“Better head home before the weather turns,” Dad says, also glancing up at the darkening sky. He scuffs a booted foot against the crack in the drive.
“Yeah. I need to check on my ne-ei-ei-eighbor.” Taking a deep inhale, I try to swallow down the lump in my throat. I gesture at the drive, wanting to make sure he knows I’ll be back to shovel in the morning if the snow sticks. I don’t want him to do it. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”
Sitting in the truck while it warms up, I text my sister. It’s possible Dad will still try and shovel, even if he knows I’m coming back, but Lucy is better at talking than I am, so it’ll be more effective for the reminder to come from her. She responds with an immediate thumbs-up. Backing down the drive, truck thumping over the crack, I point the vehicle toward home. I’m going to stop by Oliver’s place and make sure he’s not inside shivering. Also, make sure he has a snow shovel. Tapping myfingers on the steering wheel, I consider just going over to his place tomorrow before I go to my parents. I can clear my own walk and both of theirs before work as long as I give myself enough driving time. It’ll be a long day, since I’ll have to start around two in the morning, but worth it if nobody slips and breaks their neck.
And honestly, there is a pretty good possibility that Shiloh won’t have us work at all. Maybe last year, before Ewan came back, but now? When a cozy house and a warm body are available to enjoy the snowy day with? If the last month was any indication, Shiloh has no compunctions about shutting us down to stay home. I don’t blame him. I enjoy winter, and even more so when I have a fire burning in the grate and snow falling outside. I can only imagine how much nicer that scene would be with the addition of another person.
The snow is falling heavier by the time my lights cut across Oliver’s lawn. The sky is far darker than it should be, like the sun is going to bed early to make room for the storm. A wide patch of warm golden light paints Oliver’s yard, illumination filtering from inside. He’s home.
Skipping the rotted step and cursing myself for not having had time to come fix it yet, I knock my hand against the door. When there’s no answer, I do it again, but a little louder. When there is still no answer, I get a little nervous. Oliver might have gotten his hands on a ladder and fallen, or nailed his palm to the wall with a nail gun. He’s not accident-prone, but heisnew to home improvement, and five times already, I’ve seen him hammer his own fingers.
I try the door handle and find it unlocked. Pushing it open a crack, I take a deep breath and prepare to raise my voice. I never, ever talk louder than a speaking voice.
“Oli?” I call, using the shortened version of his name to try and avoid an embarrassing stutter at high volume. No answer.
Stepping inside, I close and lock the door behind me, slipping off my boots and leaving them by the door so I don’t track in any slush. I can’t hear anything, but I can smell something spicy, which hopefully means he’s back in the kitchen and not attempting to rewire light fixtures or something else equally insane.
“Oli?” I repeat, padding through his living room in my socks and glancing around. It looks much the same as it did the last time I was here. Thankfully. I asked him to let me help with the home improvement, and instead of being offended—which is what I’d worried he would be—Oliver had instead lit up like a string of Christmas lights. His cheeks had pinked, flushed with pleasure, and I’d had to look away. It strikes me at the oddest times how beautiful Oliver is.
He’s in the kitchen, back to me as he sautés something in a pan on the stove. The smell of spice is stronger in here. Strong enough to make my eyes burn as though they want to water. I pause in the doorway, smiling as he tilts his hips from side to side, singing along to the music playing through the earbuds stuck in his ears. It’s no wonder he couldn’t hear me, with the volume of the song and the volume of him. Not wanting to grab him and scare the shit out of him when he’s handling hot grease, I stand and wait. By the time he turns around far enough to seethe doorway, I’ve had enough time to appreciate how nice he looks from the back as well as the front. The sweatpants he’s wearing are old and worn and have a hole in the thigh, showing a little window of pale skin. Over that, a frumpy, baggy sweater hangs over his hips.
“Holy crap,” he says, startling backward. I watch him steady himself with a hand on the counter behind him, and lose a full year off my life when that hand comes dangerously close to the hot pan. Tugging the headphones out of his ears, he puts a palm on his chest, covering what I imagine is a rapidly beating heart. Mine is too, now. “You scared me! Sorry, I didn’t hear you. Holy cow. I swear I thought you were a ghost for a second. Or maybe a murderer. Or a burglar here to steal my curry.”
