I know if someone from, say, Michigan or Vermont saw us right now, they’d laugh their asses off, but this is the South. I can count the number of times I’ve driven in snow on one hand, because even when it does snow, it’s gone in forty-eight hours, tops.
The roads aren’t built for it. No one has snow chains. I think Burnley County has two snowplows for hundreds of miles of winding country roads.
The forty-five minute drive from Delilah’s parents’ house to mine becomes an hour and a half, snow piling higher and higher the whole time. We both heave a sigh of relief when we turn from the country road onto a bigger one with streetlights, then into town.
And then, finally, into the parking lot of my townhouse. Delilah parks, pulls on the parking brake, then leans back against the headrest and exhales so hard it steams her windshield.
“Holy shit, I fucking hate driving in fucking snow,” she says, clenching and unclenching her hands. “Fuck.”
She stops clenching her hands and starts shaking them out, and I do the same as her: lean back, try to let the tension go, but I can’t. Not quite, no matter how many deep breaths I take.
“You okay?” I ask. Already the snow is sticking to the windshield, blocking some of the light from the street lamps in the parking area, mottling the shadows inside the car.
“I’m fine,” she says. “Just… rattled.”
Rattled. That’s the word for it, that sense of darkness that keeps sliding away whenever I try to think of it too much.
I reach over and take Delilah’s right hand.
She’s trembling. It’s slight but it’s there, the faintest of tremors working their way down her arm and into her hand, so I start massaging. I work my thumb into the muscles in her palm, over the tendons and sinews, roll each finger between my own until finally, the shaking stops.
“Thanks,” she says, softly.
“Stay over,” I tell her.
Delilah takes a breath and opens her mouth, like she might protest, so I cut her off.
“Please stay over,” I say, folding her hand into mine. “And go ahead and just say yes without making a fuss, because if you think I’m letting you drive any more tonight you’ve lost your damn mind, and you hate it when I tell you what to do.”
She’s laughing.
“You gonna threaten to go caveman again?” she asks lightly, her hand still in mine. “You never actually followed through the first time.”
I grin back at her, the tension in my body starting to fade. The post-danger endorphins starting to kick in.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell her.
“At Ava’s wedding,” she says. “When you went back to the chateau and I had to —"
She stops short. I shrug dramatically.
“Right,” she says. “Sorry, I forgot about the slate for a minute.”
“Don’t make me take your keys.”
“Yes, I’ll stay, I don’t have a death wish,” she teases.
A brief flash of realization crosses her face.
“Or a stuck-in-a-ditch wish,” she says, quickly.
“Thank you,” I tell her, and finally unbuckle. “C’mon in, it’s freezing out here.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Delilah
Seth pads into his kitchen in his sock feet, pushing a hand through his hair as he does. I’m still unwinding my scarf from around my neck, hoping it doesn’t frizz my hair too much.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he says, his back to me. “Did I already say that? Do you want some tea?”
I hang my scarf and sit on the shoe bench in his entryway to pull my boots off, eyeing Seth’s back as I do.
“It’s your house, I’ll sleep on the couch, and tea would be great,” I say.
“Great,” he echoes, looking up at his cabinets.
I don’t want to sleep on the couch. I don’t want Seth to sleep on the couch. I want us both to sleep in his bed, and furthermore, even though I’m still rattled and feeling all adrenaline-y from that drive, I’d also like to fuck his brains out while we both sleep together in his bed.
No, you had to make it two months, I remind myself, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. Nice, Radcliffe.
It’s working, though, even if I think I might be the first person ever to die from horniness. Today was the closest we’ve gotten to a real fight, and by some miracle, I chilled out and apologized instead of doubling down on being an asshole.
“Do you have decaf?” I ask, padding sock-footed into the kitchen myself.
“Yeah,” he says, still standing in the exact same place, looking at the exact same cabinets. “I’ve got, um.”
He looks around, then opens a cabinet that doesn’t contain tea. Closes it. Frowns.
“Hey,” I say, and put my hand on his arm. He’s tense as hell, even as he looks over me and tries on that charming grin he’s got.
“Where’d I put the tea?” he asks.
“Are you okay?”
“What? I’m fine,” he says, reaching out to open another cabinet that also doesn’t contain tea.
“Stop opening cabinets.”
“I thought you wanted tea,” he teases, but there’s the slightest edge there, a wildness behind his eyes that’s really weirding me out.
I close the cabinet, stand on my tiptoes, and put my hands around his face. He’s still cold.
“I’m fine,” he says, and he almost sounds convincing.
“Go sit down, I’ll make tea,” I tell him.
“Bird, it’s —"
“Please don’t make me throw you over my shoulder.”
Finally, that gets a real smile, one with light behind his blue eyes.
“I’d kind of like to see that,” he says, his hands on my wrists.
“I’d probably throw my back out, which is why you should go sit on your couch of your own volition,” I say.
He leans forward, gives me a quick kiss on the lips.
“Fine,” he says, and pads out of the kitchen.
I open the cabinet that does have tea and pull down a box of chamomile. It’s pretty easy to find because Seth has one of the most ruthlessly organized kitchens I’ve ever seen, and I spent years living with Vera.
I’ve just put the kettle on the stove when I hear the soft creak of his stairs, and I stick my head out of the kitchen.
“That’s not sitting,” I tell him. He pauses, halfway up the stairs, and leans on the railing.
“I’m slipping into something more comfortable,” he says. “Does that meet with your approval?”
Please be sweatpants. Please be sweatpants.
I think I blush, and I hope he doesn’t know why.
“Fine,” I tease. “But that ass better be on that sofa by the time this is done.”
“Or what?” he calls, resuming his climb.
“Or you know what!” I shout.
Back in the kitchen, I look at the box of tea on the counter. I look at the kettle on the stove. I make a face.
Then I check Seth’s fridge and pantry for ingredients, find what I’m looking for, and scrap the game plan. I’ve just put the new concoction on to heat up when he comes back down the stairs, and I poke my head out.