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Outside, I’m greeted by an intoxicating blend of cedar, juniper, and smoke.
Settling on the top step of the porch, I watch Reece chop wood. Another pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and no shirt whatsoever, I can see every single muscle on his torso flex and twist as he brings the ax down, cracking the wood into thirds. With no underwear to be found in the matching nightstand-and-dresser combo, I’m all too aware Reece is currently going commando and will be for the rest of our time here. His hair is mostly slicked back but has a few rebellious pieces in the front sticking up that I find adorable.
All around him dainty snowflakes fall from the frothy white sky, their motions as carefree and lively as I feel in this moment.
This is happiness,I remind myself again so I don’t take it for granted. Not even for a second.
“Aren’t you cold?” I ask once Reece stops to put another piece of wood on the stump.
He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, then gestures to the sheet wrapped around my naked body. “Aren’t you?”
“Not anymore,” I say before taking a sip.
“You keep looking at me like that, Snow…”
“Like I want you to split me in half, too?”
“There’s that wicked sense of humor.”
“I’m not joking,” I tell him seriously.
Reece points the ax at me with a heated look, and I smile behind my mug…still gazing at him exactly the same way.
This is fun.
I never saw my parents tease or flirt or laugh. Now that I know what it looks like and feels like, I wonder what my mom ever saw in my dad. Or Cyrus.
You know what you learn.Sadly, nobody ever taught her what true happiness was either.
Maybe I could teach her someday.
Someday soon, or it might not even happen.
That realization sits heavy on me, and I have to physically roll my shoulders. I’ve fought so hard for a life I haven’t even lived yet. Everybody else only lives one life, meanwhile I’m just trying to live one weekend. One weekend. I’m giving Reece this one weekend—I’m givingmyselfthis one weekend—and then I’ll return to my reality, but not a moment sooner.
“Did you see your book?”
I nod. “Thank you.” Each time I say it with meaning, it gets a little easier. “Did you read it?”
“Listened, yeah.”
“What’d you think?”
He shrugs one bare, toned shoulder. “Story was okay. The setting made it better. But the male narrator wasn’t my favorite.”
I try not to smile. “You have favorites?”
“A couple.” He tells me about his favorite narrators, both female and male, and the reasons why he likes each one. I’ve never cared for audiobooks, but maybe I was choosing the ones with bad narration.
“Will you read it to me?”
“What? The book?”
I give him another nod.
“If you want me to,” he says with a grin.
“I want you to.”
