35. Henry
thirty-five
“Do you think I don’t know you did this on purpose?” I rattle the knob. “Oliver, this is petty as fuck. You’re a bigger dog than this.”
He doesn’t bark when I rattle the door. Proof, in my estimation, of his perfidy. Normally, he’d be barking his head off that someone was on the porch, let alone making noise. Then, Franki would come investigate and let me in. Not tonight. No. Tonight he doesn’t make a sound.
The sun set half an hour ago, and a frigid November wind cuts through my white T-shirt and navy cardigan with vicious glee.
Inside, Oliver sticks his nose through the opening in the curtains, smudging the window glass as he sits on the back of the sofa, inside the warm, cozy cabin and watches me shiver on the porch.
I point a finger at him. “You’re not allowed to climb on the furniture without a ramp or Franki or me lifting you up. Bad dog.”
He jumps off the back of the sofa, and I flinch. I should have let him stay there until I got back inside and lifted him down. Pressing my face to the window, I prop my hands over my eyes and peer through the space in the curtains to see if he hurt himself, just in time to watch him trot his little ass across the living room, into the bedroom, and nudge that door shut behind him too.
I run both my hands through my hair and move back to the front door. This cabin is built to provide maximum security, and the doors lock automatically as a safety precaution.
I knock and call out, “Franki?!”
I’m not surprised when there’s no response. She’s in the one room in the place that doesn’t have a window to the exterior, and there are two solidly built closed doors between us. It’s quiet inside the cabin because it’s built to be a fortress. Franki probably also has the water running, and she likes to turn on music when she takes a bath.
There’s no doorbell. It’s a one-bedroom cabin in the woods. Getting into the place through the usual means a person might use to break in, is out. It’s fortified against that. It doesn’t mean I can’t get in, but that it will be a pain in my ass. It’s already dark outside, and the temperatures have dropped until my breath fogs the air. At least I have on shoes.
I walk around back to the bedroom window. It’ll get me closer to where Franki is, and if I’m loud enough, she may hear me and come let me in. I drag over a log, prop it under the window, and climb on top of it to get a look inside. The bedside lamp is on. The bathroom door is shut. Oliver is lying on his back on my side of the bed onmypillow. I don’t knock on the glass because that would set off the alarms, and I don’t want to scare Franki. So, I stand here like an idiot and shout.
Oliver gives me side-eye, and I don’t care what people say, dogs can smile, because he is absolutely laughing at me.
I call again. “Franki?!”
Normally, someone shouting outside of a window would send Oliver into a barking fit. A squirrel scurried across the front porch yesterday, and he barked at the door for ten solid minutes. Not tonight. Tonight, he watches me with petty satisfaction and doesn’t make a sound.
Approximately five minutes of hollering yields no results. I could stay here for an hour until she’s done with her bath, but it’s getting cold enough that my nose is running, and my fingers are going numb.
Both of Franki’s phones sit on the nightstand. They’re always on vibrate, or I could call her.
Dad has told us all over and over “Never get comfortable.” This is what he meant. Franki and I could be separated from each other. She needs a way to communicate besides the built-in systems in the cabin that send alerts to my father and brother. What if Franki were the one who was locked out? I’m putting in new systems tomorrow.
I know a number of ways to get into this cabin, but only one of them won’t involve potentially traumatizing Franki by having her think the cabin is under attack. I jump off the log, put it back where it belongs near the shed, and set out through the field on the half-mile trek to the airplane hangar.
I already spoke to Spencer before I came in from the woodpile. I’d like to put some blame on him, but, aside from a case of overly enthusiastic-itis and not understanding that when I said, “no other names” I’d meant “no matter what,” he hasn’t done anything wrong. The wording he used was the wording I used when I decided to go through with finding a wife. I never explicitly told Spencer that Franki was different or that my feelings for her were real. I’ve barely seen or spoken to him, in fact, since any of this started. The pain I’ve caused Franki is my own fault.
I need advice on how to proceed, and I may as well use this time as I walk to the hangar to get it. I can’t call Gabriel. He’s still in rehab. Dante and Spencer are both married to their jobs. I’m 47.3 percent convinced they’re each fighting a thing for the other, but for once I’m minding my own business. At least until such time as I am 90 percent certain. Either way, neither of them is a relationship guru.
If I call Dad, he’ll already be in bed with Mom. He’ll answer my call. They’ll both get on speakerphone, and Mom will give me a well-earned tongue lashing when she finds out what I did. I deserve it, but I don’t have time to submit myself for flagellation. Not from anyone but Franki, anyway.
My cousin Jack is probably working at his bar. My cousin Marie will react every bit as badly as Mom. Bronwyn is still recovering and needs her rest.
I pinch my temples between my fingers and my thumb. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I hit Call.
The phone rings, then a gruff voice with a light Virginia accent says, “Henry.”
I make my way through the dark woods, using the flashlight from my phone to illuminate the path ahead. “Dean. I have need of your assistance.”
“Why do you talk like that? Just say ‘I need your help.’”
“Because the first sounds like a reasonable and measured request. The second sounds—Jesus. I need your help.”
“You in trouble?” I hear the scrape of chair legs and a scratch, as though Dean is dragging his hand over his scruff.
“Not the kind you mean. I have questions of a personal nature.”
“Your mic is picking up a lot of wind. Do I hear coyotes?”
“Yes. Nothing to be concerned about. They’re half a mile away.” I hope. Besides, I’m armed if it becomes necessary to defend myself. “I apologize for sound quality. I already have my hand cupped around the mic to be heard. This is the best I can do. I’m taking a walk.”
“At night in the wilderness?”
I breathe loudly and nearly cough when the frigid air hits my lungs. “Ahh. Refreshing. Nothing like it.”
