Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
NILS
Ilose power just past midnight. The low hum that usually fades into the background seems loud when it’s gone.
Loud enough to wake me up. Reaching over, I click the bedside lamp to check.
No luck. Pushing the sheets back, I grab the wool socks and sweatshirt I left on the chair in the corner, slipping them on.
Holding my phone, I leave the bedroom, only making it halfway down the stairs before the backup generator kicks on.
I leave the lights off until I get to the main room, clicking on a single table lamp and moving to stand at the front window.
Outside, the world is white. Drifts have accumulated right to the base of the window, and fat snowflakes are still rapidly falling from the sky.
Frost coats the edges of the window, the frigid air outside fighting against the warm inside.
It’s a good thing I have the generator. Even with it, I might start the fire and stretch out on the couch.
If I lose the backup, it’ll be nice to already have a secondary heat and light source ready.
Letting the front curtain fall back closed, I quickly get the fire started. Leaving my phone on the table, I tug on snow pants and a jacket over my pajamas. Grateful to my past self for splurging on the more expensive winter gear, I get my snow boots on and push out the front door.
Cold wind bites my cheeks and makes my eyes water.
Cursing under my breath, I grab the snow shovel where I’d left it propped in the alcove next to the front door.
The coastal location of Siren’s Point helps moderate our temperatures during winter—we rarely see blizzards.
Most often, a couple of inches of snow falls before it turns to rain and freezes.
Ice is our most common winter issue. Blizzards?
Not as frequent. As I push the end of the shovel into the snow, I try and think of a time when I’ve ever seen this much of it here.
My dad might remember, but I don’t think it’s happened in my lifetime.
Shaking my head, I tuck my chin and get to work.
Snow, as southerners are often surprised to learn, is heavy.
Particularly this type of snow—wet and thick, instead of the fluffy, soft stuff that melts away the moment the sun rises.
After barely ten minutes of shoveling, my shoulders and lower back are burning.
I should be lifting more from my legs, but I’m tired.
Those few hours of sleep feel like nothing, and the thought of my warm bed mocks me.
I keep going, though, secure in the knowledge that leaving this until morning will make it worse. It’s always better to stay ahead.
Eventually, the work heats me up enough that I no longer feel the cold.
If it weren’t for my breaths fogging in front of me, I’d have forgotten the need for the jacket.
Indeed, I’m considering taking it off by the time I’m three-quarters of the way down my drive.
My back is damp with sweat, and I’ve long since removed the beanie I tugged on as I went out the door.
When I finish, I stomp the snow off my boots and stand on the covered porch, looking out over the yard.
It’ll be beautiful in the morning. Hell, it’s beautiful now, the white stark against the black of the night, everything silent like the snow is a weighted blanket over the world.
I slip off my boots before walking inside, carrying them with but leaving them right on the mat by the door.
Snow might be pretty, but it’s a hell of a mess.
The fire is burning low, the room warm and the lamp still on.
Glad to see the backup generator is still functioning, I walk upstairs to change out of my sweaty clothes and into something dry and warm.
It’s not until I’m back downstairs and considering putting another log on the fire that it hits me.
Oliver doesn’t have a generator. Oliver doesn’t have a functioning fireplace. Oliver has a heating unit that stops more often than it starts, even if we didn’t have a power outage.
“Shit,” I mumble, abandoning the fire and grabbing my phone instead.
There aren’t any texts from Oliver, but that doesn’t mean much. He might not say anything, no matter how cold and miserable he gets. When I try to call him, it rings straight through to voicemail. I try again, unsure whether his phone is dead or just on Do Not Disturb. Voicemail again.
Tucking my cell into the pocket of my sweatpants, I bank the fire.
I’ll take the truck and go check on him.
It’s possible the electricity will turn back on soon, and with it the heat.
But Oliver’s heating unit is spotty enough to worry me, and this is a hell of a lot bigger a storm than we’d been anticipating.
I won’t be able to sleep or relax or do anything unless I know he’s fine, and it won’t take long to check on him.
I’m grateful for my commitment to clearing the entire driveway at 1:00 a.m. when I climb into my truck.
