Chapter 3
My expectations for the retreat are lower than a public school’s budget, but even I am surprised by how poorly it starts.
It’s the week before Christmas, six thirty a.m. Despite the thick hat and chunky knit scarf I wrapped myself into, I shiver in the dimly lit Nephilim parking lot.
I’m wondering why we decided to meet here instead of, for instance, the middle of a cornfield, a funeral home, or literally anywhere else, when Mike jogs toward me and says, “Viola? Will you do me a solid?”
No, a wise, self-preserving voice screams inside my head. Fuck, no. But what I cautiously say is, “Depends.”
He smiles as if I said yes, and I don’t like it. “A tree fell last week, and parking is temporarily limited at the lodge. We’re trying to drive as few cars as possible to Mount Baker, and by my count one member of our group is going to have to ride with the Nephilim guys. I’m thinking that you—”
“No,” I say, this time out loud, vehemently enough that my breath puffs white between our faces.
“Please, Viola.” His expression is pleading under the hem of his beanie hat. “No one wants to do it.”
“Right. Well. Neither do I.”
“You’re my least drama-prone team member.” What he means is: You’re the easiest to manipulate, because you have the most to lose. We all know how important Limerence 3 is to you.
And he’s right, dammit.
Still, I say, “I can be pretty dramatic, if that’s going to get me out of driving to the lodge in…” I cock my head, remembering that my issues with Nephilim’s employees are heavily circumscribed. “Whose car?”
“Otto’s, I think?”
“And who else is in it?”
“I don’t know. Jorge, I guess. Aren’t they dating?” There is some indisputable bitterness in his tone. I guess we now know who initiated the last breakup in the long-running Otto–Mike soap opera. “Ashley, maybe.”
“The goth girl who always looks mad?”
“Yup.”
Hmm. I could deal with them. “I’ll do it”—I start, and Mike exhales in relief until I continue—“in exchange for three extra days of PTO next year.”
He rolls his eyes. “One.”
“Two. No blackout dates.”
“Deal. You’re saving me here, Viola.” He claps my shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, sure.” I head for Otto’s bright red hair and tall frame. I haven’t had many opportunities to interact with him in the past.
“Hi.” I smile. “Is it okay if I catch a ride with you?”
He shrugs, like all my existence inspires in him is mild repugnance. I don’t take it personally, since he’s known in the industry for his general lack of warmth. “I don’t care.” His British accent is tight and clipped. “But this is not my car.”
“Whose…?”
He points at a spot high behind me, and…
But of course. Of fucking course, it’s not his car.
I sigh, resigned.
“Hi, Jesse,” I say, before I’ve fully turned around, feeling almost impressed by my terrible fucking luck. Did Mike lie to me on purpose?
No. He doesn’t know about my weird relationship with Jesse. No one does, because every time I start to explain it, I realize how paranoid and egocentric it makes me sound. One of the most popular game designers, whom everyone loves, doesn’t want to be my bestie. Woe is fucking me.
Whatever.
“Good morning,” Jesse says, low and a little rumbly, like maybe he’s not an early-morning person.
His eyes on me, though, are fully awake.
Without asking he takes my overstuffed duffel bag from my hand to easily lift it into his trunk.
His dark sweater looks thin, and he’s not even wearing a jacket, but his body exudes warmth.
Meanwhile, I’m onion-layered and my teeth still chatter.
“Thank you,” I say.
It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since the mistletoe incident. The first time I listen to his voice since I overheard him say those stunningly horrible words.
“I don’t want anything to do with her.”
It makes my blood pressure rise, but I quickly realize that Jesse might not even remember the engagement party. He’s back to his polite but frosty self, and I go settle in in the back of his car, on the passenger side, trying to curl myself into invisibility.
I must be cursed. My brother’s cat, Edith, could have sicced an Egyptian goddess on me for putting her in that lobster costume last Halloween.
It’s the most logical explanation for this triple whammy: Not only have I been forced to invade Jesse’s personal space and, I can only assume, cause him a deathly amount of displeasure, but next to me Otto is playing Flappy Bird with the sound on, and Ashley, who is sitting in the front, appears to require several yards of leg space.
