I slide my hand up again, still underneath Andi’s shirt, and she makes another tiny noise when I scrape a thumbnail over her nipple, even through the thick fabric. I have no idea what anyone has ever said about the weather.
“If you don’t like it, just wait ten minutes,” Dale goes on, thankfully oblivious.
“Right,” I agree.
“Stay warm,” he says. “I’ll keep you updated on the avalanche situation, but I’ve got a feeling y’all are gonna be hiking out and coming back for the truck at a later date.”
Dale goes on a little about the logistics of clearing a road, and I half-listen at best because Andi is heavy-lidded and flushed, watching me through her eyelashes, running one thumb through the trail of hair below my bellybutton. Every part of this makes that guilty feeling tug harder at me, that sickly sense of you shouldn’t be doing this, but it’s outweighed by the warmth of Andi’s leg, slotted against mine.
“Thanks for calling,” I say when I think Dale’s done talking, though it’s hard to be sure when you’re not really paying attention. “We’ll keep you updated on our status.”
“Be safe,” he says, and the line goes blank. I toss my phone toward the couch and have my mouth back on Andi’s before it lands. We kiss hot and slow for a few more minutes, and I don’t want to stop, but the world starts to crowd in.
Not to mention the formless, baseless sense that I shouldn’t be doing this. There’s no reason why not, just the feeling that I like it, so it’s bad and I should stop.
After a while more Andi puts a hand on my face and I pull back, touching our foreheads together. Her back’s still against this wall and I’m practically folded around her, like she’s a gravity well I’m crumpling into.
“It’ll be dark soon,” she says. It’s not late but she’s right; sundown comes early this time of year, especially in this weather. “Do we need to do anything?”
I take a deep breath and will myself to remember anything that needs to be done besides kiss Andi again. “We should get more water and firewood, at least. If it gets cold enough the creek might freeze and we won’t want to go out to get firewood.”
She’s quiet for a moment. I can feel her forehead scrunch under mine, and then she says, “I’ve been drinking creek water?”
“Filtered.”
“I’ve been drinking filtered creek water?”
“It’s good for you.”
“Fish pee in that,” she points out, and I draw back a little more, enough to straighten her shirt and my sweater that she’s wearing. “And animals drink it, and stuff dies in there, and…”
Or all the things that have happened in the past week, this is somehow the one that’s scandalizing Andi the most. I’m trying not to smile about it.
“The tadpoles and fish pee get filtered out,” I tell her. “Not that you need to worry about tadpoles this time of year.”
“I don’t think I was meant for roughing it,” she says, but she’s half smiling again, hooking a finger around my belt loop in a way that feels so natural I almost don’t notice. “When we get back, I’m taking the longest shower and turning the heat up until the house is tropical.”
“You’re doing great,” I reassure her. She makes a face, but it’s cute.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GIDEON
The wind starts a few hours after sunset and the snow comes with it. There’s a “birds of Virginia” thermometer on the back porch, facing the kitchen window, and we can practically watch the red needle fall fifteen degrees. It says it’s seven out when I finally stop watching.
The beginning of a storm always makes me unsettled and anxious, like somewhere there’s a door I forgot to close or tools I forgot to put away. It’s probably left over from the bad storms growing up, when thunder would shake the house and someone would need to go close the shed doors or make sure all the chickens were in the hen house. I still hate the beginning of The Wizard of Oz. Watching Dorothy try to open the storm cellar after she’s been locked out makes me nauseous with panic.
I wipe down the counters. Re-wipe them. Glare at the hole in the corner where the chipmunk disappeared last week. I haven’t seen it again. I wonder if it’s okay, then remember that it’s a nuisance, then hope it hasn’t frozen to death. I pace back and forth a little, and finally, I give up.
“I’m gonna go check the outside,” I tell Andi, pulling on my coat. She’s in the bedroom, pulling things out of her frame pack and tossing them onto one of the beds. There’s no organizational system I can discern.
“What’s outside?” she calls back.
“Just making sure everything’s tied down.”
“Don’t be gone long, I dunno if I can drag you back in if something happens.”
“I’ll be—”
“Fine, yeah, I know,” she says. “Ten minutes.”
“Done,” I tell her, and step out.
It’s fucking cold, the wind sinking through my layers like I’m not wearing anything, so I jam my hands into my pockets and swear under my breath and head for the truck.
There’s nothing in particular I’m looking for, nothing I think I’ve left out or open, so I give it a once-over: windows closed, parking brake on, toolbox in the back closed and locked. Same for the shed and the firewood lean-to against the side of it. None of the trees look likely to fall onto the cabin, though that’s always hard to tell. I trek over to the creek again even though I was there to fill our five-gallon containers earlier, but there’s nothing besides the sound of water over rocks. When I shine the flashlight onto it, the ice crystals forming against the banks glitter back at me.
I head back around the other side of the cabin because I like to make a complete circumnavigation of a place. The bedroom windows are still dimly lit, partly white from the electric lantern and partly yellow from the oil lamps. Using both is a slight waste of resources, but we’ve got enough lamp oil and spare batteries that I won’t give Andi grief about it.
I’m trudging past the windows, maybe ten or fifteen feet away, when movement catches my eye and I glance over. I’m exactly in time to see Andi pull a long-sleeved shirt over her head and toss it onto the bed, nothing on underneath besides an electric blue sports bra.
I stop. I inhale sharply enough that the cold air hurts my lungs, then force myself not to cough and don’t think about why. There’s an alarm going off somewhere in the back of my brain because I’m looking at a woman in an undergarment and that’s bad, it’s always bad, so much skin and not enough fabric in the way.
The alarm’s old and worn down and muted, but it’s there all right and I think it’ll be there forever, screaming at me while Andi scratches one shoulder with her opposite hand, her braid trailing messily down her back. She’s winter-pale and wearing leggings that come above her belly button; when she leans over the bed her braid falls forward and the waistband of her leggings cuts into her soft skin. I want my mouth there. I’m dizzy with lust.
I’m perfectly still, just beyond the dim pool of light spilling from the window. I’m watching her from the dark while she rifles through her clothes and doesn’t know I’m here. I shouldn’t have stopped. I shouldn’t be watching. I shouldn’t be lusting. Andi holds up an item of clothing, sniffs it, drops it to the bed, and then hooks her fingers under the band of the sports bra and tugs.