13. Woodley

THIRTEEN

Woodley

Sleigh bells ring, are you listening? / In the lane, snow is glistening.

11:37 am

The lights flicker once more, then snap back on fully. It's like the universe is playing with us, trying to see how much we can take before we breathe. The power's back, but the Wi-Fi is still out.

I glance over at Thorne, who's fidgeting with his laptop, trying to reconnect. It's almost as if he thinks restarting it will miraculously make it work. The tension in his shoulders is palpable, the set of his jaw tight. I can tell he's trying to keep calm, but it's not working. I'm not doing much better, to be honest.

Like him, I can't sit still. My legs bounce under the table as I check my phone for the hundredth time. Nothing from Thom yet, and now we are almost ten minutes late.

Just as I'm about to say something, my phone buzzes. It's a text—from Thom.

I'm so sorry to do this, but our power and internet is out for all of us. We will have to cancel. Be in touch once this clears. Sorry for the inconvenience.

I read it quickly, my heart sinking with every word.

"Thorne," I say, my voice tight. He looks up, eyebrows raised.

"It's Thom. His whole team's without power and internet. They're canceling the meeting until further notice."

The words feel heavy, like they're hanging in the air between us, impossible to fully grasp. Canceled. Until further notice.

Thorne lets out a long breath, sitting back in the chair, running a hand over his face. "Well, at least we have some communication and he doesn't think we just didn't show. God, what else can go wrong?"

I shake my head, staring at the text as if reading it again will change the meaning. "It's about as bad as it can get, you're right."

There's a pause, the weight of the situation pressing down on both of us. No meeting. No flights. And now, we're stuck here—no idea when this storm is going to let up. It feels like everything is spiraling out of control, and I can't stand it.

I grab the remote and turn on the TV, needing some kind of distraction. The local news flashes on the screen, and the headline says it all:

Nor'easter Brings Boston to a Standstill.

The meteorologist appears, pointing at a massive swirl of blue and white that's engulfing the East Coast.

"This Nor'easter is bringing a dangerous combination of high winds, heavy snow, and freezing rain," he says, his tone grim. "This storm is a result of cold air from Canada mixing with moisture from the Atlantic. We're looking at blizzard-like conditions across the region, with snow accumulation expected to reach up to two feet in some areas."

Thorne leans forward, staring at the screen. "So we're stuck, for who knows how long."

"Looks that way," I mutter, trying to process the reality of the situation. The meteorologist continues, warning viewers about travel bans, road closures, and the shutdown of major airports, including Logan International. It's official—there's no way out of here anytime soon.

"This storm is expected to last at least another forty-eight hours," the meteorologist says, pointing to the forecast on the screen. "Winds will reach up to fifty miles per hour in some areas, and visibility is near zero on the roads. If you don't need to travel, stay indoors and stay safe."

I turn to Thorne, my throat tight. "We're going to be here for days."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The gravity of it is sinking in. Not only are we stuck in Boston, but there's nothing we can do about it. The meeting is canceled, the roads are impassable, and the airport is shut down. We're literally snowed in.

"So... what now?" I ask, breaking the silence.

Thorne shrugs, but I can see the frustration etched on his face. "We wait, I guess. Not much else we can do."

I swallow hard, trying to keep the rising panic at bay.

Waiting has never been my strong suit. I'm used to pushing forward, making things happen. But now I'm at the mercy of a storm that doesn't care two figs about our plans or our deadlines or that we have no way to get home.

I glance back at the TV, the swirling storm cloud taunting us with its power. Two days. We're going to be stuck here for at least two more days. Depending on when we can get a plane out of here.

Thorne sighs beside me. He's probably feeling the same weight of the uncertainty and the helplessness. But at the same time, I feel this strange sense of solidarity with him that I never imagined possible a few days ago. We're in this together, whether we like it or not.

And for the first time since we started this trip, that doesn't seem like the worst thing in the world.

Then I glance over at Thorne, and something clicks.

This is out of our control. We can't do anything about it, and sitting here stressing isn't going to change a damn thing. So why not make the best of it?

I stand up, stretching out the tension in my back. "Alright," I say, grabbing my phone and turning it off. "If we're going to be stuck here, we might as well enjoy it."

Thorne raises an eyebrow. "Enjoy it? You mean, sit around and wait for the snow to bury us?"

I roll my eyes. "No. I mean, we're in this hotel with a ton of Christmas stuff going on downstairs. There's a whole festive atmosphere, and I'm done being a spectator. We both said it was too bad we were working. Well, now we aren't working."

He crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair. "You're saying we go down there and act like we are on some kind of holiday vacation?"

A grin spreads across my face as I remember what I saw earlier near the lobby. "Why not? There's a wreath-making station down there, and you, Mr. Grinch, are coming with me to make one."

Thorne blinks at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" I cross my arms, mirroring his stance. "We're making wreaths, and you're going to love it."

He opens his mouth, probably to argue, but I cut him off. "Look, we can either sit here, sulk, and drive each other crazy, or we can go downstairs and make the best of a crappy situation. Your call."

For a second, I think he's going to argue again, but then he sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. "Fine. But don't expect me to enjoy it. I'm a hostile prisoner. Taking part under duress."

"Oh, I fully expect you to hate it," I say, grabbing my coat and flashing him a mischievous smile. "But you're still coming."

