In A Holidaze(47)

He nods with playful gravitas. “Correct. And in the interest of transparency, I should tell you I don’t actually have any interesting nightcap options out there.”

I pretend to think this over, but inside I am doing a thousand backflips. “I want to go out there, on one condition.”

Immediately his expression shifts. “We don’t have to do anything you don—”

“You walk me back here afterward,” I interrupt, voice low. “There’s no way we would survive our mothers’ inquisition if I got busted sleeping out there, but I don’t want to walk back alone.”

A knowing gleam sparkles in his eyes. “Silence of the Lambs flashbacks?”

“One hundred percent.”





chapter nineteen


Outside, the sky is full, a deep ocean blue overrun with tiny, glimmering silver fish. The air is so sharp it takes a few breaths for my body to adapt, to clear out the dry indoor air. Two steps off the back porch, and Andrew’s hand comes over mine, fingers threading between as if he’s done it a thousand times.

“We never get skies like this at home,” I say.

“I forget how much I love it up here until I’m outside at night, and then it’s like whoa, yeah, it would be hard to give this up.”

A tiny strangled noise escapes me, and I turn it into a cough. “Maybe try to convince your parents to keep it?”

His quiet pause tells me that he probably won’t do that. “I just want them to do what works for them, you know?”

I reach up, running my free hand through my hair. The strands that come away are wound around and around, and I finger-flutter them away.

“You have so much hair,” he says quietly. “It’s so pretty.”

“It’s a pain. You should see my brushes.” The deep brown is all Mom, but its sheer density is from Dad’s side of the family.

“Think of all the birds’ nests you’ve helped build out here,” Andrew jokes.

I laugh, but as we move forward through the darkness, over snow that is illuminated blue and so cold we can walk across it without sinking in, a fear hits me like a brick of ice.

“I just want to say,” I begin, “before we get to the Boathouse, that if this ever feels weird or wrong, please just don’t stop talking to me. I promise I’ll be okay if you decide this isn’t what you want to do, but I wouldn’t be okay if you ignored me.”

“Do you really think I would do that?”

In truth, no. I can’t imagine it. “You’re right.”

“And why are you assuming I’m the one who’ll change his mind?”

“I’m just trying to protect us and our families. It feels so good, but I know it’s a huge deal.”

He bends when I say this, brushing his mouth over mine. It feels like the next sentence in the conversation, the unspoken Trust me, okay?

We’re at the Boathouse now, and he turns, reaching forward and pushing the squeaky door open to reveal the dark hollow space. I’m not really sure why, but seeing the Boathouse tonight with Andrew, under these circumstances, makes the cold blackness tantalizing rather than eerie and uninviting. Yes, it’s freezing in here, but I know in that far corner there is a pile of sleeping bags, and in a few minutes, I will be cuddled inside them with Andrew pressed all alongside me.

What if we have sex?

The word—sex—flashes into my head, buzzing fluorescent and neon. Only a matter of hours ago, I discovered what it felt like to kiss him. But here we are, no longer children, friends our entire lives. If the intensity between us is anything like it was in the closet and pantry, and with over a decade of pent-up lust trapped beneath my skin, I don’t know how we’ll keep from ripping all of our clothes off as soon as we lock the door.

The door seals shut, and Andrew reaches past me, turning the dead bolt. The click echoes once, contrasting with the staccato of my heartbeat.

“Come on.” He leads me to the back of the room and turns on the little lamp in the corner, illuminating a cone of space with a soft yellow glow. “Ta-da.”

When he steps back, I see he’s arranged the pile of sleeping bags on the floor, and it takes me only a few seconds to realize it’s because the cot is really only wide enough for one body. But by zipping the flannel-carcass sleeping bags together, he’s made a cozy little bed for two. There are pillows propped against the wall to lean against, if we want. He’s even brought a couple of bottles of my favorite sparkling water out here from the kitchen.

I must have hearts in my eyes when I look at him. When did he even do this?

“You said you didn’t have beverages.”

“I said I don’t have any nightcaps,” he says, grinning, “but I do know what you like.”

I’m trying to keep my brain from doing it, but a tiny flash works through, of the handful of guys in my past who would be hard pressed to remember how much ice I like in my drink or name one of my favorite anythings, let alone procure it for me.

Without any careful calculation—only gratitude and want—I move right up against him. My arms go around his neck and there’s no hesitation on his end, either; my God, it’s like an explosion in reverse, a melting. His arms pull me in, and his mouth comes over mine with a laugh-moan of happy relief. This feeling is sunshine. There’s no pause like there was in the closet, no careful consideration of who might find us. Here, there’s only the heat of his smiling mouth, the tiny relieved exhale.