9. River

9

RIVER

“I’m a polar bear. Wait. Make that a popsicle,” I say, shivering in this icebox of a house.

“You’re so California,” Owen says, as he shuts the door after me. But his voice is flat.

“Says the guy from Vancouver,” I point out as I head to the kitchen, opening cupboards with renewed vigor.

“I’m hardly from there. I just lived there till I was eight,” he says, joining me in the task, jerking open the cabinets.

“But it made you sturdy. You’re like a mountain man,” I say, trying to keep the mood light.

“Yes, River. I’m practically a lumberjack,” he says drily, as he heads to the sink, turning the faucet on a smidge.

Tantalizing images flick past me thanks to that word— lumberjack . Owen in flannel. Owen chopping wood. Owen in front of the fire. A low rumble escapes my throat.

My friend snaps his gaze to me. “Do you have a lumberjack fetish?”

No, I have a you fetish.

Apparently, I’m just fully realizing it today.

And it’s radically fucking with my head.

Best to deny everything. That’ll keep me focused. “No, I don’t.” I gesture to the Travel & Leisure cabin that requires gawking. The kitchen is modern and new—white counters and a steel fridge, and it opens into a sunken living room. A stone hearth frames that room, rising to the ceiling. My eyes travel up, taking in the logs for days above us, and yet this is hardly a log cabin.

“Damn, Declan takes care of his mom,” I say, admiring the place.

“He sure does. I kinda love when these superstar athletes I work with have soft spots for their families,” Owen says.

“Me too,” I say, and I want to just gawk and talk and ask why he loves that, and if it’s because maybe it makes them human and real and not quite so larger-than-life.

But there’s no time to linger.

“Anyway,” I say, gesturing to the rest of the home, “we have to do the rest of the taps, right? Other cabinets too?”

“Yes. That’s the point. Anything can freeze so you want the water to be flowing through the pipes. At a trickle, that is,” he says.

“Too bad. I kind of wanted to take a tour,” I say, then glance at the time on my phone. “But we’ll have to be speedy, so we won’t be stuck here. No time to stare.”

Owen shoots me a look like I’ve gone mad. “I wasn’t staring. I was just answering your question.”

“I know, but there’s no time to lose,” I say, shooing him along.

“Got the message. I’m going,” he says, then bends, unties his motorcycle boots. His gaze drifts down, and he points at my shoes. “Take off your shoes too. It’s rude to walk around in shoes in someone’s home.”

“Obviously. I’m not a troglodyte,” I say, as I toe them off.

“I wasn’t saying you were.” Shoving his hand through his hair, he hoofs it down the hall. Like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

Owen darts into the hallway bathroom, turns on the faucet, then wheels out of there before I can reach him. He continues down the hall, passing the framed photos on the wall—pictures of mountains, sunsets, and seascapes. At the end of the hall, he turns through the doorway. “Guest room,” he says.

“Is there a bathroom in there?”

Not answering, he pads softly over the beige carpet, around a king-size bed, then to the en suite bathroom.

He’s in and out in a flash. “Done. Opened the cupboards too.”

“You are indeed speedy,” I say, injecting even more cheer in my tone.

Owen doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t pick up from our texts earlier in the day about speed. He simply pushes on, through the cold, eerily quiet hallway, continuing the task, and I follow him, as if I’m some sort of puppy.

Silence has fallen over the house, and us.

“We’re almost done,” I say, just to fill the emptiness.

Owen jerks his gaze back, locks eyes with me briefly, then shakes his head.

“What? We are,” I say, like I need to emphasize just how on track we are with every task.

“I know,” he mutters, then pushes past me to the stairs going up to the loft-style second floor. His feet fall heavily, the loud clops of a pissed-off man.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t seem like nothing.

It sure as hell seems like something.

It’s not in my nature to let things go. I come from a family who works shit out, that airs grievances so we can talk through them, move past them, hug it out. “Owen,” I say, insistent as he climbs the steps.

“What?” It comes out caustic. He’s never used that tone with me before, not even when I forgot to get him Arcade Fire tickets that one time.

“Why are you so pissy?” I ask.

