Kiss Her Once for Me (77)

“Yes,” I say, teeth chattering. Because I would follow her anywhere.





Chapter Twenty-Two


“Now that is what a cabin is supposed to look like.”

The building becomes visible through the heavy snow and muted colors of encroaching dusk. According to Jack, the Singhs are an older couple, both anesthesiologists at OHSU, who usually spend their holidays reading mystery novels together while watching the snow come down in a cozy cabin. As their only neighbors, the Kim-Prescotts have invited them up to the cabin for Christmas Eve dinner almost every year, so they know each other in the way people with proximal vacation homes always do, apparently.

The Singhs’ cabin is a small, square wood house hunkered low in the snow. There’s a stone chimney, a skinny wraparound porch, and absolute darkness. Not a single window is lit. It’s obvious no one is home.

The thought sends stinging tears to my eyes. Every part of my body aches from skiing and falling and walking a half mile in the snow. The wet has infiltrated my socks and the cold has lodged itself deep in my bones. All I want is to sit down, peel off these clothes, and wrap myself in a million warm blankets. But our hoped-for shelter is clearly empty, and if we can’t stay here for the night, I am definitely going to have a full-on breakdown in front of Jack.

She trudges ahead and knocks on the front door. No answer. I’m shivering a few steps behind her from the freezing night and my attempts not to cry. “They’re not home.”

Jack walks down the porch and peers through the darkened windows. “Jack,” I croak, teeth chattering. “They’re not here. What are we going to do?”

Jack looks through another window in vain. Then, without any warning, she promptly removes the screen on said window.

“What—?” I start, but it becomes clear what she’s doing as soon as she begins pushing up the window from the outside.

“These old cabins usually don’t have locking windows,” she tells me as she slides it up enough for her long, lean body to fit through.

“We’re breaking and entering?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

I do not. “I mean, not getting arrested seems preferable.”

“No one is going to arrest us. There’s no one around.” She grabs the top of the window and slides one leg inside. “Besides, the Singhs are good friends. They’ll understand.”

I can’t argue with that kind of logic, and quite frankly, I don’t want to. Jack glides her body through the dark window. This is followed by a loud banging sound from inside the house, which is followed by Jack’s unabashed cursing. An involuntary smile works its way across my face, but I tame it into submission before Jack opens the front door. She’s turned on every light, so the cabin now shines like a beacon. She’s bathed in dramatic gold, like a fucking Greek god.

“You coming inside?” she asks with an arrogant cock of her hip. “Or are you planning to sleep in the snow?”

I briefly take stock of what’s happening: Jack and I are alone; Jack and I have found an empty cabin in the middle of the woods; Jack and I are going to spend the night here together.

So much for not spending time together anymore.

Still, relief washes over me as I step into the cabin. The relief is short-lived.

“Shit tits! It’s fucking freezing in here!”

“Yeah, they clearly haven’t been here in a while and didn’t leave the heat on,” Jack says, making her way toward a thermostat. “Also, shit tits?”

“I was emotionally traumatized by the fact that it’s somehow colder inside than outside, and I cannot be held responsible for what came out of my mouth in that moment.”

Jack smirks as she adjusts the thermostat. The cabin is filled with the hiss and whine of a heater coming to life, and we both look around the room until our eyes simultaneously land on the world’s smallest and oldest radiator. We won’t be warm anytime soon.

Before I say anything else to humiliate myself, I decide to take quiet stock of our current predicament. The place is so small, I can take everything in at once. It’s a one-room cabin, perfectly preserved from the seventies. Wood paneling and shag carpet dominate the overall aesthetic. There’s a small kitchen with outdated appliances, wooden cupboards smooth from years of handling, and a rickety little table tucked beneath a window. The living room is an anachronistic time capsule, with a record player built inside a giant hutch. I spot a patchwork rug, a bookshelf full of Dean Koontz novels, and a love seat straight out of a grandmother’s sitting room. The only bright spot is a large woodburning stove.

Against the far wall is a bed. Just one. With a thin quilt thrown over the top.

Apparently, the Singhs get off on some kind of Little House on the Prairie kink play that’s generally fucked us over.

“Maybe we can shower to get warm while we wait for the radiator to heat up,” Jack suggests with the faintest hint of panic in her voice.

She marches swiftly to the kitchen sink and turns it on. There’s a hollow thunk from deep inside the wall, but no water is produced by this act. “Except they shut off the water,” Jack grumbles. “I guess they weren’t planning to come to the cabin this winter.”

I don’t say anything in response to this horrible realization. I am busy shaking from the cold while staring at the one bed.