Page 47 of The Apparent Trap

He comes in for another hug. “I’m zonked,” he says. “See you in the morning?”

“Yup,” I reply, ready to extricate myself too.

With that, he and Carmen are gone, out into the night and off together—Carmen getting her perfect evening, while I’m stuck with a train wreck. Fitting.

Lee’s still standing off to the side, next to the fireplace, having said nothing. He fits in a homey Swedish lodge—his army green beanie practically matches the tastefully worn duffel that’s slung over his shoulder; his snow boots are laced up over his jeans, with a perfectly fitted ski jacket zipped up.

His expression isn’t quite as collected.

“Are you really okay with—” he starts.

But I cut him off. “Let’s not talk about it,” I reply, walking out the door, knowing he’s going to follow.

We make our way back to the room, retracing the path Carmen and I just tread. Only this time I’m more aware of the sound of snow crunching beneath my feet. Of his breath behind me.

We walk across the suspended metal bridge that leads to the Biosphere. Everything is still and silent except the soft clang of the metal against my shoes, an auditory reminder that I’m walking a plank.

When we step inside, Lee marvels at the interior, the room’s warm light stark against the blackness of all the glass in the nighttime. “This is amazing.”

“Feels a bit like a wooden LEGO set come to life,” I admit.

We both glance up to the loft. They’ve set up a cot next to the bed.

“So this is normal,” he says with a laugh.

I huff. “Obviously not in my plans.”

“After eight thousand emails about all the various agendas for this trip, I guess no one thought to tell Carmen not to be awkward about having her boyfriend sleep in her room.”

“Please don’t call my dad a boyfriend.”

“Is that not what’s happening?”

I know I’ve been thinking it, but it’s especially weird hearing the word out loud. “Can a fifty-five-year-old man be a boyfriend?”

“Apparently.” He throws his duffel on the floor next to the hanging chair I was enjoying so much earlier. “They said I could change and shower in the spa so I won’t bother you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He looks me up and down. “I think I should.”

With those eyes on me, I know he’s right. “Okay,” I reply.

He grabs a few items from his duffel and walks out without a word. I go through my bag to try and figure out what I should be wearing to bed. It’s freezing outside, but the rooms are kept at decent enough temperatures where I’ve just been sleeping in a t-shirt the last few nights.

But the shirt is practically see through, and I don’t have any shorts. So I put on a flannel button-down over my shirt and shimmy on a pair of long johns. I go to the bathroom to wash my face and cringe at the thought. The only armor I seemingly have with Lee is being put-together. But I know I’m too old to go to bed without a clean face and moisturizer.

My night guard . . . that I can do without for a couple of nights.

I rush through my routines—teeth brushed, seven layers of probably useless skin care applied, hair tightly coiled up so it’ll live to see another day—and then climb up the small ladder to the loft and get into the bed. I fluff pillows behind me, stay sitting, and pull out a book, as though I’m usually this poised at bedtime (and not burrowed under my covers, cackling through my night guard, rewatching nineties rom-coms).

Lee bursts through the door a few minutes later and immediately exhales. I peer over the loft to see him below me. His cheeks are red, and his hair looks like icicles.

“What happened?” I ask, awkwardly maneuvering down the ladder, concern taking over my need to look put-together.

“I just wanted to take a quick shower and come back so you wouldn’t be waiting up for me,” he says, shedding his jacket and rubbing his arms for warmth. He’s also wearing a flannel and long johns, and I would laugh at how ridiculous we both look—like we’re auditioning for a play set at bedtime in the 1700s—but his teeth are chattering.

“Is your hair . . . frozen?”