chapter twenty

t w e n t y

*

When I get up on Sunday morning, I half expect to look outside and see green, but no such luck. The snow is still there, undisturbed. Unless there was more overnight. It's another day of being snowed in, and this time it seems dingier than yesterday: the sky is grey and overcast, hanging like a heavy weight over the world, pinning us in place.

At least I don't have anywhere to be. Today's the first day of Hanukkah but the Cohens and Levis will just have to wait for their cards because it doesn't look like I'll be able to get out of the house, let alone down the winding road that snakes its way into Saint Wendelin and beyond, to the cul-de-sac both families live on at the far end of the valley.

It's only nine o'clock – I haven't even left my room yet – and cabin fever is already setting in. My skin itches with the need to get out of the house, even though there have been times I've spent three or four days inside at a time before – it's the not being able to leave that bothers me, trapping me in my own home like a prisoner. My choice has been stripped from me by the snow, and by Saint Wendelin's inability to mobilise when the weather turns, even though the weather turns every single year. Multiple times a year.

If the snow's still here tomorrow, I'll recruit Casper to help me dig our way out. Maybe we'll be able to go out for that supper he mentioned yesterday...

Thoughts like that aren't helpful, my hopeful brain inventing dates where there are none being suggested, imagining flirtation where there is just charm. I shake it off as I pull on my dressing gown and head downstairs.

I'm halfway down when I see Casper. He's an early riser – or, at least, earlier than me – and he's lying across the sofa we shared last night, his ankles crossed over the arm, and he has built a fire. A couple of hefty logs are crackling away in the grate, pulsing out heat and light, and he's absorbed in a book. My book. The one he took from my room before I forced him out. One of my favourites.

I was too distracted to notice it at the time, but now I can see clear as day: he's holding my worn copy of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo, a book that I have managed to read five times in the two years I've owned it. As much as I try to take care of my books, that one in particular is a bit battered and bruised. The third time I read it, I was in the bath, wet fingers crinkling the pages; the fourth time, I was finding new details in a story I thought I knew so well, so lost in the pages that when the doorbell went, I jumped and dropped the book in the sink.

Now it's inflated, the pages fat and wrinkled, the cover peeling. I need to invest in a new copy – a sturdy hardback this time, because I know I'll be reading it again soon. It's my comfort book. I always have one, and Evelyn Hugo has been my closest literary companion since I first discovered her. I spent the whole book wondering and guessing, while being totally enthralled by the richly detailed characters and lives that just had to be real – how are they not real? – and the ending blew me away. It made me cry. Like, really cry. Several points in the book brought tears to my eyes, but turning the final page had me bawling.

Casper looks just as engrossed as I am every time I crack it open. He doesn't hear me pad down the stairs; he's facing the fire, so he doesn't catch a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye as I tread as quietly as I can across the thick rug. He doesn't feel the change in temperature when I open the door to the kitchen and slip inside, and I take the whistler off the kettle so it won't disturb him as I make coffee.

I can't bear to disturb the scene. The guy I'm in love with, lost in the pages of the literary love of my life. I want to watch, to see how his expression shifts as he reads, to see the words reflected in those bottomless irises. I need him to fall in love with Evelyn Hugo the way I did. I need her story to resonate deep in his heart; I need him to clutch the book to his chest when he realises it's over.

The kettle comes to the boil. I pour two cups of coffee and stir in milk, careful not to let the spoon clang against the china. It's one of the most irritating sounds, one that I can hardly bear when I go to Java Tea and sit too close to someone who seems to think they're stirring for the Olympics, spoon smashing against mug with abandon.

Casper still doesn't stir, except to turn the page, when I slip back upstairs to collect my own book. As much as I don't want to be trapped inside the house for another day, I think I can grin and bear it if it means spending a quiet morning reading together. There's something so intimate about reading with someone. Sharing the same space but wildly different worlds, our minds alight with hundreds of vivid scenes and lives that belong to the universes in our hands.

I make it up to my room and back to the kitchen and into the sitting room for the fourth time before Casper looks up and his body jolts, the book jumping in his hands when he catches sight of me.

