“Yeah,” he says. “There’s that.”
“I’ve been thinking, maybe we should keep watch at night? Sleep during the day?”
“If it would make you feel better. Or, we could each take turns sleeping,” Luke offers. “You must be tired, too.” My head has dropped against the side of his neck; the deep tones of his voice vibrate against my skull.
“We could take a catnap here,” I say, “for starters.”
“Yeah. We could.” He slips away to grab his blankets and, returning, crawls around to lie behind me. We pull both sets of covers on top of us, and he wraps his arm around me just before I drop off to sleep.
Eleven
Spontaneous Combustion
The morning sun touches its cool white light to my face, waking me. So much for cat naps. Luke stirs in back of me, hugging me against him.
“So. Cold.” His teeth chatter as he speaks, and I shiver in response.
“I’ll get the fire going again,” he says, his breath warming my hair.
“Do you have to leave to do that?”
“Not if spontaneous combustion decides to happen.”
He sits up, exposing me to the frosty air, and I scoot closer to the edge of the small twin bed to give him room to climb out. He does his best to cover me again afterward, tucking the blankets along the edges of my body. “Better?”
“Better. Luke, do you think it’s safe to light the fire today? Couldn’t the smoke draw someone here?”
“The wind should disperse it pretty well, once it gets away from the chimney. Besides, do we have a choice? Seems like we either have heat or we risk freezing.”
“Maybe we could wear our coats and ski pants all the time.”
He tips his head. “Maybe. Except, I still think we’d end up burning through calories we can’t afford to lose.”
I nod, thinking of how claustrophobic I’d feel, stuffed inside the bulk of all those layers, day in and day out, especially when there’s a working stove staring at me from the middle of the room.
“So, should I light this thing, or what?”
“Yes, please.”
Luke fills the stove, layering it mostly with kindling to start, plus a couple of larger chunks of wood. He lights it and blows into his cupped hands while he waits for everything to catch. Once it does, he lifts his head to find my eyes. “Am I allowed to come back?”
I open my blankets to him and his gaze travels over my body, possibly without permission from his brain.
“Are you coming or not?” I ask, shivering.
“Already there.”
We spend most of the morning pressed close to one another in bed—through alternate meetings of backs and chests or sides, never face-to-face—trying to collect each other’s warmth through layers of clothing. The whole situation is extremely odd, but it somehow feels called for, given the circumstances. Luke presents me with an extra pair of socks to wear over mine, but my feet feel like they’ve been dipped in frost, just the same. For the next few hours, we barely speak—too cold, too hungry, too on-edge to think of much beyond our worries. Neither of us bothers sharing our thoughts, though. We both know what they are, and since nothing can be changed, talking might only make us feel worse.
Finally, I accept the fact that I need to get up. The glass of water I drank earlier has caught up to me, and since the cabin has warmed to less-than brutally cold, it’s time.
There’s a problem, though: Luke has fallen asleep. I’m on my side and so is he, facing away from me. I’m caught between him and the wall, which means I’ll have to inch my way down the bed, caterpillar-style, to keep from waking him. I begin to move and he rolls onto his back, depriving me of what little wiggle room I had, but when he sleeps on, I get the sparklingly brilliant idea that it’ll be easier to go over top. He’s lying flat, with his head turned away from me, so how hard could it be to slip past?
Harder than I’d imagined. Things don’t go as smoothly in practice as they had in my thoughts; for one thing, Luke wakes in the midst of my escape attempt and turns to observe my awkward, faltering progress, grinning down at me like a devil in training, until I hide my face from his view. He doesn’t hinder me, but he doesn’t help, either. Also, there’s a lot more body contact than the none I’d anticipated, which brings out a string of oopses and sorrys from me and, when I peek at Luke, seems to have only widened his grin.
My cheeks are hot and I’m a little breathless by the time I’ve extracted myself from him and the blankets. Did I really just do that? I sure hope not.
