Page 45 of On Dry Land

“No, but I could start a fire, and we can lay them on the brick.” He gestures toward the electric fireplace, and I nod. That’ll do.

Dryden takes the gloves and my hat, socked feet quiet on the floors. The fireplace clicks on, a small whoosh of air as the flames spring to life. Taking our coats, I leave him to put the gloves equidistance apart on the bricks and head toward the hall closet. Pushing everything else aside so nothing gets wet, I hang our coats on two open hangers. They’ll probably drip a little bit, but it’s the best way to get them dry.

“This okay?” I ask Dryden, pointing at where my coat is hanging next to his.

“Yes,” he replies, barely glancing in my direction.

“We need a towel to clean up your floor. It’s a slipping hazard.” I gesture toward the pond of water currently blocking his back door.

“I’ll get it. Make some tea.”

He disappears, and I dutifully get the hot water boiling in the kitchen. Putting two mugs on the counter and dropping a peppermint tea bag in both, I turn and look out the wall of windows toward our snowmen. I made sure we decorated the sides that face in so Dryden can see the good side every time he comes downstairs. Muffled footsteps approach, and I watch as he comes back into view, carrying a massive white towel. He drops it to the floor and steps on it, using his feet to move it around and soak up the water. I chew my lip, watching, unable to remember if I’ve ever seen him do anything quite as wholesome as that.

“You’re wet,” he notices, joining me in the kitchen, the towel abandoned by the back door.

“Little bit,” I agree, shrugging and reaching for the kettle as it clicks off. It’s warm in here—being damp won’t hurt or even bother me all that much. Not the way it would if I was spending the day outside, curled under a bridge or in a doorway, huddled underneath an awning.

“I’ll get you something,” Dryden says, accepting the mug I pass him and opening a cupboard door. I peek around his shoulder, surprised to see the array of snacks. He pulls out a box of toaster pastries and strides off. “Come along.”

Tea in hand, I trail him back to his bedroom for the second time today. He puts his own mug on top of a book resting on a nightstand, box of pastries next to it, and disappears into the massive closet. Taking the hint, I put my mug on the other nightstand and start looking for the switch to turn on the electric fire that’s installed into the wall in here too. There’s a panel thing that must have controls to everything electronic, and I have a few seconds of fun messing with the lights before I find the one for the fireplace. As it whooshes to life, Dryden returns with a neatly folded stack of lounge clothes. They’re buttery soft when he hands them to me and, surprise-surprise, black.

“Bathroom is through there.” He points toward an almost perfectly concealed handle in the far corner that I hadn’t noticed before. I shake my head, unsure why anyone would feel the need to hide their own bathroom from themselves. “Or you can change in the closet.”

There are sweats discarded on the end of the bed—the ones Dryden had been wearing earlier, I realize—and it’s these he reaches for as I stand still in the center of the room. He’s obviously changing out of his wet clothes, too, and intending to do it right here in the room. I give it a few moments of consideration, wondering if I’m feeling quite brave enough to give the same thing a try. I don’t mind being naked in front of people, but for some reason, stripping down to my underwear in front of Dryden is making me pause. I’m not at my best right now—too skinny and pale and covered in scars. Dryden practically glows with health, brown skin beautiful and unblemished, body strong. I retreat to the bathroom just as he grasps the hem of his sweater and pulls it over his head. I close the door on the abdominal muscles peeking into view.

The bathroom lights click on automatically when I close the door, warm and inviting like a spa. It even smells a little bit like a spa, thanks to the candle sitting on the vanity. Putting Dryden’s clothes on the counter, I strip down and look at myself in the mirror, wondering if maybe this fancy mirror will show me a better version of myself than the one I’m used to. I can notice a difference in my cheeks already, all these days of three square meals adding up. I feel like I actually look closer to my age, for once, instead of ten years older the way I usually do.

“Oh boy,” I mutter, stepping into Dryden’s sweats and pulling them up to my waist, only to let go and watch them fall back to my knees. So much for feeling like my body has filled out a bit.

