“I know. I’m already planning to ask for more hours at Joe’s.” The landscaping business that employs Luke is owned by one of our neighbors, and in the winter, the work turns to odd jobs, including plowing driveways and clearing sidewalks of snow. I know all of this, though I tried not to know anything about the job, or Luke, in the past.
The recent past.
“I’m going to help pay for it, too,” I add. I’ve worked at Vinyl, a vintage record shop, since early in junior year and the owners are a nice couple of aging punk rockers; they’ll accommodate me with extra shifts if they can.
“No. You’ll both concentrate on your schoolwork, and Luke, you need to put weight back on and bump up your training.” He glances into the rearview mirror, catching my eyes before avoiding them completely. “College will be here before you know it,” he says, and a little more distance springs up between Luke and me. “No time for any more of this goofing off.”
“Goofing off? Is that what you think this was?” Luke shakes his head and turns to face the window, his mouth clamped shut. I stare at his reflection, wishing I’d accepted the front seat when he offered it, especially because now that his father’s tongue has been loosened, it doesn’t seem inclined to still itself. He’s already continuing.
“Do you know how I was able to be at the station when you arrived?” Mr. Owens says, and I silently acknowledge that yes, I have wondered about this, but no, I wasn’t about to ask. “It’s because I’ve been in constant contact with just about everyone in law enforcement, between this town and the surrounding ones. Whenever sheets of ice weren’t falling from the sky, I was searching every road—every ditch—I could find. But you two got lost on the wrong damn peak.” He pauses for a breath and clenches his jaw. “Think of how many people have been worrying about you—making phone calls, searching, helping however they could day after day, because you two had to miss a damn bus. We’ve been worried sick while you were off playing house in the woods.”
And there we have it. The words “playing house” jolt me, but they appear to hit Luke harder. He drops his head against the window.
“Not fucking playing anything,” he says, only half under his breath. “We were trying to survive long enough to be found.”
His dad glares at him, the muscles in his jaw working. He grumbles something unintelligible, and—miracle of miracles—grants us several long minutes of silence.
When he ends the interlude by offering to stop somewhere for food, the question is so utterly delectable, I almost forgive the man for his earlier comments.
He adds, “We’ll have to go somewhere casual, because you two smell like you’ve been living inside a fireplace,” and effectively ruins it.
♦ ♦ ♦
Luke and I each head for the restrooms as soon as we enter the restaurant: a little family-owned diner with a well-filled parking lot. I’m tempted to bathe in the sink, with its working tap and hot water on demand, but restrain myself to washing only my face, hands, and arms to the elbows. When I come out, Luke’s waiting alone at the hostess booth.
His gaze links with mine as I approach, but his eyes are dim and distant compared to what I’ve become accustomed to. Even when hope began to fade for us, his gaze remained open to mine. Now, he seems closed off.
“Can we go back?” is all he says when I reach him.
The hostess asks if we’re ready to be seated and Luke mentions that his dad plans to join us after finishing some phone calls. He follows behind me as we’re led through the restaurant, and once we’re seated, reaches across the table to take my hand.
The waiter stops by to present us with enormous menus, and we separate once more, divided by plastic-sheathed lists of food porn.
“So many choices,” I say, making an effort not to drool. “…Can’t decide between the rice and the beans.”
Half a smile is all I get from Luke. It doesn’t even reach his eyes. “Pace yourself, with eating,” he says, “so you don’t get sick.”
The waiter comes over immediately afterward, asking what we’d like to drink. It’s around lunchtime, but I request orange juice, anyway. “Feel like I’m coming down with scurvy,” I say, to explain.
Luke half-laughs, and orders the same.
“Orange juice?” Mr. Owens asks, after he returns and seats himself at the table, taking a sip of his water.
I bring up the possibility of scurvy again, and he looks at me like my skin has turned green and sprouted blue spikes.
