’s the kind of nerves that feel good. The kind of nerves that kick around my stomach and make me feel like I’m just shy of the correct amount of oxygen. He’s easy to be around because I like him, I’m attracted to him, and I desire his company. For those very same reasons, he makes my blood pressure rise and my stutter occasionally more apparent. And so, I practice.
“Are you free tonight? Would you like to come over for dinner?” I repeat one last time, the words as smooth as honey on my tongue.
Drying my hands, I reach for my phone. The screen lights up on Oliver’s and my text message thread. I indulge myself a little bit, reading it once more.
Oliver
Good morning! Did you see the forecast for today? SUN!
Nils
Morning, love. I did see that. Makes me wish we had traps in the water.
I’ve been playing around with endearments, finding it easier to do so over text than it would be verbally. The first time I’d typedbaby, I’d deleted it straightaway. It didn’t feel right, and honey hadn’t either. Every woman in town over the age of fifty calls Oliver honey. In fact, I’ve heard him receive quite a few babys as well, with a handful of sweethearts sprinkled in. Calling him love might be a bit presumptuous at this stage, but he hasn’t asked me to stop, and the one time I did it to his face, he’d looked so pleased that I knew right then I’d never quit.
Oliver
Same! The chickens awake?
I hadn’t yet responded, having gone out to check on said chickens. Now, instead of texting, I press the Dial button and bring the phone to my ear. Texting him the request feels oddly cowardly. I want to ask him on a date the right way.
“Nils!” he answers, voice chipper. It puts a smile on my face to hear it, like he is the embodiment of joy itself, dishing it out to everyone he comes into contact with. “Good morning again! How do you feel about blueberry muffins? I’ve got some in the oven right now—I could bring some over once they’re done. Or do you prefer something different? I was thinking about making banana bread, too. Maybe zucchini. We’ll see. Apparently, I’m in a bread mood.”
Chuckling, I lean back against the counter. “Blueberry is good.”
“Right?” he agrees enthusiastically. “Fresh from the oven, too? Nothing better. Oh, you know what? Rhubarb season is coming up—I can make a mean rhubarb crumble. And pairedwith some vanilla ice cream? I don’t mean to boast, but it’s so good it’ll make you fall in love with me.”
