Page 42 of Love Again

I don’t know how much time has gone by because my phone is off and the digital clock is frozen at 8:03 p.m.

But then there’s a crash and scrambling, and the door opens. He’s standing there, drenched. The wind pushes the door open further, and it crashes against the inside wall.

“Sorry,” he says, pushing it shut and turning the bolt.

He sets a plastic bag on the table and runs two hands through his hair, sending water flying.

“Where did you go?” I drape the damp towel over his shoulders.

“It’s fucking cold out there, and the thermostats are electric. The kid at the front desk is panicking. He’s been trying to get the manager or the owner since the power went out.” He glances at me, making some kind of assessment. “You didn’t bring an extra sweatshirt or anything?”

I start to laugh. “There’s no way anything I have is going to fit you.”

He shivers.

“Maybe we should start the car and turn the heater on?”

He stares at me. “Why?”

“You’re freezing. What were you doing?”

“I followed the kid down into this cringey basement and then out to a utility shed. I tried to get a compressor going, but the propane line is jammed. I did get these, though.” He fishes around in the plastic bag and sets four white utility candles on the table.

Flash. Crack! And now, snow starts swirling.

“Look at this.” Luke points to the swirling flakes on the other side of the glass.

“It’s a snow squall. I’ve never seen one before.”

“Climate change?”

He’s beginning to visibly shake.

“You are freezing. Go get in the shower again—oh. Right.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe we should get in the car and drive.”

“In this?” He shakes his head. “This is snow on top of ice on top of frozen rain, and the whole mess is probably all frozen right now. It would take hours.”

He reaches into the top drawer of the nightstand, pulls out a matchbook, and lights two of the candles. After ravaging around in two drawers, he makes his way to the alcove that serves as a closet.

“Great. An iron. How handy is that gonna be?” he says, and I hear him settle the iron back onto the shelf. Then there’s a Eureka moment.

“Here we go,” he says, and in the dim light, I can tell he’s got a blanket tucked under his arm. He disappears into the bathroom with it.

When he comes out of the bathroom, the blanket is wrapped around him. “The ridiculous part of this is that I think your room actually had two beds in it.”

There’s a funny little part of me that’s suddenly really glad we’re not stuck in my room.

He takes the thin bedspread and folds it lengthwise before laying it on the floor, grabs one of two pillows from the queen bed, and lies down on top of the bedspread. As I try to straighten out the thermal blanket over him, he scrunches the pillow under his head. I watch as the heavy thermal fleece blanket settles on his thighs, stomach, and chest. His hair is still really wet.

“If I snore, poke me,” he says.

I strip off by the head of the bed, out of his view, and lay my clothes on the nightstand.

The flash of lightning lights the bedroom in an ozone haze, and this time, the thunder is three or four seconds out. Finally, the storm center is moving away from us.