“I would’ve moved, if you’d asked,” Luke says.
I’m standing, smoothing my clothing, trying to piece together some of my previous dignity, brittle as it was.
“You were asleep, and I was stuck,” I tell him, but the truth sounds made up. “Can we just forget the whole thing, please?”
“We can try,” he says. I don’t look at him, but I hear the smile in his words.
The weight of Luke’s gaze follows me as I walk to the bathroom. When I return, he’s still smiling, and he doesn’t even try to hide it. I gather my clothes and toiletries and some water warming by the stove, and turn right around again, retreating to the seclusion of the bathroom a second time.
I shampoo my hair at the sink, sponge bathe my body in the tub, and make good use of my razor, grateful to have found it at the truck, even if it does nick a goosebump here and there. I change into a new set of clothes before heading back out, only wishing the end effect was altogether fresher. None of my clothing can really be called clean anymore.
“I need to do laundry,” I say as I reenter the room.
Luke has something cooking in the pot on the stovetop, likely rice and beans by its meager scent, and he’s crouching on the floor near the beds, in front of two small piles of clothing.
“I had the same thought,” he says, reaching behind his head to pull his t-shirt up and off, before tossing it onto one of the piles. He points to where it landed. “Extra-dirty,” he says, and pointing to the other pile, “mostly dirty.”
I focus on the laundry to avoid staring at his bare skin. It’s intentional, probably. His way of getting back at me for my method of exiting the bed, earlier. If so, in my opinion, he’s won.
“We’re low on water, though, so I was thinking after we eat, we can gather a bunch of snow—fill every pot, bucket, bowl, whatever, so we don’t have to keep prying open the door. I’ll load this place with more firewood, too.” He smiles when he catches my eyes straying to his chest, picks up a t-shirt from his “mostly dirty” pile, and pulls it on. “Sound like a plan?”
I look away, nod. “Just like one.”
After we eat, Luke pries the board from the door using a hammer’s claw and a flat-head screwdriver while I travel between the two windows, monitoring the woods. Everything looks quiet, so I bundle my hair, still damp, inside my hat, and Luke and I pull on our coats and gloves.
Out in the open, we work hard and quickly, side by side, our breath punctuating the frigid air with bright spheres. I insist on chipping the ice, since the constant jolts involved in breaking it apart would add to Luke’s headache, which has already worsened, thanks to his hammering the night before. He follows my progress, gathering the chunks I’ve left behind, and digging away at the softer snow beneath.
Each of us raises a hand to call for silence at least twice, thinking we’ve heard a sound somewhere. Mostly, they’re icicles breaking or branches falling, but sometimes it’s hard to tell.
After harvesting as much snow as we can, we turn our efforts to the firewood and carry armfuls into the cabin. Then, we’re inside for good, door fortified, melting some of the snow for our laundry enterprise. We plug the bathtub and kneel side by side once more, this time to swish and scrub fabric in snow water made soapy, courtesy of the extra bar I discovered back at the truck. We hang the twine Luke found in the pantry, crisscrossing the room from rafter to rafter, and, following a skimpy rinse and a ring out, on goes our clothing.
Worn out and chilled by the prolonged exposure to water, we gather our respective blankets and make a nest of them in front of the stove, where we eat our second meal of rice and beans to the rhythm of slowly dripping clothing.
Darkness falls and we let the fire start dying in the stove. Luke goes first cleaning up in the bathroom and I go afterward, emerging from brushing my teeth to see him sitting on my bed, waiting for me.
“Listen, I know I slept here before, but I don’t want you to think I’m—”
“I think nothing,” I say, climbing around him to access the bed.
“It’s okay, then?” he asks, hesitating before lying down. “No pressure, no expectations…just warmth.”
I don’t answer, but I do turn my back to him and scoot up close, until he fits his knees behind mine and drapes his arm over me.
“’Night, Luke,” I say, tugging his arm closer.