We head downstairs, the warmth of the lobby hitting us as soon as we step out of the elevator. It's bustling with activity—families gathered around, kids running around in Christmas pajamas, couples sipping hot cocoa by the fireplace. The scent of pine and cinnamon fills the air, mixing with the soft sound of Christmas music playing in the background.

I spot the wreath-making station set up near the grand staircase, and I nudge Thorne toward it. He gives me a long-suffering look, but follows me without protest.

The table is covered in all kinds of holiday greenery, ribbons, pinecones, and ornaments. A few people are already there, working on their wreaths, chatting and laughing. I grab a wreath frame and start picking out some pine branches, ignoring the skeptical look on Thorne's face.

"Come on, it's easy," I say, handing him a frame.

He takes it reluctantly, holding it up like he's never seen a wreath in his life. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this."

I laugh, grabbing a pine branch and demonstrating how to attach it to the frame. "You just stick the greenery in and wrap it with wire. Then you can add whatever decorations you want. It's really not that hard."

He watches me for a moment, then hesitantly starts copying what I'm doing. His fingers fumble with the wire at first, but soon he's getting the hang of it.

"See? Not so bad, right?" I tease, nudging him with my elbow.

He shoots me a mock glare. "You're enjoying this way too much."

"Maybe," I say with a grin, adding a pinecone to my wreath. "But you have to admit, it's better than sitting upstairs doing nothing."

Thorne glances around, watching as families laugh and chat around the table, the warm glow of the Christmas lights reflecting off the ornaments. For a moment, his expression softens, and I can tell he's starting to relax, too. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.

We work in silence for a few more minutes, and I can feel the tension from earlier melting away. There's something oddly comforting about the simple task of putting together a wreath, of focusing on something other than the shitstorm.

I glance over at Thorne, and to my surprise, he's actually putting some effort into his wreath. It's not half bad either. His branches are neatly arranged, and he's adding little touches like red ribbon and berries.

"You're a natural," I say, smirking.

"Don't push it," he mutters, but there's a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

We finish up our wreaths, mine turning out a little more chaotic than I intended, but still festive. Thorne's, surprisingly, looks professional. I smile at the sight of him putting in the effort, and he catches me watching and raises an eyebrow.

"Don't say it," he warns.

"I wasn't going to," I lie, biting my lip to suppress a grin.

He stands up, stretching a bit, then glances over at a table across the room where a large punch bowl of eggnog is set out for the guests. "You ever tried eggnog?"

I wrinkle my nose. "Not a fan."

He smirks, stepping toward the table. "I bet you've never had real eggnog. Come on, try it."

"Thorne, seriously, I'm not a huge milk fan."

He's already ladling out two glasses, walking back toward me with a confident swagger. I take the glass he hands me and stare at it like it's something foreign. He gives me a look that says, I dare you .

I take a cautious sip, fully prepared to hate it but it's surprisingly good. Creamy, with a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon, and just enough warmth from the rum to make it feel like Christmas. It's a little thick but it tastes really yummy.

"See?" he says, smug. "Told you."

"Okay, fine," I admit, taking another sip. "It's not bad."

We settle by the fireplace, the heat from the flames warming my face as we sit back and watch the lobby buzz with holiday cheer. The smell of pine and cinnamon mixes with the sound of Christmas music, and for a second, I almost forget we're stuck here.

As I'm about to take another sip, someone steps into the middle of the lobby and announces, "Snow tubing in the back courtyard! Anyone who wants to join, we're starting in ten minutes!"

Thorne's eyes light up, and I barely have time to register it before he's on his feet, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. "Now that sounds like fun."

I laugh, shaking my head. "I didn't bring clothes for that."

He looks back at me, still grinning. "Don't fall, then."

"Very funny," I say, rolling my eyes.

But he's already heading toward the courtyard door, then turns back, teasing me with that smirk. "Come on, you're not going to sit this out, are you? I thought you were the girl who grabs life by the horns?"

I glance at the window, seeing the snow falling hard and fast outside. It's freezing out there, and I'm definitely not dressed for tubing in the snow.

"I need my heavy coat and hat," I say, standing up reluctantly. "Give me five minutes."

Thorne laughs, shaking his head. "Alright, go get bundled up, but don't take too long. Actually, I'll come with you to get my down jacket."

I make a quick dash to my room, and I throw on every piece of winter gear I brought, layering up with my thickest sweater, coat, gloves, and wool hat. When I walk back into the hall, Thorne is waiting by the door, already dressed in a thick, dark down coat, looking surprisingly ready for this impromptu adventure.

"Ready to freeze your ass off?" he asks, handing me a pair of thick mittens. "I happened to pack two pairs. You never know when you might need to go tubing."

I laugh, slipping them on. "I was born ready."

Together, we head outside, the cold air biting at my cheeks as we step into the courtyard. The snow is coming down harder now, blanketing the ground in a thick layer of white, but there's something exhilarating about it. The sound of laughter and the rush of wind fill me as people zoom down the hill on sleds and tubes.

Thorne and I grab tubes, joining the small crowd gathered at the top of the hill. He's practically bouncing on his heels, clearly excited for this. I can't help but smile, the festive atmosphere contagious.

"Race you down?" he challenges, already positioning his tube.

I raise an eyebrow, getting into position on my own. "You're on."