Making no further comment, he reaches for a menu. “I just checked the weather,” he tells us, and the tension in my stomach eases; people talk about the weather all the time without offending one another. “There’s a snowstorm on its way in; it’ll clear out overnight, but driving will be hazardous along our route until tomorrow.” He looks at me again. “We’ll have to find rooms for the night, so you’ll need to let your mom know.” He doesn’t mention my dad, and I don’t blame him.
Flipping back and forth through the menu, he frowns and mutters something about more time sacrificed. Luke never says a word and we proceed to share one of the most uncomfortable, yet simultaneously satisfying meals ever.
♦ ♦ ♦
The snow begins arriving in earnest, and Luke’s dad finds a hotel outside of town that still has some rooms, despite it being the height of ski season. Maybe the place is too far from the slopes, or it could have experienced some last-minute cancellations due to the weather. Either way, and especially because Mr. Owens paid for everyone’s lunch, I’m insistent about charging my stay to the credit card my mom gave me for emergencies.
We retire to our separate rooms for showers and some rest, and after eating a filling, but similarly uncomfortable dinner in the hotel’s restaurant, Luke and I get instructions to go to bed early, so we can get an equally early start. “I want to head out by eight a.m., as long as the roads are clear,” Mr. Owens warns.
I bid Luke an uncomfortable goodbye under his father’s gaze, and don’t expect to see him until morning. He and his dad have to share a room while I go solo. I’d cherish the luxury of it all—the thermostat-controlled heater, the hot water, the electricity—if Luke weren’t down the hall dealing with his dad, and if I weren’t already missing him. Luke’s become my new norm.
I use the alone time to make a collect call to my mom from the hotel phone, to tell her, voice-to-voice, I’m all right.
“Layla, honey,” she says as soon as I speak, “I’ve been dying to hear from you.”
“Sorry, Mom. My cell didn’t survive the accident in Luke’s truck, so I had to wait to call.”
“Accident? Are you hurt?”
It’s wrong of me to enjoy the concern in her tone, on any level. I do it anyway, but only for the space of a heartbeat, before telling her not to worry. “I’m fine. Luke got a concussion and I cut my arm, but we’re healing all right. We found a cabin and stayed there to wait for help.”
“So…you were with Luke? The whole time?” She’s trying too hard to sound upbeat; her voice has climbed into a new octave.
“We were driving to the ski trip together, since both of us missed the bus. Anyway, I can explain more when I get home, but I wanted to tell you there’s a snowstorm coming through, so we can’t leave until tomorrow morning.”
“And Luke’s dad is driving you back?”
“Yes.” I don’t elaborate. The less she thinks about Luke in connection with his family, the better.
We say our goodbyes and I decide to answer the siren’s call of the shower yet again. Never have warmth and steam and scented bubbles formed a more perfect trio.
I despise the thought of stepping back into smoke-scented clothes, especially when I don’t have to leave the room, but they’re all my bag has to offer, so I wrap myself in not one clean, plush towel, but two. One for my head, the other for the rest of me. It’s towel excess, compared to how we’ve been living, and I revel in the lavishness of it, like gluttony for the skin.
There’s no Luke, so tonight,
the TV will have to be my companion. I switch it on and I’m just pulling back the covers and climbing into the king-sized bed when there’s a knock at the door. My heart skips: the memory of hiding is still too familiar. Then, I realize who it might be.
“Hello?” I ask the door.
“It’s me.”
“Um, who is me?” He really shouldn’t presume, after all.
“Layla…” He says no more, just waits.
I open the door, he sidesteps around me to enter the room, and before I can say a word, he has me wrapped in his arms and is sighing into my damp hair. “Mm, you smell good,” he says, reaching behind him to secure the door and its lock. “Guava, right?”
His hair is also damp, also probably from a second shower, and even though the scent of woodsmoke lingers on his clothes, it works. I might never smell a fire again without thinking of Luke.