"Hey. Morning. How long have you been there?" He sits up, almost rolling off the sofa in the process.

"I've been in and out several times," I say, passing him a coffee and settling on the other sofa, blanket at the ready to pull over my lap. "For a non-reader, you sure seem invested in Evelyn Hugo."

He takes the coffee with a grateful smile and sips it carefully. It's still too hot for me to drink, but he doesn't seem to care about such things. "It's not at all what I expected," he says. "It's the one I borrowed from your room the other day – I only picked it up because it's in such bad condition, I figured you must've read it a lot. Or picked it up for a pittance at a charity shop?"

"It's my favourite book," I say. "So if you're not enjoying it, feel free to keep that to yourself."

"I'm really enjoying it." He puts his coffee down and picks the book up again. "It's four hundred pages and I only started it at seven, and I'm already halfway. I can't put it down. And that's coming from someone who maybe reads a handful of books a year, and usually only if they're recommended to me, or literally forced into my hands."

"You made a very good decision. It's something special, that one. Actually, everything by Reid is something special. She has a gift – I've loved every book of hers that I've ever read, and I'm a fussy reader."

Casper shakes the book at me and says, "I just had to know what kind of book deserved this treatment from you."

"Only the best – that's the damage that comes with multiple rereads and a couple of watery accidents."

He chuckles and puts the book down, replacing it with his coffee. "I don't want to be rude, but I'm very into the story right now. I think I'm going to have to keep reading until it's over."

I hold up my hands. "Say no more. I've got my book; we can read in silence. Thank you for the fire, by the way. That's your best one yet."

He salutes me and cradles the book in both hands once more as he settles back down on the sofa, plumping a cushion under his head so he can lie on his side, his knees pulled up. Before he sinks between the pages again, he looks over the top of the book and asks, "What're you reading?"

I show him the cover of my current read, A Lesson in Thorns, and his eyebrows jump at the woman in an unbuttoned shirt, a rose threaded through the top buttonhole to keep her from spilling out. It's an evocative cover, that's for sure.

"It's a dark, romantic mystery," I say. "Everyone's bi and polyamorous and it's all a bit eerie, and very sexy."

I can't see his lips but I know he's grinning based on the crinkle of his eyes, the twitch of his eyebrows. "Sounds good to me," he says with a wink.

"I'm not very far in but it's pretty brilliant so far."

He turns a page, signalling that we're in the reading zone now. That works for me. I sink until I'm horizontal on the sofa, tucked up with my feet pressed against the arm and a blanket covering me from head to toe, and I slip back into the story. Soon, Casper and I are ensconced in mutual silence, each of us lost in our own world, and the book manages to grip me enough to give me a moment's respite from my all-consuming crush.

It's almost an hour before I move again, when the fire needs stoking and topping up with another log, but it doesn't rouse Casper from his book-induced waking coma. He continues to turn pages, his eyes flitting from one word to the next as he consumes the lines and paragraphs. For a moment, when I return to my sofa, I watch him over the top of my book. It's hard not to be drawn to the sight of any incredibly attractive devouring a book that has captured my heart over and over again, so the fact that it's Casper only makes it all the more irresistible.

I have to stop reading.

Not because I want to watch Casper, and not because I'm not enjoying the story, because I am enthralled by the story and intrigued by the characters. I have to stop because it's getting me hot under the collar. The writing is erotic and evocative and I can feel heat spreading through my body as I read the expertly-written smut, a shivering tingle slithering down my spine and pooling between my hips.

I can't keep reading with Casper in the room. I need a cold shower, if anything. I need to save this book for later, when I'm alone in my bedroom and don't need to worry about how painfully obvious my arousal probably is. A well-written scene can do wonders that video can't, and there are so many images painted in my mind, images that shift when I glance at Casper. The characters take on new appearances; I can't help but picture myself as the lead, him as the mysterious, sexy object of her affections.

It's too much for a Sunday morning. This is not a daytime book, I think. This is for after dark.

I mark my page with a receipt – no matter how many bookmarks I own, I never seem to have one when I need one – and leave it on the coffee table when I go to make a fresh round of coffee. I didn't finish my first cup and the last sip I took was a stone-cold disappointment, and I need something to wash the taste out.