“You’re in the doghouse with Franki.” I can hear the satisfaction in his voice.
“You can bask in the pleasure of my suffering later. Right now, I need to know exactly what you did to fix things with my sister.”
“The hell you do.”
“I meant ‘what did you say?’” I step over a large rut in the uneven ground and start a light jog.
“I told her I loved her the way you told me to.”
“I already do that. Probably twenty times a day.”
“You look Franki in the eyes and say ‘I love you’ twenty times a day? Maybe you’re doing it too much.”
“I . . . call her ‘love.’ I haven’t made a word for word confession. It was my understanding I was supposed to wait at least three months for a full love declaration.”
“It seems to me you shouldn’t be worried about following a timeline. I’m learning honesty trumps strategy when it comes to relationships.”
“How did you get Bronwyn to forgive you?”
“Henry, I don’t know. I said I was sorry, and that I couldn’t live without her. Your sister is an angel.”
I snort. “Bronwyn is no angel.”
Dean huffs. “Have you tried the standing in the doorway thing yet?”
“You mean hovering there like a psycho while she sleeps? Yes. It’s pointless.” Not that it stops me.
Dean barks out a laugh. “No. The next time you talk to her when she’s in another room, untuck your shirt first and prop your hands on top of the doorframe so you flash her your abs.”
He pauses, then asks, “You do have abs, don’t you? I don’t think the technique works if your gut is flabby or you look like the underside of a toad.”
“I’m not using any more techniques on her.”
Dean is quiet for a moment, then blows out a breath. “Then I think all you got left is groveling.”
“How do you grovel?”
“I’m not a relationship expert, so, take what I’m about to say for what it is: a shot in the dark, but you have to prove you learned your lesson. Some things are unforgivable, but if you made an honest mistake, I guess you gotta be sincere and vulnerable? If she’s an angel like Bronwyn, she won’t stomp you into the dirt when you’re already on your knees.”
I reach the hangar without having to shoot at any coyotes and go to the far-left main door, using the emergency key hidden in an electronically coded box under a hinged faux panel on the building.
I set off the countdown on the alarm when I enter with the manual lock, but I have the security codes and move immediately to tap in the override and fit my eye to the retinal scan. I make it with five seconds to spare, so Franki won’t hear anything of concern in the cabin.
After I’ve locked the place back down, I jog to the walled-off office in the back corner. Another entry. Another alarm turned off. Then I lock the office door behind me and step to the large wall of metal shelves that hold everything from emergency supplies to a fake potted fern that my sister thought would be a funny birthday gift. A hidden keypad under the bottom shelf slides the metal shelving to the right, revealing a hatch much like the one that opens up under the rug in the cabin living room. Down the ladder I go, then I hit the coordinating button to move the shelving back into place and make the much more quiet jog back to the cabin.
When I’ve entered the cabin through the living room hatch and returned the rug to its former position, I bank the woodstove for the night and glance toward the closed bedroom door. I don’t know exactly what I’ll find on the other side. Franki and Oliver asleep? Franki still in the bath? Or Franki awake and ready to throw another pillow my way?
When I reach the door, I open it to find her a quiet mound under the comforter. In the darkness, I remove my clothing, and, when I’m dressed in nothing but my underwear, I approach our bed. As I pull back the duvet, Franki’s stomach growls.
I sit on the edge of the bed, and the growl sounds again. Louder.
I snap on the bedside lamp to find, just as I suspected, Oliver cuddled in Franki’s arms.
Franki doesn’t stir, but he does, watching me with glittering, possessive intelligence.
“There’s a reason I didn’t put a ramp on this bed, Oliver,” I whisper.
He huffs and snuggles harder into Franki.
“You”—I point imperiously—“have your own bed in the kitchen. Go.”
He lifts his head and looks at the door before he smirks and drops back to cuddle under her chin.
I reach to lift him off the bed, and he whines. Loudly.
I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh.”
Franki doesn’t wake, clearly exhausted, but she tightens her arms around him and pats him like he’s her baby.
“I, too, would like Franki to pat me, Oliver. It’s my turn,” I whisper. Not that patting is likely whether Oliver is here or not. In fact, when she realizes she forgot to tell me to sleep somewhere else, she might make me to move to the couch.
Oliver closes his eyes and nuzzles her with his head.
I’m on my knees on the bed now, glaring. “Move it. Right. Now,” I whisper.
Oliver does no such thing.
Stomping to the kitchen, I dig around in his treat jar and return with one of his sweet potato and chicken snacks. Then I waggle it by the edge of the bed as I attempt to coax him in a cheerful, friendly-sounding whisper. “Come on, you little woman-hogging jerk. That’s it. Good boy. Come get your disgusting snack.”
He rolls his eyes and doesn’t budge.
With a huff, I set the treat on my nightstand and climb in under the covers, moving over to put my arm around Franki, determined to ignore the fact that Oliver is between us.
He puts out one stubby front leg and shoves my face away from both of them.
I jerk back in outrage. “Why do your paws smell like Fritos? Did you eat corn chips where I sleep?”
He bats at me again, and I retreat to lie cold and alone on the edge of my own damn bed.
“You haven’t won. I want you to know that. This is a temporary ceasefire because I appreciate the fact that you’re offering her comfort when she’s upset, and because I don’t want to wake her up. But this is my bed and Franki is my woman, and You. Are. A. Dog.”
He gives a slow blink, smug triumph written in every long line of his body.
“Good. Night. Sir,” I hiss and click off the lamp.
He rolls in Franki’s arms until he gives me his back. Then a prolonged squeaking sound emanates from his direction.
Seconds later, I gag at the smell.
“You are such a dick,” I mutter.
Oliver doesn’t answer. He’s too busy snoring.