He leans back to eye me in my towel. “You look good, too.” Lifting the “Do not disturb” tag from the door handle, he considers it and, frowning, puts it back.
“Where’s your dad?” I need to dispense with that single bit of information, before deciding how much I can enjoy this reunion.
“He went down to watch the game in the bar. Wanted me to watch with him, but I said I’d rather go to bed.”
He nuzzles his face against my neck, breathing in, and kisses me just below my ear.
“Is that why you’re here?” I ask. “To ‘go to bed?’”
He laughs, lets his hands slide down to rest on my hips. “No pressure. Guess it would be weird with my dad somewhere in the building, huh? Although I do still have that last condom…” He awaits my answer, looking like he’s ready to swing whichever way I suggest.
“Definitely weird.”
He gives me one of his half-smiles. “Thought so. Okay if we hang out for a bit, though?”
I tip my head like I’m mentally debating, and step back to welcome him. “Mi casa es…”
“Aw, shit,” he says. “I forgot about my Spanish project.”
“The one due before winter break?”
He starts to nod and freezes. “You take Spanish?”
“I’m in your class, Luke.”
“Oh.” He ducks his head, avoiding my gaze. “I hardly ever look around in there. Plus, you sit in the back, right? See, I remember. …Ready to banish me, yet?”
“Not quite.” I plop down on the bed and he plops down beside me. It’s weird, with reality worming its way back in on us.
Luke nudges me with his elbow and I nudge him back. Still weird, but improving. The TV is chattering, so we stare at the moving figures, but I don’t think either of us is taking in anything.
“Come here,” I say, clutching my towel around my body, so I can scoot back to the headboard.
Luke crawls after me, grinning at my efforts to keep myself covered throughout my awkward journey. Still, he’s in a t-shirt and his arms flex each time he creeps forward, so I don’t mind my view, either.
“Here I am,” he says, hovering over me, when we arrive. “What should I do now?”
“Hmm. Warm me up, please.” It’s getting chilly in all this damp skin.
He stays put, his eyes scanning my face. Then, he sighs and moves to lean back against the headboard, helping me settle onto his chest before tossing the covers over our lower halves. “That request could be open to interpretation, you know.”
“I know. Don’t worry, though: you’re a gentleman.”
“Oh, good. Because, honestly, I was a little worried.” He pulls me tighter against him. “I’ve really been missing this.”
“What ‘this?’”
“This this. You. In case you don’t already know it, Layla: I like you. A lot.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you’re kind of awesome.”
“All right.”
“All right? You could tell me you like me, too. Unless you don’t.”
He knows I do, but I tell him so, anyhow.
“Yeah? You mean you like me like me?” he asks. “So, if I gave you one of those notes that said, ‘Do you like me?’ and it had a place where you could circle ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ you’d…?”
I twist my lips to the side. “You’d want it in writing?”
He laughs and rolls us over, tipping me onto my back. “You sure you don’t like me just for my mouth,” he says, “or my hands, or my…?”
I hold his gaze. “I like you for your brain, Luke. And after we get home, that’s what I’ll miss most. Well, that and your mouth, and your hands, and…” Luke’s smiling down at me, ready to let me continue. “I’m just plain old going to miss you, Luke.”
His grin fades, and the colors deepen in his eyes. “I’ll be right there with you, Layla. All you have to do is let me stay.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Luke and I are lying together on my hotel bed, with the light from the TV flickering over us. He’s above me, resting on his elbows, leaning close and kissing me slowly, smiling down at me whenever he stops.
Someone knocks at the door—or maybe bumps into it—right in the middle of what might very well be our thousandth kiss.
Luke groans and lifts his head. We both turn toward the door, which means his bicep is right in front of my face. I put my teeth on it, press down a bit.
“Hey.” He laughs.
“Sorry. Guess I’ve decided to resort to cannibalism, after all.”
“But we’ve been rescued.”
