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“I’m fucked,” I say out loud, the wind of the outside whipping in through the front door. Xander is standing, teeth chattering.
“How are you fucked?” There’s a tease in his voice, and the wind stops as he shuts the door.
Yeah, I’m more fucked now than ever. Can he feel this pull to me, as I do with him? Is it all circumstance based, because he basically saved my life?
I need to gain some common sense. I hold on to the anger of the past twenty years and how he started this little war between us, and I bring it as close to my heart as possible. My tone changes, and it’s harsh and without any sort of jovial undertone as before. “Just being here, no electricity, and with you nonetheless,” I add for good measure, and even I’m put off by my brash words.
“Oh, ouch, Farmer.” Xander is always so matter-of-fact with me, no emotion has ever been detected in his words except when my father died. “I thought we’d called a truce until we get through this. It was your idea, remember?” he asks as he undresses from the top layer of the heavier clothing he had used while outside.
“You made my life hell for the past twenty fucking years. It’s not something I can soon forget.”
His return is quick. “And we wouldn’t be in this predicament if it weren’t for you, leaving later when a snowstorm was forecasted.”
I’d waited for him to use this against me. But I’m the one going against our non-verbal truce.
“Great comeback, asshole,” I utter and turn my body to him, taking all the blankets with me so he’s unable to crawl onto the mattress where we had been skin to skin. I can’t have that.
“All right, you want to be a Lyle Lynol-sized dickhead today, just know I’m not stoking this fire the entire time, Farmer. You can get up and do it, too.”
He pulls the top blanket, leaving me with just one that is over a thin sheet, and out of the corner of my eyes, he plops down in front of the overstuffed chair. Knowing Lynol, he’d cut off his nose despite his face and let the cabin turn frigid again to prove his point.
15
XANDER
Five minutes. It’s how long we sit in silence, and I don’t get it. We’d bridged a gap. Fuck, I took care of him last night, and he just up, and what—wants to fight again? Fuck that shit, and I won’t stay in here with the little man-child a second longer. I stand, placing as many layers over my slacks and shirt as before. I open the door and brave the storm, letting just a little bit more cold air fill the cabin. Yes, it’s childish. I can admit it. Looking back at Clark, I begin to speak, finding my harsh tone, as he just used on me.
“Get the fuck up and start on the fire again. I’m going to see about getting us electricity.”
I take the path I’d taken years ago, though now it’s covered with a fuckton of snow, leading to the garage set in the back of the house. The door is locked, and I wonder if they are as predictable as they were with the porch. The way the rafters sit over the garage, the mat is almost snow-free. I tug at the rug, and nothing sits underneath. Fuck, I should have searched in the drawers of the kitchen.
Running my fingers over the door frame, something moves and falls to the cement. I found the key. Through all of this, I think of Clark and the sudden shift in his attitude.
I’ve built my life for twenty years hating this man. Can I wipe it all away and act like we’re adults and can accept each other? I thought there could be a chance, but now it seems unlikely. I can admit that living in a world where my hate for another doesn’t rule my life seems appealing for the first time ever.
I’m through the door. There’s a little forgiveness from the wind and snow, but my balls will officially freeze if I’m out here too long. I train my attention on what looks like a breaker box. Could it be that easy? Of course, there’s not an extra car or even a snowmobile. We have all these things and a working telephone line just ten miles up the road, but it may as well be a thousand in these conditions.
Crossing over the length of the garage, I see a padlock on the fucking breaker box and not one that I could use with a key. They leave the keys to their inside dwellings out for anyone, but they lock the breaker box? I search the garage for anything I could use to break it. A James Bond laser watch would come in handy right about now, but alas, no luck. I laugh at my inward thoughts, and a low rumble behind me has me whipping around. There he stands, with a broad, smug smile and his hippie hair pulled out of his face. I don’t mind the long hair, not anymore. I think about how I can wrap my hands in it and pull him toward me, and holy fuck—what’s wrong with my brain?
“Hey,” I say.But what can I say?This back and forth is exhausting, but I like this Clark better. The sweeter side, with his melodic low tone, makes me believe he won't rip my head off.
“What do you find so funny?” he asks, and his body is visibly shaking, and he’s hobbling on one foot.
“Oh, it’s stupid nerd stuff, that’s all.” Why is he out here? Why is there this internal need to empty the space between us and warm up his body?
“It’s one thing we have in common, nerd stuff. Tell me, Xan.”
And how in one day does the name Xan falling from his lips sound so delicious when I wanted to punch him in the throat just yesterday? Fuck, only ten minutes ago, I had this need to slug him in his perfectly chiseled cheekbones.
“This is a combination lock. I can’t find bolt cutters, and I thought a James Bond laser would be useful right now.”
I don’t go to him, but he’s coming to me. “That’s pretty funny and something I’d say, too. So, I guess we can be nerds together.” He stops at a workbench, pulling out drawers. “Maybe we can find something in here that might work. If we can’t cut it, maybe we can break it.” He begins searching through all the drawers. “What the fuck, there are no tools in here?”
The stubborn asshole is still shivering. I won’t watch him suffer a minute longer. “Let’s get you inside, and I’ll come out here later and look for bolt cutters. I don’t know why they’d be in the cabin and not here, but we may get lucky, considering they have a bedroom used as firewood storage.”
Clark’s shivers turn into convulsions, and as we begin to leave the garage, I push my shoulder up under his arm so he can use me as support while we trudge through the snow. “Fuck,” he calls out. “And I hope the fire is still going.” It’s less than thirty seconds from the detached garage to the main cabin.
“I know, and here comes the part where I told you so, to stay fucking put, asshole. Caring for the fire.”
