Page 44 of On Dry Land

And so we raid the hall closet, Spencer joking about my daring color palette and whether I was aware that other colors exist beyond neutrals.

“Is it sacrilege to use a Hermès scarf on a snowman?” he ponders, fingering one. I pull it from the hanger for him.

“No. Here.” I slide a tan-and-cream Burberry one off as well, draping it over his neck. He doesn’t have one. “Do we need anything else?”

“Hm.” He hums, glancing around the closet and idly stroking his fingers down the soft fabric of the scarf. I watch his face. It looks nice with his eyes. “Let’s see how this looks, and then we’ll decide.”

Leaving the closet open and in slight disarray, we redress by the back door. Snow has melted off our gear and puddled onto the floor, squeaking under our boots as we shift. Spencer slips a little bit, chuckling when I steady him with a hand on his elbow.

“Don’t forget the fruit,” he says, voice warm and eyes like melted chocolate as he looks up at me.

Spencer wraps the scarf around the snowman’s neck while I twist the plums into place down the center of its chest. He jokes that they’re crooked, but when I step back to check, they’re perfectly straight. We work together, poking the grapes into place, curving a smile underneath the carrot and above it, two little eyes. This time, they really are crooked, and I pull Spencer’s out to redo it, squinting at the face to make sure it’s straight. We retreat together, standing shoulder to shoulder and looking at our creation. It is, if I do say so myself, the best snowman I’ve ever seen.

“We need a hat,” Spencer muses.

“Hm. You’re right,” I agree, wondering how we could get a beanie to stay in place on it without flopping or falling off.

“I don’t suppose you have a fascinator, do you?” he asks, leaning his shoulder into me when I slant him an unamused look. I cast my eyes up at the sky, resigned.

“No. But I do have a bowler,” I admit.

Spencer, far more delighted by the prospect of a hat than he should be, follows me back inside the house. For the second time in so many minutes, we strip off our winter gear, and he trails me up the stairs to my bedroom. He laughs when I pull a hatbox down from the top shelf of my closet and pouts his lips a little bit when I refuse point-blank to try it on for him.

“Come on,” he cajoles, mouth pressing together, lips curling inward as I take it from his hands.

“No.”

“Fine.” He sighs, leaving the walk-in closet and gazing around the master bedroom on our way back out the door. He gets redressed and then holds the bowler for me while I do the same, the puddle of water spreading even further after two trips inside. I find I don’t care about the mess at all.

“Why do you even have this?” Spencer asks, spinning the hat in his hands and brushing snowflakes off the top as we stand in front of the snowman.

“Engagement party. It was a required part of the dress code.”

“Do you have photos?”

“Put it on the snowman, Spencer.”

With a little flourish, he props it on the snowman’s head, tilting it just slightly to the side so it sits at a jaunty angle. Sniffing, he rubs a gloved hand under his nose and steps back, brushing against me. Silently, we look at the snowman.

“Isn’t it supposed to come to life?” I deadpan. Spencer laughs like it was actually funny.

“Not a magic bowler, I guess. You’ll have to write it in your review so Lock and Co. Hatters know how they might improve.”

Spencer turns his face and looks at me, nose bright red and cheeks bitten by cold. There’s damp around his eyes where the temperature has made them water, and the melted snow is soaking through his beanie. He hadn’t taken the time to wrap the scarf properly when we last came out, too eager to finish the snowman. I do it now, bringing one end around and draping it over his shoulder.

“Think he’ll get lonely out here in the cold?” Spencer asks. I look at the snowman, grape mouth forever smiling, arms raised as though cheering.

“Yes, probably,” I agree.

And so, Spencer and I make another one.

Chapter Fifteen

SPENCER

My hands are red and frozen when I peel off my soaked gloves inside the door to the big house. Beside me, Dryden does the same, shedding his winter gear methodically. Untying his boots, he toes out of them and steps far enough away that he’s safe from the puddles. We need a towel.

“Hey, Dry, do you have a vent?” I ask him. “For heat? Growing up, our house had some in the floor, and we’d prop our gloves on them to dry.”