Knox had a coffee made. A pot of it, sitting on the counter, still steaming like he had made it knowing I was coming, knowing I was standing in the snow, knowing I would need the heat and the steam and the smell of the coffee to anchor me to something real.
He had a blanket folded on the back of the couch — not my blanket, one of his, which meant it would smell like him, which meant I was not going to be sitting under some neutral hotel blanket. I was going to be wrapped in the smell of a man who had left his job to buy me a generator.
The heater was running on its highest setting, pushing warmth into every corner of the small apartment. The propane lantern was lit. The whole space was glowing like some kind of sanctuary.
I said, “You left the rink.”
“I did.”
“Beckham probably needed you.”
“He had fourteen people. He needed me less.”
“That’s not fair to Beckham.”
“Fair is a luxury, Maple. We will do fair next week when the power is back.”
I did not have an argument for that. Fair was a luxury I had given up when the bank merged. Fair was a luxury I had given up when my parents died. Fair was a luxury.
The only thing that was not a luxury was the fact that I was warm and he had made that happen.
He poured me a cup of coffee.
I drank it because I was frozen and the coffee was hot and because some part of me that I was not going to examine too closely understood that Knox Kovak was the kind of man whodid what he said, and if he had decided to stay, then staying was what was happening, and I could either make peace with it or spend three days arguing with him while the blizzard killed the power grid.
I made peace with it.
We spent the rest of the day like this.
Me in the armchair with a book that I was not reading, him at the table with a stack of papers that looked like team paperwork. The heater hummed. The wind hammered at the windows. Outside, the world was going white and cold and historic, the way Minnesota does when it decides to make a point.
Around two o’clock, Mira called. My phone had almost no battery, but it had enough.
“Maple. Oh my God. Maple are you okay.”
“I’m fine. Are you?—”
“I’m at the diner. The diner is fine. The propane stove is fine. The building is holding up. I came to check. I called the team. They’re all at the rink. They’re saying to shelter in place. They want to know if you’re?—”
“I’m at the apartment. Knox’s apartment. The one above my garage. The power went out. He had a generator.”
“He—wait. Knox got you a generator.”
“Among other things.”
“Maple.” She said my name like it was a complete sentence.
“What.”
“Nothing. I’m just. Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I’m reading. Knox is doing paperwork. We’re fine.”
“Uh huh. Maple. Sugar. That man cleared your front walk in a blizzard. You don’t do that because you think someone isfine.You do that because?—”
“Mira. I’m fine. The diner is fine. You should get home before it gets worse.”
“It’s already worse. It’s a white-out. I’m going to stay at the diner until tomorrow. There’s gas heat. I can sit behind the counter and do literally nothing.”
