At this, Ollie looks confused, but all I feel is guilt. That was pretty much exactly the plan. I’m reminded of my selfish impulse to keep the Internet from her, too, which I still haven’t rectified. But maybe telling her about it now could be the perfect olive branch to offer. We still have over a month together, and if I don’t want North Star facing another terrible review, I need to find a way to reach civil ground with her.
“It won’t take that long. Just need to finish up a couple ofthings,” I promise, even though technically, the only thing left to do is sweep up. “Like I said, I’ll keep you posted.” I wait until she gives me a reluctant nod. I take a breath and go on. “In the meantime, I wanted to let you know that there’s limited satellite Internet in the lodge. It’s slow and disconnects every time a cloud passes overhead, but it works some of the time.”
“What?” Margot yelps so loudly that Ollie and I startle. “There’s Internet available?Right now?”
I nod, careful not to say too much as a smile of pure elation and relief lights her up. Almost immediately, it fades. Her eyes become suspicious and search my face like I have hidden secrets in my beard. “But you said there was no Wi-Fi.”
“There isn’t,” I confirm. “It’s satellite, and it’s only on the computer in the lodge.”
“But it’s been connected the whole time I’ve been here?”
When I don’t respond at once, something worse than anger moves across her features. She’s hurt. “But you knew how badly I’ve been missing my—”
She stops and looks away from me, unwilling to show me any vulnerability. As guilt and regret short-circuit my ability to reply, I watch her firm up her chin. When she speaks again, her voice is stronger.
“Whatever,” she says flippantly. “I don’t know why I expected anything else. What’s the password?”
I stand rooted to the spot as my brain struggles with how to fix the situation. Back at Caltech, I specialized in solving complex puzzles on a cellular level, but apparently, not being an asshole to Margot Bradley is beyond me. I know I should apologize. Admit that it was a dick move and tell her I’ll move the fucking satellite to her cabin right now if she’ll just stop looking at me like that. I want to explain that I was planning to tell her, but I’ve been terrified that she’ll make good on her threat to tell the entire worldhow unpleasant staying at North Star is. But I’m frozen, and Ollie’s sizing me up like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“There is no password,” I finally manage. “Just open up the browser.”
Margot mutters something that’s either “For God’s sake” or “Go drown in a lake.” “I’m sorry, Ollie, but if there’s Internet, I need to work. I haven’t been able to fact-check a single thing I’ve written in the last week.”
“Cool, cool,” Ollie says, unable to completely mask his disappointment. “I can walk you to the lodge if you want.”
“Sure,” she says, looking directly at me as she says it. “Do you mind stopping by my cabin first, though? I need to grab my laptop.”
“Yeah, totally,” Ollie responds casually, while his face says he just found Willy Wonka’s last golden fucking ticket. “See ya at dinner, man,” he says to me, putting a hand on Margot’s back as she turns on her crutches without saying goodbye. “And keep me posted about the sauna.” He has the nerve towinkat me before turning away. The door opens and shuts behind them, and I’m left alone to contemplate the pros and cons of setting fire to the sauna I just spent weeks repairing.
My plans for arson are interrupted, however, when my radio chirps and Jo’s voice comes through. “You there, Forrest?”
I mutter a few choice words and unclip the radio from my back belt loop. “Here.”
“Just wanted to let you know Trap’s nerve block wore off a while ago. He’s mighty uncomfortable but denying it.”
I glance at my watch.Damnit. I’m also late for his anticoagulant. I never lose track of time like this. What the hell is happening to me? My father is in pain, and all because I’ve been too distracted, thinking about Margot. I pinch my nose bridge hard enough to hurt and take a deep pull of much needed oxygen.After a moment, I decide this is the wake-up call I needed. Bringing Margot to my cabin, trying to impress her in the kitchen, pulling the whiskey off the shelf… nearly kissing her: it was all a massive cascade of mistakes, but it’s not too late to course-correct.
“Thanks, Jo. I’m on my way now.”
9MARGOT
A lot can happen in one week. In my case, I’ve added ten thousand angst-fueled words to my manuscript, gone through a whole relationship life cycle with my crutches (we’ve parted as friends), spent six awkward dinners elbow to elbow with Forrest, and exchanged exactly five words with him (“Can you pass the wine?”). Now, as I climb the porch of the lodge with my laptop bag and morning coffee in tow, I glance around and approach the front door with the stealth of a panther. Or as stealthily as I can in an ankle-length parka that makes zippy swishing sounds with every faintest movement. For the last six mornings, this has been my routine, carefully timing my arrival at the lodge before the breakfast buffet is cleared but after Forrest has eaten. Because despite a week of telling myself it wasn’t a big deal, his rejection is still echoing through my mind as if he shouted it into the Grand Canyon. “I’m not interested… interested… interested!”
Maybe if I’d been able to maintain my anger, I wouldn’t be sneaking around like this, but in the week since that night, all my outrage has slowly deflated into humiliation with a steaming hot side of disappointment in myself. I can’t even be mad at him about the Internet thing anymore. Having Internet accessperiodis too much of a relief, even if all I’ve gotten from Savannah in response to my frantic emails is a two-sentence response: “This is an out-of-office reply from the department of Your Perfectly Fine Sister. Stop emailing me, Margot!”
Without anger to bolster me, avoiding Forrest as much as possible has become my new strategy. It’s not that hard to spot him. He’s approximately six-foot-forever, so whenever I see his large frame coming toward me, I simply turn in the opposite direction and try to resist swan-diving into the nearest snowbank. Avoidance seems to be his new goal as well, if the new lack of morning Scout visits is anything to go by. Last week, I’d started looking forward to hearing the gentle giant scratch and whine at my door, and not at all because Scout was always with a sweaty midrun Forrest decked out in clinging thermal gear. But not seeing Forrest is definitely for the best, even if he can’t be avoided completely.
I still eat dinner next to him every night because apparently, the seating assignments from our first night together were cast in stone. On top of that, the IV drip of Google I require to function forces me to work in the lodge, where Forrest is constantly coming and going. Which is why I’m currently hiding behind the front door and peeking through the edge of a flanking window to see if he’s inside.
My eyes sweep the room, looking for any sign of movement, but all is still. Cautiously, I open the front door and step inside the warmth. A cozy fire crackles in the giant stone hearth, and as I pass by, I see with satisfaction that breakfast is still laid out on the dining table. After setting my things down at the desk, I decide to make myself a plate.
As usual, Jo, Trapper, and Forrest have outdone themselves on the food front. Perfect breakfast sandwiches on homemade sourdough sit in a warming tray next to wild-blueberry muffins. There’s hot coffee, along with my favorite oat milk and honey, and big glass jars of maple yogurt with all the fixings. The spread hasbeen a little different every morning, and I can’t help thinking of Forrest carefully preparing it, the way he cooked for me in his cabin.
I try shooing the memory away, but it doesn’t work. As though my thoughts have accidentally summoned him, I hear the distinctive sound of heavy boots, and my head jerks up. Forrest is coming out of the kitchen, carrying a large empty tray. When he sees me, his step hitches for a second, as if he’s also considering a hasty retreat. But then he continues on, and I look down at my plate, loading it as quickly as I can.
“Good morning, Margot,” he says cordially.
“Good morning, Forrest,” I respond evenmorecordially. Because when you’ve been shut down by someone after suggesting they have their way with you, competitive politeness becomes the only available communication style.