“’Night, Layls.” He kisses the back of my head and the feel of it, the brief pressure of his mouth, stays with me until I fall asleep.
♦ ♦ ♦
The next morning, I start talking almost before I’m awake. “It’s the thirty-first, Luke. Tonight’s New Year’s Eve.”
A groggy, non-verbal reply comes from behind me.
It’s sleeting outside; the rhythm on the roof is a wild orchestra of sound. The wind rises in a gust, sending a crash of ice droplets against the window like a wave, and it feels like we’re underwater, like we might drown, before someone comes for us.
“We haven’t been found,” I whisper to the storm.
Luke’s hand settles on my shoulder; he pulls on me until I’m leaning against his chest. “We’ll be okay. They’ll find us.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I give up and lie back, managing only a slight nod.
“What should we do to celebrate tonight?” He rises onto his elbow and smiles down into my face, but when I smile back, his gaze drops to my mouth and stays there. My heartbeat picks up, and so does my breathing.
“Luke…” I don’t know what to say next.
His eyes find mine and he waits for something—maybe an invitation.
I offer a question, instead. “Do you remember that time when you asked me to dance, in my bedroom?”
He nods, still holding my gaze. “I remember.”
“That was my first slow dance.”
“Mine, too.”
“And when you kissed me, before you left?”
“It was my first kiss, too, Layla.”
“I’m glad it was you.”
He nods and waits before settling back on his side. I tuck myself against him, remembering his lips on mine.
He was already fourteen, and I was still thirteen. It was nighttime, during spring break of eighth grade, and I’d been waiting and hoping to see Lucas all week while his father kept him busy with football training.
There was a knock at my window. Only one person in the world had ever come to visit me that way.
I’d parted the curtains, opened the window, and hugged Lucas when he climbed inside. But when his hands dropped to my waist and stayed there, I wasn’t sure what to do. Even our hugs—few and far between as they were—had changed.
Lucas said he couldn’t stay long and went on to walk around my room, picking up some of my things and studying them: the stuffed animal he’d won for me at a carnival the summer when we were both nine, a bottle of nail polish, my lip gloss and hair brush.
He’d walked over to my stereo, flipped through a few CDs, asked about the music that was playing.
“Nina made me a CD mix of The Cure,” I’d told him, “to help me feel sadder while she’s on vacation with her family.”
He laughed. “Is it working?”
I frowned and shrugged, and he laughed again. “Guess it is.”
Pictures of You was winding to an end, and when This Twilight Garden followed, Luke leaned in, listening to some of the lyrics. Mid-song, he asked about the title, asked, too, if he could start it over again.
“Sure.” I turned away from him, planning to sit on my bed, but he stopped me.
“Wait, Layls.” He scratched his forehead, before letting his hand drop by his side. “Do you remember how you used to make me dance sometimes when we were little? Like I had to be the prince, and…”
I laughed. “I remember. Sorry about that.”
He smiled and shook his head. His gaze flitted around the room, settled back on my face. “Well, would you want to?”
“Want to what?”
“Dance with me?”
It was my turn to glance around the room. “Right now?”
Lucas gave a small nod in reply as color slowly seeped into his cheeks.
My neck and face went hot, but I smiled. “Okay.”
He wiped his palms on his jeans and we both laughed, then he put out a hand, so I stepped forward and settled my palm against his. My free hand came to rest on his shoulders and his went to my hip. We moved, a slow spin on the same axis, and I laid my head on his shoulder. It was higher than I remembered; he’d gone through another growth spurt.
“I like this.” He brought his head to rest against mine, and when his second hand moved to my hips, both of mine linked together behind his neck.
He pulled me a little closer as the song’s chorus circled us, and I thought about how no one else could mean to me what Lucas did. There was—would always be—a place deep in my heart and mind that was his, alone.