I smile. It never seems to take long when I’m with him.
“Britney?” I ask, gesturing to his headphones and the music still coming through. He laughs, cheeks a little red as though embarrassed that I scared him.
“Not this time. What’s wrong? Everything okay? You smell like snow.”
“Snowing,” I confirm, nodding toward the window above the sink. He glances over, frowning. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed.
“Darn. I still haven’t got a shovel. Nothing has been sticking, so it didn’t feel like something I needed to rush to do. Not like”—he waves a hand around—“all this. Oh well, shoveling is more of a suggestion than a requirement.”
I tilt my head from side to side. Within the town limits, homeowners are obligated to keep their driveway and sidewalksclear for pedestrians. Out here, it has little to do with the safety of the masses and more to do with the safety of the owner. I don’t mind trudging through snow to reach my truck, but I’d really prefer it if Oliver didn’t have to.
“I-I-I-I brought you a shov-v-v-vel.” Taking a breath, I resist the urge to clear my throat, heartbeat kicking up several notches. Time to stop talking before I can’t get a single coherent word out.
Oliver smiles, hand fidgeting at the collar of his sweater where it keeps sliding down his shoulder. It’s stretched out, like the size is too big, and the seams are no longer strong. The pink on his cheeks hasn’t gone away yet, and as I watch, it deepens like he’s embarrassed about something. I suppose maybe it’s that he’s wearing lounge clothes, when I’ve only ever seen him in jeans before. I don’t know why it matters, but it’s not as though I’ll comment on it either way. We’re in his home—he can wear whatever he wants.
“Oh. Really? That was nice of you. You didn’t have to do that.” The sweater slips down over his shoulder again, showing a thin black strap underneath, before he covers it back up once more. “Do you…are you hungry? I could cook. Or, I am cooking. Obviously.”
He laughs, the sound less humorous and more uncomfortable than I’ve heard it. I frown, wondering what’s wrong. Did something happen?
“You-you-you okay?” I ask, voice low as though I’m subconsciously trying to keep someone else from listening in. Oliver turns a deeper shade of scarlet.
“Yes! Fine. Nothing’s wrong. Nothing happened. Here, sit down. I’m making dinner. Curry, actually. Do you like curry?”
Like a horse from the starting gate, his tongue is off to the races. I listen closely, not just to the words, but to the slight undercurrent of discomfort that accompanies them. I am very attuned to Oliver’s speech, and not once in the time that I’ve known him has he spoken like this. Not to me, anyway. I don’t take a seat, but remain standing in the doorway. Maybe he’ll feel better with a little more space between us. Whatever is bothering him will likely come out the longer I’m here, tucked in with all the things he’ll say.
Chapter Six
OLIVER
The slide of silk over my skin drags like sandpaper. The back of my neck is warm where Nils’ eyes are fixed, and his already large presence feels monstrous. I wish I could go upstairs and put on a hoodie. Or, better yet, take off the slinky nightgown and shove it back into my dresser where it belongs. But, no. Instead, I’m stuck here making sure dinner doesn’t burn, in a sweater that seems intent upon revealing to Nils what it’s supposed to be hiding, and wishing I could die of shame.
The first time my father caught me with a women’s lingerie catalogue, he’d laughed and slapped my back. With a wink, he’d taken it away and told me I wasn’t old enough for that. I’d been confused because I was pretty certain I was plenty old enough to wear underwear. Heck, I was wearing some as we spoke. It wasn’t until the second time I was caught that I realized—he thought I was using the ads like a skin magazine. He thought I was looking at breasts.
That was the first time I’d become aware of how potent shame could be. I’d been embarrassed, even more so when Father seemed to find something humorous in the situation. When he’d told my mother that night at the dinner table, I’d almost started to cry. I wasn’t looking at girls. I was looking at what they were wearing. I didn’t want to touch skin; I wanted to touch satin.
