Chapter 11 Margot
11 MARGOT
The next morning, there’s a sharp sound, and I jerk into consciousness like a half-formed butterfly who’s just had her cozy cocoon ripped open. Forrest has unzipped the sleeping bag, and from the faintest suggestion of light in the tent, I’m guessing the sun’s been over the horizon for about fifteen seconds.
“Nooo,” I whine as my front side is exposed to the brisk morning air. I turn toward his warm body, but he’s already sitting up and ignoring my sleep-weakened attempts to get him back in my clutches. Too soon, he’s gathered his clothing from the foot of our sleeping bag and is unzipping the entrance to our tent, letting in a rush of even colder air. Before I can do more than gawk at the dim eyeful I get of his naked torso, he climbs over me with a gruff “Sorry” and escapes into the predawn light.
“Good morning to you, too,” I croak after him.
I yank the zipper of the sleeping bag back up and burrow in. I’m still half asleep and wondering what the hell I did to make him jump up and leave. Suddenly mortified, I dip my nose beneath the sleeping bag cover and sniff. But all I detect is him. Woodsy. Musky. Serious. My sleep-fogged brain vaguely wonders how anyone could possibly smell serious, while I inhale more deeply. I draw my legs up toward my stomach, wishing he were still spooning me, when—
Oh God .
My eyes fly open in the blue predawn light. Forrest was my big spoon. As in we fell asleep together. In the same sleeping bag. Shirtless. The last cobwebs clear as everything else that happened last night rushes back to me. His hot mouth on my skin. His rough, capable hands. And how it all came to a screeching halt. My limbs curl protectively inward as I remember our half-panicked agreement to pretend it never happened, and suddenly, it’s no mystery why he bolted. The mystery is how I managed to have an incredible night’s sleep after the most awkward goodnight of my life.
Because you were swaddled in a cedar-scented muscle blanket, you idiot .
I sit up, no longer able to stay still. I’m shaking with cold (and anger at myself) as I manage to corral my boobs into a frozen-stiff sports bra. Serves you right , I think down at them. Giving in to this attraction and (fine) these feelings is exactly what I told myself I wouldn’t do. But last night, I lost control. And in the ruthless morning light, I know it wasn’t only because of how intoxicating it was to be touched by him. Just like the close call in his cabin, it was being cared for and held that was too much for me to resist. And whether I want to admit it or not, he’s been caring for me since the moment I met him and jumped into his arms.
From quietly leaving fire starters to keep me warm, to gently touching my face to test me for carbon monoxide poisoning when I nearly burned down my cabin with them, each moment with Forrest has been another falling domino leading to last night. I’ve never really been on the receiving end of all this concern, and unfortunately for me, it’s everything I never knew I wanted.
For a long time now, I’ve been the self-reliant caregiver. When I was growing up, work was always my mom’s priority, even before Dad left us and the job of parenting fell squarely to me. I raised not only Savannah but myself, too, and usually, that’s a source of pride. But now nothing is certain. The hidden fault line of my career has been cracked wide open, and escaping to this brutal, beautiful place has left me craving a different kind of security. The kind of security you can only get from another person and which, despite all my efforts not to, I feel with Forrest.
I press my fingers to my closed eyes, rubbing them for some much-needed clarity. I need to get out of the scene of the crime. I don’t know what I’ll say to Forrest when I see him, but reestablishing some sense of normalcy feels almost as urgent as my need to pee. At the very least, I tell myself, we’re on the same page. Maybe it was the way he ducked and rolled out of the tent like it was on fire, but I get the impression he has his own reasons for needing a reset.
After bundling myself, I leave the Tent of Ill Repute and venture into the literal tundra, stiff and aching from snowshoeing. Looking over the edge of our tent pit, I see Forrest’s imposing figure at the camp kitchen. A confusing combination of relief and disappointment twists through me when I see he’s not alone. Ollie spots me at once, grinning and waving like I’m Punxsutawney Phil emerging from his hole on Groundhog Day. Technically, I do need to crawl out of a pit, so: fitting. Forrest doesn’t turn to watch my ensuing struggle, which is the first small mercy of the day.
“Morning, Margot!” Ollie shouts from thirty feet away as I make it to normal ground level, red in the face and panting.
Forrest turns to Ollie and sternly mouths something that looks like a rebuke. Then again, he’d probably manage to look stern saying “happy birthday” to a six-year-old. Stern is his baseline. He probably gave a stern look to the obstetrician who delivered him into the world. But my hunch is right, because Ollie seems to shrink and looks at Alice and Yoon’s tent apologetically.
By the time I reach the makeshift kitchen, Ollie is back to beaming at me, and Forrest is very much un-beaming but handing me a thermos of hot coffee that more than makes up for his lack of social grace. “Thanks,” I say, meeting his gaze.
It’s a mistake. Huge. Because his too-handsome face is drawn, like he didn’t sleep a wink, but all the nervous defensiveness I’m expecting to be mirrored back at me is missing. The look in his eyes is raw. Somber. Like he’s resigned himself to not having the one thing he wants most. My heart kicks in my chest, and I’m possessed by the very alarming instinct to slide into his arms again. To smooth his brow and tell him everything’s going to be okay.
“Wanna check out the sunrise with me, Margot?”