“Hey,” I ask her with a smile. “Could you move your seat up a bit?” I’m five six. She’s what, half a foot shorter? It’s a fair request, I think, but Ashley clicks her tongue and adjusts the seat, giving me about a fourth of an inch more.
I sigh. “Thanks.”
When Jesse comes in, his glasses fog up. Ashley plucks them from the bridge of his nose and uses the hem of her shirt to wipe them clean. Then she slides them back with a small, intimate smile that he seems to return.
Oh my god. Are they dating? Together? In love? Having sex? Is he as good at it as my dreams seem to—
Doesn’t matter, Viola. Not your business.
I lean back against the headrest, close my eyes, and try not to breathe too noisily.
We arrive at the lodge three hours later, and I take in the snow-dusted pine trees and rustic wood walls while musing that since this car ride didn’t kill me, it must have therefore made me stronger.
I am now better prepared to conquer difficult, life-changing events.
Childbirth, broken hips, hemorrhoids? I’m coming for you all.
It’s hard to choose what the most unpleasant part was.
Maybe when I asked Jesse to stop at a gas station so I could pee, and Otto muttered that “there are exercises one can do to overcome poor bladder control, Viola.” Jesse pretending that he needed to hear the traffic report and changing the radio station right after I excitedly let it slip that the song playing was one of my favorites—that’s pretty high up there, too.
There were, of course, several conversations in which the three Nephilims talked about things, places, ideas, and people that are obviously staples of their lives, and that I’m not familiar with.
Through those, I discovered that Jesse has a sense of humor.
Jesse loves to roast Otto. Jesse is kind, and gently reassured Ashley when she was anxious about her dog having to be put under for teeth cleaning, telling her that he’s had many dogs, and they all did fine during similar procedures.
Jesse is lovely—and he did not look at me once in two hours and fifty-seven minutes.
And then there was the slow torture of Jesse and Ashley discussing in excruciating detail the training, equipment, and philosophy that underlie triathlons.
I had not pegged either of them for fitness enthusiasts, but the in-depth conversation about zone 2 training and blood lactate testing and tempo runs clearly proves otherwise.
When they started talking about their preferred brand of energy gels, I considered crawling out of the car and walking to the lodge.
Which, in a positive turn of events, looks nice.
Much larger than I expected, charming, snow dusted.
Very…expensive. Tall windows. Balconies and decks surrounded by trees and narrow paths.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in a place quite like this, and I instantly fall in love with the scent of the pines and the crisp air.
I’m happy to be here. And if I had to endure the eardrum-shattering noise Otto makes when slurping from a straw to reach this destination, so be it.
“Hey.” Mike comes up to me and pats me on the back, his hand heavy through my thick winter coat. “Thanks again for riding with Jesse.”
“No problem. Although, you said I’d be riding with Jorge.”
“That’s what I thought, but…” He lets a small, excited grin slip. “Manny told me the rumor is that Jorge and Otto had a tiff and Jorge quit on the spot.”
Mike, you lovesick fool, I say—but not out loud. Because he is my boss. “Look at you, rejoicing in another man’s unemployment.”
“No, I…well, maybe. A little. Listen, out of everyone here, you’re the only one who never had a public falling-out with someone at the other studio. You, and maybe Jesse. When people at FlyButter and Nephilim start stabbing each other with ski poles, you’re going to be the last two standing.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Yeah, well…How was the drive? Did, um, Otto mention me?”
“No,” I say, deciding not to sugarcoat it. “He was way too busy checking his Grindr profile every ten minutes.”
Mike’s eyes widen. “I—he—it’s not—” he sputters and flushes. “I mean, Otto is…Not that it’s my business, if…” He clears his throat. Twice. “Did you happen to catch his username?”
I shake my head and turn to my duffel—which has disappeared from the trunk. I glance around, half expecting to find it pilfered by a Sasquatch. All I see, though, is Jesse. Walking toward the lodge and carrying a bag that looks suspiciously like mine.