When the next song began, Lucas said he had to go, so I followed him to the window. There, he hesitated, turning back around like he had something more to say. Instead, he leaned in so close that my eyes widened, until I saw that his were closed. His lips touched mine, soft and warm, and his hand came up to my face, his thumb moving slowly across my cheekbone. When he pulled away, his eyes were bright. He held my gaze, gave me a sweet, uncertain smile, and climbed back out into the night.
It became one of my favorite memories, even as it happened.
Here, with the hunger inside our stomachs and the storm washing ice water over the windows, Luke and I lie together, and this manages to become another favorite.
Throughout the day, whenever Luke hands me a plate or a fork or mug, or when we stand, shoulder to shoulder in the pantry, searching for something special to make for our New Year’s Eve dinner, his eyes catch mine and hold. It’s brief, always, but we both know it’s happening.
The hours pass slowly while we remove stiffly dried clothes from the strung-up twine, fold them, and relocate the still-damp pieces closer to the fire. We sit on the floor with the deck of cards, helping each other win at Solitaire. Then, Luke tries to remember card tricks from when we were kids, and when he can’t, we attempt to make up new ones. It’s harder than expected, so we end up building card houses, instead, never making it past the second story. My mind is on other things, and I guess his is, too.
As the gray light of late afternoon gives way to the lavender skies of the early winter evening, we make dinner. We’ve settled on having the last box of macaroni and cheese, for the simple fact that it’s not rice and beans, and I’ve decided the occasion also calls for dessert, so canned fruit cocktail it will be. We’re saving the brownies for something even more special than the start of another year.
“I guess there’ll be no banging pots and pans outside tonight,” I say as we wash the dinner dishes.
Luke smiles. “Talk about drawing attention to ourselves. But at least we can keep the fire burning. I doubt anyone would go out in this.” Maybe that means he’ll be returning to his own bed. I don’t ask.
We share our can of strangely un-fruit-like fruit cocktail, with its pale ambiguous cubes and hot pink cherry halves, before Luke decides the occasion of New Year’s Eve calls for a shave. He’s been shunning it ever since we arrived, and his beard has come in enough to make him look older, almost unfamiliar. After he’s finished and looking more like himself, I head into the bathroom to wash up and brush my teeth. When I come out, he’s lit a candle
and is standing nearby, peering out the little window by the sink, watching sleet pellet the glass. “What would’ve happened if we hadn’t found this place?” he asks, without turning.
I don’t answer, because I don’t want to think about it.
Luke looks at me. “I’m glad we did. And even though I wish you didn’t have to go through any of this, I’m glad you’re here with me.”
I study the candle’s solitary dance, and Luke leans back against the counter, watching. “Considering where we are and what’s happened, tonight is still pretty perfect.” I raise my eyes to take in the room, him.
“It is.” His eyes stay with me.
I rest against the counter beside him, and with our arms lightly touching whenever we move, we toss out our best guesses as to how our friends might be celebrating.
“Mine are drunk by now,” Luke says. “No question.”
“And mine…probably the same. Except…maybe they’re too worried about us to celebrate.” Guilt twinges inside my stomach.
Luke smirks. “They’re probably drinking to our safe return.”
“If they know we’re both missing, maybe they also know we’re together.” I look at Luke. “Wonder what they must think of that?”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Don’t know, but they should probably be jealous.”
I have plenty of doubts about what they’d think, but I let myself smile anyway.
“I’m pretty sure it’s almost midnight,” Luke says.
“It couldn’t be already.” I glance at the window, as though I might be able to see the stars through the storm and somehow interpret the hour from their placement.
“Must be midnight, somewhere.” Luke holds a hand out to me. “Will you dance with me?”
I put my hand in his, let him pull me into the circle of his arms. What starts as something close to a hug becomes the two of us moving together like we did that night years ago.
“Are you thinking of a song right now?” he asks, his mouth close to my ear.
“This Twilight Garden.”
“Still a favorite?”
Picturing You Page 10