Now that I’m not shoveling, I’m aware of how cold it really is.
The drive down the road, short as it is on a normal day, takes long enough for me to really start to worry.
Does Oliver have a thermal blanket for emergencies?
He’s got winter gear, that much I know, but there’s a difference in being prepared to work a lobster boat in the cold and being prepared to bunker down without heat during a blizzard.
The bright setting on my headlights doesn’t seem bright at all, and I nearly miss the turnoff for Oliver’s.
The snow blows directly at the windshield, nearly obliterating all visibility.
I press gingerly on the gas, not wanting to lose my forward momentum and get stuck, but also not wanting to run myself right into his house.
When I pull to a stop in front of the garage door, none of the motion lights I helped him install turn on. The power is definitely still out, then. Luckily, it seems like Oliver shoveled recently. That, or he’s getting less snowfall than I am, barely half a mile down the road.
Feeling bad for the possibility of scaring him again, I knock on his front door.
When there isn’t an answer, I try the handle and find it locked.
I’m glad, but also a bit disappointed. An open door would have made this welfare check a lot easier.
I knock again, louder, nearly pounding on the door the way a firefighter might.
I don’t want to break a window, but I will.
No lights turn on inside, and only the click of the dead bolt sliding free alerts me to Oliver’s presence on the other side of the door.
The relief is immediate, but it’s not until the door opens and I see his face that it feels physical.
It’s a head rush and the stomach-swooping-heart-in-your-throat feeling of missing a step when you’re walking down stairs.
I hadn’t even realized I was that worried.
“Oli,” I greet him, stuffing my hands in the pockets of my jacket to make sure I keep them to myself. For a moment, I wanted to hug him.
“Nils, holy cow, what are you doing out? It’s freezing.
And snowing! Didn’t you notice?” He laughs at his own joke, stepping backward into the dark house as though to give me room to walk in.
His silvery-blond hair is sticking out the top of the blanket he’s got wrapped around himself, cheeks pink in his otherwise pale face. He glows like a ghost.
“You-you-you oka-a-ay?” I ask, unsure whether it’s the cold to blame or the stutter for the way that question comes out. I can’t see much of him, wrapped up in that blanket like he is, but I can see it’s not thermal. He’s probably still cold.
“Yeah, fine, do you want to come in? Where were you? You shouldn’t be out in this.”
I huff a laugh at the admonishment, breath fogging between us. The inside will be darker than out here, no matter what the visibility is in the snow. Instead of walking in, I tip my head toward my truck idling in the drive.
“Come over to mine,” I tell him, willing him to read between the lines and understand that I have both a backup generator and a fire, willing him to not need it spelled out why he can’t stay here and should come stay with me.
Something of that must come through my expression. His eyes widen, and he shuffles back and forth in his blanket burrito, probably chilled from the wind through the open door. Taking a gloved hand from my pocket, I beckon him. Let’s go.
“Okay, yeah, that’s fine. Good. Safety in numbers,” he babbles. I’m happy he’s not cold enough for his tongue to have frozen. “I’ll just grab—”
“You-you-you can wear mine.” I hate to interrupt him—lord knows I hate people who fucking interrupt—but the snow is still falling, it’s cold as hell, and I left the fire banked at home.
I want to get him inside and check to make sure all his fingers and toes are intact.
I want to give myself a few moments of silence to calm down enough not to stutter in front of him.
“Okay,” he agrees, leaving the door hanging wide open as he walks to the hall closet and grabs his winter jacket and boots.
Phone in hand—dead, he tells me—and door locked behind us, we climb into my truck.
Oliver makes a relieved sound once the doors are closed, rubbing his gloved hands together and holding them in front of the vents.
I’d left the engine running and heat on while we spoke on the porch, so the cab is pretty toasty.
I angle the vents on my side toward him as well.
He’s quiet on the drive back to my place, occasionally humming but mostly silent as he leans forward in his seat and squints through the windshield like he’s helping me navigate.
The soft glow of the living room lamp is still visible when I park as close to the house as I’m able.
On first glance, the fire appears to have remained in the fireplace as well, given the lack of smoke.
Hopefully, it’ll be nice and warm inside.