Page 22 of Seale the Deal

Ruger replies, tone dry enough to sand wood. Want some?

Remi gags theatrically. Keep your chicken periods to yourself.

She dumps her haul on the counter and immediately starts unpacking.

I stare at her. Cool. Exactly what I want to think about eggs five minutes before I eat them. Menstruation.

Perfect. Means you’ll want some parfait, she says, entirely unbothered, already pulling a bowl from Ruger’s cupboard like she lives here. Which, to be fair, knowing their relationship, she practically does.

I glance at Ruger, who’s scooping up a mountain of bacon and eggs like he’s trying to bulk up for a log-lifting competition.

Sign me up to watch that, please.

You can have some of each, Ruger offers, tone calm but firm. No one is judging how much you eat.

I will, but she knows that, Remi adds with a grin, elbowing me in the ribs.

I roll my eyes. In that case, yes to both. Judge away.

We settle around Ruger’s table like some off-brand Alaskan sitcom family, and the contrast between them is almost comical. Ruger’s plate looks like it could fuel a lumberjack through the apocalypse, while Remi’s parfait is a perfectly Instagrammable swirl of fruit and crunch.

I eat about half of each.

You full? Remi asks, already gathering plates.

Yeah.

What are we doing today? she asks like she’s the tour guide on a seven-day honeymoon package. Except the groom looks like he wants to be anywhere else.

Ruger leans back in his chair and stretches, arms over his head, T-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of stomach muscle and… nope. Abort. I need to get more firewood. My pile is looking a bit sad for the coming winter.

Uh, wrong. Remi marches over and plants her hands on the back of my chair.

Wrong? Ruger echoes, unimpressed. Did you want your friend to freeze to death this winter?

I don’t! I chime in quickly, even though I have no idea what’s going on anymore.

Remi sighs like she’s exhausted by the sheer stupidity in the room. Ruger. Your fiancée, from Canada, just arrived yesterday. If you’re not in bed with her, you’d be getting your marriage license. Getting ready for the joyous day.

Ruger goes still. At the mention of bed, his entire demeanour shifts. His jaw tightens, and his gaze flicks toward me, then away. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed by the implication or uncomfortable because the idea isn’t as far-fetched as it should be.

Either way, I feel heat climb up my neck. And something worse: guilt. Guilt that his bed is going to be cold and empty for me. For this lie. For this plan he didn’t even help make, but joined in.

I mean, we do need that, I say with a small shrug.

Ruger sighs, clearly not excited to deal with more bureaucracy.

Remi rolls her eyes. Oh, come on. You can get firewood tomorrow.

Maybe it’ll snow tomorrow, Ruger mutters.

It’s going to snow? I perk up, reaching for my phone to look at the weather app.

No, it’s not, Remi deadpans. My brother is just being dramatic.

I shift in my seat. We can all just stay here if it’s a problem—

No! Remi claps her hands, causing Ruger and me to startle. We have shit to do! The marriage license is important.