As the kettle comes to the boil, my phone starts to buzz in my pocket, vibrating against my thigh. When I see that it's my mum – virtually the only person who ever calls; all my sisters prefer to text – I take the kettle off and answer.

"Hey, Mum."

"Hi, darling!" She sounds too perky to have been trapped in her house for two days. One of the benefits of living closer in a more populated area, I guess, is that help is more of a priority. "I just wanted to check in, see how you are. I imagine you've probably been hit quite badly by the snow."

I peer out of the kitchen window at the sea of white beneath a murky sky. "Yup. We've been snowed in since Saturday night. I think the cabin fever's starting to set in. And the heating's out, so it's bloody freezing in here – the fire's been going since whatever time Casper got up."

Mum chuckles to herself. "Maybe you two should huddle for warmth."

"Mum," I groan.

"What! You kill two birds with one stone! You can both warm up, and that's a good position to be in to tell him how you feel." There's laughter in her voice; I can picture her giddy smile and her pink cheeks and I tut.

"No. I think a better position to be in is, I don't know, when we're not trapped in the same house?" I keep my voice as low as possible, though the way Casper's wrapped up in the book, I doubt he'd hear me if I yelled. I could probably walk right up to him now and tell him I'm in love with him, and he wouldn't even know I was there.

"Oh, I don't know, honey. In general, I find that if a man is up for cuddling in a snowstorm, he probably won't want to run away when you tell him your feelings."

I harrumph. "Anyway. We're okay, just cold. How're you guys?"

"We're fine, we're fine, the ploughs have been so the roads are clearing up now; the forecast looks a little clearer for the next few days so I'd have thought you'll be good to go tomorrow, if the ploughs make it down to you," Mum says, "so if you do want to capitalise on the snowstorm, you need to do it quickly, Bee."

"Mum," I say again, rolling my eyes at her. "It'll be nice to be free. Fingers crossed."

"Don't speak too soon, baby. Sometimes all you need is for the universe to decide for you, and the universe has sent a snowstorm to push you in the right direction."

"I guess we'll see."

"Well, I just wanted to check in and make sure you're okay, darling. I'll let you get back to your huddle."

"Bye, Mum. Love you."

"Love you too. Stay safe. Have fun!"

I hang up and pour round two of coffee, adding a dash of sugar to mine for an extra kick. It's been a couple of days since I managed to go to a coffee shop for my sweet latte binge and I'm craving something milky. After I've already made my coffee, I push it to one side and pull over a saucepan instead, filling it with a mugful of milk. It's time to go all out.

From somewhere deep in my cupboard, I dig out a bottle of caramel syrup and a tub of hot chocolate powder, and I mix myself a rich, creamy mocha with a teaspoon of coffee granules. I make a regular coffee for Casper, and when I set it down next to him, he's too engrossed to acknowledge it.

He doesn't acknowledge anything until an hour later, when he turns the final page with a heavy sigh and looks up at me with wide, glistening eyes. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his hand over his heart. It takes a full minute for him to recover enough to take a plate I'm holding out to him. Peanut butter toast and a sliced apple, like he's a child.

"That ending ... wow. Oh my god. I think I need to reread it right now. Wow. I feel like I just lost a friend when I finished." He picks up a slice of apple and rakes a hand through his hair, caught in a moment of contemplation as he thinks about the glorious, heart-wrenching tale he just read.

"Now you see why I keep going back to it."

He nods as he crunches his apple. I alternate between buttery toast and sips of coffee. The fire spits and crackles as though reminding us that it's there. I scoot over and throw another log on, sparks jumping and ashes dancing in the grate.

"Do you have her other books?"

"Yup. Most of them."

"I think I'll try another tomorrow," he says, stretching so hard that his back cracks, his neck too when he twists it from side to side. "Are we still snowed in?"

I glance out of the window, as though the snow will have magically disappeared in the last hour. It's still there. The road is still hidden. The ploughs still haven't been.

"Afraid so."

"Might as well put on that other film about the kid beating bad guys."