“You want to get going. If you want to drive in this weather, we need to go,” he says, making a move-along gesture.

“Well, don’t you? Want to go?”

Please say yes.

Please say no.

Please say something.

My head is such a mess right now. I want to be stuck in the cabin with him, and I don’t want to be stuck in the cabin with him.

“If you want to drive to Nisha’s now, we’ll drive there,” he says as he marches on to the main bathroom, and turns the faucet there on a drip, opening cabinets too, then spinning around.

We nearly bump into each other in the bedroom doorway. I stop in my tracks. He stops too. I stretch my arms out to each side, blockading the door.

Owen heaves a sigh. “Can I get through?”

“No. Why are you irritated with me?” I ask, pushing again, waiting for an answer.

His eyes are hard, like steel. “It’s snowing outside. There are already three inches on the ground, and you want to go,” he says plainly. “We don’t need to stand around and argue.”

I should drop my arms from the doorway. But I don’t. Something about being in this room with him, the bed behind me, is rattling my brain, knocking rules and pacts out of order. “Don’t you want to leave? You don’t want to be stuck here, do you?”

Owen’s face is stony. He doesn’t answer me, just presses his fingers to either side of his eyes, rubbing his temples.

“Is your headache back?” My voice dips to a gentler tone as I step closer, like I’m a nurse and I’ll take care of him.

He shakes his head. Holds up a hand. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Owen lifts his face. “Yes,” he says, irritation thick in his tone.

Letting go of the doorframe, I back up, holding my hands in surrender. In a heartbeat, he pushes past me, then heads down the stairs, puts on his shoes, grabs my keys, and pushes out the door.

What the hell?

Grabbing my shoes, I follow him into the cold, standing on the porch. Wind kicks up and snow swirls in the air.

He unlocks my car, stretches into the back seat, grabs the bags, and trudges back to the steps before I can head down.

“I’ve got everything for his mom,” Owen says curtly. “Let’s just put it away, and we can get out of here.”

“Fine,” I say, but then I stifle a laugh when I get an eyeful of him. Instinct takes over, and I lift a hand, pet his hair.

He flinches, shirking away. “What’s that for?”

“Snow. You’re covered in snow,” I say gently. “I was just trying to brush it off your hair.”

“Yes, there’s snow in my hair because it’s snowing,” he bites out, then goes back inside. After he takes off his shoes again, we put some food in the fridge and other items on the counter.

I move next to him, helping him silently. Popcorn, chips, champagne, the cocoa tin.

When we’ve emptied the goods for the cabin, he dusts one hand against the other. “Want to go?” Owen’s voice is edged with annoyance.

My chest twists with frustration. My mind spins with questions. “Why are you so pissed?”

“River,” he says sharply, “be fucking realistic.” Owen marches to the front door, swings it open, then shows me the outdoors. “Do you see what I see?”

It’s a veritable winter wonderland. The yard is covered in snow. The driveway too. The car boasts an inch of the white stuff on the hood.

But the cabin is too dangerous. I don’t trust myself. “Yes, I see it’s snowing, and I also see you’re acting like a dick,” I say.

He scoffs. “I’m a dick? Fuck you. It’s snowing like crazy,” he says, his voice rising, flinging his hand at the door. “We’re not going anywhere. You hate driving in this shit and the roads are dangerous, and you’re clinging to this false idea that we’re going to Nisha’s and having wine and charcuterie. Sorry. Hate to break it to you. You’re stuck here with me, and you’re acting like it’s a death sentence. And now, I definitely have a headache, so I’m going to lie the fuck down.”

My best friend, the man I have developed a wild crush of inconvenient feelings for, makes his way to the couch, takes off his glasses, and flops on the cushions.

Because . . . I’m a dick.

For being so pushy about hitting the road.

For acting like I can’t handle being here with him.

And, mostly, for making him feel like shit.

As he closes his eyes and turns the other way, I do the same. Walk away from him.

Then, I turn on the heat. Hit the switch for the fireplace. And I head outside to unload the car.

We’re not going anywhere, and that’s scaring the hell out of me.