Pulling them back up, I cinch them as far as they’ll go and tie the strings before rolling the waist a couple of times. Bending, I pull on the thick wool socks he gave me and cuff the bottoms of the pants as well, not wanting them to drag or catch under my feet. Dryden’s definitely a lot taller than me, but I hadn’t quite appreciated the difference until just now. I feel like I’m trying to fit into a giant’s clothes.

The sweatshirt is just as big, but after rolling the sleeve cuffs back twice, it fits just fine. It also feels like a dream, like I’m wearing clothes made of the softest cumulus clouds. I rub my palms over my stomach a few times, watching the hand with the scar to make sure the rolled sleeve doesn’t show too much of my forearm. I can handle seeing it now, but I don’t like to. I wear long sleeves and shower that arm without looking at it, unwilling to spend any time staring unless absolutely necessary. It makes my stomach swoop with discomfort to touch it, and for months after it healed, I’d throw up every time I had to put lotion on it.

Shaking off the memories, I squirt a bit of the cream sitting on the vanity into my palm, rubbing it into my hands. I struggle with dry skin, unable to waste the space in my backpack carrying lotion and unwilling to spend money on it now that it’s not required by a doctor. Gathering up my clothes, I open the door and step back into the bedroom.

Dryden is seated on the end of the bed, knees spread wide and socked feet pressed together between. He’s fiddling with the television but looks over when I walk out of the bathroom. My face flushes as he looks at me. I hadn’t been feeling particularly sexy before, but the unchecked desire that overtakes the blank expression on his face makes me feel like I’m naked after all. Taking a deep breath to dispel the nerves, I remind myself I’m safe, and I want to be here. I can leave if I want.

“I can wash and dry those,” he tells me, rising and holding out a hand, giving me something new and equally mortifying to feel embarrassed about. I don’t think Dryden’s pretty hands are meant to touch my ratty old socks, dirty and wet and probably a little sweaty. I want to say no, that I’ll wash them later, using the machine in my cottage. Dryden, perhaps seeing some of this internal battle waged across my face, sighs. “It’s fine, Spencer. Give them here.”

He trades my clothes for the remote, telling me to find something to watch and leaving the room with a wave of his hand toward the bed. Watching him until he’s gone down the stairs, I puff out my cheeks and crawl onto the mattress, situating some of the pillows behind my shoulders. In for a penny, as they say. Legs stretched in front of me, I cross my ankles and point the remote at the flat screen mounted on the wall above the fireplace.

I click idly through the channels before backtracking and settling on a house renovation show. Trading the remote for my tea, I settle back into the pillows and wait for Dryden. He doesn’t take long, and I grin when I see he’s got more snacks in his hands—a box of cheese crackers and a bag of flavored popcorn. He tosses them onto the bed and slides in on his side.

“What are we watching?” he asks, shifting around, arms stretched behind himself as he situates the pillows to his liking.

“Home reno. You need fresh ideas.”

He gives me an unamused look, pulling the pastry box into his lap and digging for one. He chooses a strawberry before holding the box out to me. I grab blindly, uncaring what flavor I get. I’ll eat absolutely anything.

“Thanks.”

“That’s fucking ugly,” he comments, eyes on the television. I snort, carefully opening my pastry, cognizant of crumbs.

“Orange was an interesting choice,” I agree, wondering if maybe the color just isn’t coming through right on the screen. Nobody would want walls the color of traffic cones, surely.

Dryden finishes his toaster pastry and is onto his second before I’ve eaten half of mine. He leaves the box between us, along with the rest of the snacks. Like me, he’s stretched out, ankles crossed, and his top foot swings calmly back and forth. A couple of times, I find myself distracted by that foot, having to swallow through a tight throat every time I see how he pulled his socks up over the bottom of his joggers.

We crack open the cheese crackers when the second episode starts, and our judgments of the houses and decorating choices become harsher. Dryden sends me into a fit of laughter so violent I introduce popcorn into my lungs when he says “I prefer my molding to be filigreed” in a tone so dry he sounds like he actually means it. I nod along when one homeowner vehemently extrapolates that they’d never live in a house without a pool.