Page 41 of Love Again

I set my clothes on a chair by the small, round table.

He stripped and now has a towel around him. His skin shines with a sheen in the fading light. His abdominals lie in symmetrical rows, and it’s all I can do to not run my fingers over them, watch the muscles flinch under my touch, and see the kind of effect my body has on him.

I remember always being amazed I had any effect on him. But I did. Always. I swallow. “Suggestions?”

“I need to warm up, so I was heading to the shower. You want to go first?”

“No, of course not. You go. I don’t need one.” I notice he’s got his extrication suit hung over the heating unit in front of the window. “It’s gas, so at least we won’t freeze.”

He doesn’t seem nervous, which is good. I’m so nervous, I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin.

“I don’t know how long the water pump will last, so I’ll be quick,” he says and closes the bathroom door.

I unzip the suit and let it fall to the floor, instantly feeling lighter. Mine weighs about ten pounds, and for walking around embers and other possible hazards—not three-year-old sites—they’re required.

I slip off my bra. I’m so small that, half the time, I don’t wear one. I didn’t get Laurel’s curves, and Claire and I are built similarly. My underwear is wet. I stand there, naked, and can feel how damp they are in my hand. I tuck them into my slip bag in an outer pocket and pull on jeans, a purple tank top, and my gray-green sweater that zips up the front. Flipping my hair out, I grab a brush from my bag and brush it out.

The bathroom door opens.

“It’s weird to be showering in the pitch dark. No windows in there at all.” He’s dressed in black jeans, a turtleneck, and a gray cardigan.

We’re going to have to order in. There’s no way to secure the doors except from a deadbolt from the inside.

I pull out my tablet, and we decide to forego Bridgette’s and go for something Italian.

“Nic says Bello Oregano is good. It’s family owned and three generations in.”

Luke ends up calling in eggplant parmesan for me and a seafood fettucine for himself. I call again and add toasted garlic bread.

In twenty minutes, the food has arrived, handed off by a completely soaked but beatific and very round young man who seems to accept all the world has to offer. Luke mouths, “Stoned,” to me when he turns to retrieve his wallet.

The food looks amazing, and I’m ready to dive in, but Luke runs into the downpour to the front desk to see if they have paper plates. “They have to have something,” he says before he dashes out the door.

When he returns, he dries off again with an already damp towel, and we start.

I can’t believe how delicious the food is. The eggplant is sliced in shear discs, perfectly layered with ricotta and mozzarella, and then a bubbling layer of parmesan covers it all. It’s the sauce that makes it, though, delicately spiced so every nuance of tangy tomato compliments the power of the fresh garlic and the delicate essence of thyme and oregano.

“Pretty good? Mine is amazing. Just amazing,” he says and sucks up another string of fettucine.

We don’t talk much. The wind pelts the windows with sleet, while each roll of thunder rattles the glass. It’s dark now, and even the streetlights are out. The sound of sleet is like sand pelting glass.

“I’m so glad we aren’t on the road right now,” he says.

“We should turn off our phones to save our batteries. I’m down to twenty-eight percent.”

“We need candles or something. Maybe they’ll have a power bank charger.”

I look out the window at the unlit plastic sign that half-heartedly flashed Shari’s two hours ago. “I seriously doubt it.”

Luke launches himself into the storm a second time, looking for a power charger.

This time, he’s gone longer. Much longer.

I start to worry. Lightning flashes three, four, five more times and thunder rolls.

When we were young, Chloe told stories of what made thunder. The other kids always listened and believed her—or would pretend to believe her. Icicles were dragon teeth or unicorn horns, fairies lived in little houses by the seashore, and thunder was made by elephants flapping their ears.

I was the only one who never bought them, her stories. They always left me feeling empty—like someone was lying to me to make me feel better.