I startle and realize I’ve taken an involuntary step closer to Forrest. Ollie is looking at me expectantly. “It’s going to look epic from over there,” he says, pointing somewhere off to the right.
“Sure,” I blurt, smiling at him like my heart isn’t doing wheelies around my chest. What the hell is happening to me? Think of Adam , I command myself. Remember how that worked out for you?
“Need a hand before we go?” Ollie asks Forrest.
Forrest doesn’t look up at us as he refills the kettle, but something in his carefully neutral expression betrays his hurt feelings. “You two go ahead,” he says, and I find myself telepathically shouting, Tell me to stay and I’ll stay!
But Ollie’s hand is on my back, and before I know it, he’s saying, “Great!” and leading me away from the campsite.
After briefly excusing myself at the portable outhouse to pee at the speed of a NASCAR pit crew, Ollie and I trudge through the unbroken snow toward the neon half-dome of sun peeking up over the horizon. The lower half of the sky is already a painting of electric orange and pink swirls of cloud, fading upward to a fathomless blue where the last stars are still winking out.
“Wow, how was this not the first thing I noticed?” I ask as our crunching footsteps come to a halt at a bend in the cliff edge. He’s led us far enough away from the group for it to feel like we’re the only two people left on earth.
“Pre-coffee brain,” Ollie explains. “No excuses now, though.” He taps his mug to mine before taking a drink. He swallows it down and immediately pulls a face.
“That bad?” I ask, his easy charm coaxing a smile from me.
“Well, I doubt Forrest pissed in yours. You’re probably safe.”
“Stop,” I say, laughing. “He would never. He’s just…”
“Sending me a message?” Ollie interjects, taking another sip of his awful coffee with an exaggerated eye twitch.
I’m trying to get my smile under control, and it’s not working. “Stop being dramatic. There’s no message hidden in the grounds, Ollie.”
He turns to face me, and I’m struck again by how good-looking he is, with eyes almost the same auburn-brown as his hair and freckles of the impossible-to-count variety.
“You sure?” he asks, looking down his nose and sticking out his tongue, which has actual grounds clinging to it. “I can’t see them too well, but I’m pretty sure they spell Back Off .”
I’m laughing, but his words send an unwelcome tingle through my stomach. The same one I felt when Forrest sent Ollie away yesterday with his tail between his legs. Or when his control snapped and he kissed me like the world was burning down. He’s protective. A little territorial, and if I’m honest, there’s a deeply unevolved part of me that minds it not one bit.
“Go ahead, then,” Ollie challenges. “I dare you to take a sip of yours and tell me it isn’t phenomenal.”
Giving him a skeptical look, I take an experimental sip and— oh . Hot, sweet, creamy goodness fills my mouth like the answer to all my frostbitten prayers. I taste my favorite combination of oat milk and honey, and a different kind of warmth slides into my belly. Forrest knows how I take my coffee. He packed my fussy ingredients. Carried them on his back for miles, when every ounce of weight in a hiking pack matters. Is this another trope? If so, I’m okay with it. Huge fan. It feels like more than an olive branch. It feels like a gesture. A message. I take another slow drink and can’t repress my small sound of pleasure.
“See!” Ollie half laughs, half cries in outrage. “I knew you’d get pour-over perfection.”
“I don’t know what you’re implying,” I say, sounding about as shifty as it’s possible to be.
“Hey, come on,” he says, putting a hand on my arm and dragging my attention away from the sunrise, which has only gotten more spectacular in the intervening minutes. I look up at him, and his smile fades into something serious for once. His hair is a copper fire in the sunlight, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “I think you do know.”
I don’t answer him. I’m too busy not breathing.
“I like you, Margot,” he says, capturing my gaze. “And I get why you chose Forrest last night. He’s… layered. Scary. The Bruce Wayne to my Peter Parker, if you will.” He shifts closer when a reluctant laugh escapes me. “But we only have a few weeks left, and I just wanted to put this out there. That if you were looking for something easier…” He pauses, considering his next words. “I could be easy for you.”
At this declaration, my stomach swoops, and he smiles down at me. “I’m not a doctor with a secret bat cave, but we could have fun together,” he goes on. “I could tell you how ridiculously pretty I think you are, and when it’s time to part ways, we could say goodbye as friends. It wouldn’t need to be complicated.”
I blink, my mind stuck in buffering mode as I process his offer. An easy, no-strings hookup buddy instead of… Forrest. Forrest, who trips all my alarm systems with one dark glance. Forrest, who, simply by existing, challenges the beliefs over which I lost my career and beloved readers. Forrest, who has his own probably excellent reasons for regretting our kiss, which I’m not at all curious about. Forrest, who terrifies me.
My eyes trace the contours of Ollie’s face. If I were making choices, he would be the right one. I can easily imagine us tumbling into bed together, and I know how fun it would be because men like Ollie are my safe zone. Playful, hot, and commitment-phobic. Easy .
“I…” Want to want you , I think. I should say yes. Or nod. Wink, maybe? No. But something—
He leans down and kisses my cold cheek. His face is cold, too, but his breath is warm against my ear as he lingers and says, “Just think about it, ’kay?”
He leans away, and I hear myself say, “Yeah. Sounds good.”