My eyes just about bug out of my head. I almost leap across the room in surprise, and I do spill a third of my coffee on myself. "Did you just suggest – without prompting from me – that we watch Home Alone 2?"

Casper shrugs. "Might as well, right? We've got nothing better to do."

I'm too stunned by his turnaround to say anything, and he laughs at my expression.

"You'd have thought I just told you you've won a million quid or something," he says, that wonky grin growing. "I told you last night, that first film wasn't too bad. You had explanations for all the plot holes so there's not a ton I can find wrong with it, except parental and police neglect."

He clasps his hands together, filling the silence when I can't come up with any words, fumbling with the remote to bring up the second film. "I gotta say, I'm kind of intrigued to see how they pull of a second film – how shit do these parents have to be to get themselves into the exact same situation again?"

"It's not the same; you'll see."

"Ah, of course, it's in New York this time." He stretches out his arms, draping one over the back of the sofa. I want to join him, to tuck myself under that arm and rest my head on his shoulder the way he leant against me last night, when we watched the first film and were too tired to start the second.

"It's better than the first," I say.

"I'll be the judge of that," he teases, a glint in his eyes. Once I've got it set up and ready to play, I return to my sofa, pulling the blanket around myself, and Casper pouts. "What, you're gonna leave me over here?"

I open my mouth but no words come.

"Ninety percent of watching a film is about who you're watching it with," he says, patting the space next to him. He must be able to hear my heart, it's beating so loud. It's all I can hear, anyway, as I skirt around the coffee table and carefully sit next to him. "What's with the face?" he asks when I settle, propping my feet up on the table.

"I'm still trying to get over the fact that you – the Scrooge, my grinch – have actually requested a Christmas film. I never thought this day would come." I pretend to dab tears from my eyes.

"Like I said, it's not like we've got anything better to do."

I glance at him and see a funny look in his eyes, like he's laughing on the inside at some joke I'm not privy to. I turn the volume down as the film begins. "What? You look like you're up to no good?"

"Nothing, no, I was just remembering something." He lets out a laugh, shaking his head, and says, "When I was at school, I realised loads of my friends had September birthdays, so I wondered if there was some reason, and I found out that nine months earlier, there had been this huge snowstorm and a bunch of power outages. Pretty sure all the Saint Wendelin couples had a fuckfest 'cause there was nothing else to do."

I stare at him, untangling my mind and everything he's just said, and a laugh bursts out of me when I ask, "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"

He chuckles and winks, and then shrugs, and I try not to choke. "I remember, in January," he says, "there was a storm and work was cancelled for a couple of days. It was freezing and the roads were treacherous; Eric and I hardly left the bedroom."

He must know what he's doing to me. He must know that my blood pressure has skyrocketed and now all I can think about is him and me doing that, keeping ourselves warm by spending the day in bed, bodies and blankets wrapped up together...

The only way out of this thought spiral is deflection. I clear my throat and say, "I'm surprised. I didn't think the grinch was much of a cuddler. Pretty sure he's perpetually single and happier that way."

"Then you've got me pegged all wrong, Holy City." He narrows his eyes at me and says, "You think I'm perpetually single?"

"No. I mean, I know you were with Eric for a couple of years." The film's starting now, opening on the school choir, but my attention's on Casper.

"I've been with someone pretty much constantly for ten years," he says. "This grinch may not like Christmas, but he does like to be in a relationship. I'm capable of being single, but..." He trails off and purses his lips. "I don't enjoy it."

He holds my gaze. I stare into his eyes. Kevin McCallister is singing in the background. Casper gives me a small smile, and I know I have to tell him.

As soon as the snow's gone and the roads are clear, and he can get out if he wants to, or I can run away from the regret that will hit the moment I tell him how I feel. If I tell him now, I'll ruin the film, and this is the only time he has shown the vaguest interest in my festivities.

Today, we'll watch the film and we'll cook a roast supper together and I'll keep my feelings to myself. Tomorrow, the roads should be clear and we'll be free of the house, and I will confess.

*

apologies for the lack of an update tomorrow! i just didn't have time between housework and christmas shopping and driving all over with my demanding sister. i hope you like this!