“Ugh. Details.”
He leans down to kiss me again and the knock on the door returns, louder this time.
“Wrong number,” Luke says to the door, still staring down at my lips. He freezes when he hears his dad’s voice.
“Luke. Out here. Now.”
“Shit. What’s it been? An hour?” He drops a quick peck on my mouth and drags himself away from me.
“See ya, Layls,” he says, before slipping through the door.
Even before it has closed behind him, I hear his dad say, “I thought we’d talked about this earlier.”
I guess the “this” is me.
Twenty
Houses and Yards
The drive home with Luke’s dad is nearly as painful as our original mountain-bound trip, minus the accident—or, possibly, including it. Granted, he doesn’t talk much, other than to drill Luke on his strength-training plans and make a few additional remarks about all the trouble we’ve caused by getting lost. Those comments hold weight, but the silences in between are heavier.
Thankfully, even though we ate breakfast at the hotel before leaving—which makes three, full meals since being found—our undernourishment wins out, and Luke and I doze through the last half of the ride. It offers an escape from the tension, as well as from the football commentary that’s begun pouring from his dad’s radio. With the broadcasters’ constant talk of “tight ends” and “great hands,” or, worse, “penetration” and “going deep,” it’s making me sort of uncomfortable.
Since my mom told me she and Jared had already picked up my car at the school lot, Mr. Owens is able to drive me directly to my house. Luke walks me to the front door, which is weird, because he always came and went via the kitchen door when we were kids.
“I want to call you,” he says, standing closer to me than he ever did back then.
“Except my phone’s broken.”
“I know. What about your house phone? I still remember your number.”
“Do you?” I smile up at him. “No luck, though. We got rid of the landline a few years ago.”
Luke’s sigh has some force behind it. “Your mom’s cell?”
“Maybe, if she’s around. Or we could just reacclimate for the rest of the weekend and see each other at school on Monday. It’s only a day and a half.”
Luke frowns. “If you say so.” He leans in and I pull back.
“Are you going to kiss me right now?”
“Yes?”
“With your dad right there? He seemed kind of pissed that you were in my hotel
room last night.”
His dad, as if on cue, taps his truck’s horn.
Luke ignores him. “Kiss me, Layla,” he tells me.
So, I do.
♦ ♦ ♦
There’s no one to greet me when I head in through the front door.
The house is quiet, dim. It smells a little stale—a wintertime, closed up smell. But it looks the same and feels the same, like my home-life stayed frozen in time while I went somewhere else, and changed.
I’m roaming around, exploring with new eyes, looking for signs of ongoing life, when my mom comes down the hallway from her bedroom, hooking an earring into her ear.
“Layla!” She squeals, rushing over to squeeze me in a tight hug. “You’re home! Honey, it’s so good to see you.” She presses a kiss onto my cheek, and draws back, holding me in place. “Oh, I can’t believe you’re finally here. Thank God. Honestly, if you knew what I’ve been going through—”
She tells me she has a million questions, but right now, she has to run. She and Jared are meeting for brunch, to celebrate my rescue. “You should join us,” she adds.
I feel caught off guard by the news that she’s on her way out; I don’t trust myself to speak, so I shake my head.
“I’m really sorry,” she says, her eyes shining in the shadowy hallway. “If I’d known you’d be home so early, I wouldn’t have made plans. How about this, though: you get settled and rest up a bit, and we’ll talk as soon as I get back?”
It will be a delayed reunion, but at least we have a plan.
Except Jared comes with my mom when she returns. I spend a little while with them, reviewing the major plot points of my “missing” time, and listening to my mom rehash all the worrying they’ve been doing, reinforced by Jared’s head nods and affirmations.
“If I’d known you were camping out in a log cabin all that time, my life would’ve been a whole lot easier,” my mom teases, but I can’t bring myself to laugh.
Instead, I make an early exit, saying I have a lot of schoolwork to catch up on.
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