“Admit he’s better than Tom Hanks’s character,” River says, insistent. “Just admit it.”

  “No contest. Of course he is. But that’s like saying chocolate peanut butter cake is better than coconut cake with cream cheese frosting. Of course it is, River,” I say.

  “So you admit it,” he says, gotcha style.

  I laugh, from the bottom of my funny bone this time, nothing forced. I’m enjoying this. I’m enjoying him. I always have. Even when I’m all twisted up inside and tormented by my feelings. “I literally just admitted it. We are on the same page.”

  “Ah,” he says, like a detective solving a crime. “That’s what threw me off. You and me agreeing.”

  “Every once in a while it happens.”

  “So, let me see if I have this right. We didn’t entirely agree on the Harry and Sally rules. We somewhat agree on the lessons of Clueless and we definitely agree on the wrongness of You’ve Got Mail.”

  “But that’s the most important one to agree on,” I say. “Because cheating and lying are the worst.”

  River’s expression turns serious, and his energy calms. “They are. It’s awful when it happens,” he says, his voice a little soft, maybe a touch of hurt in the set of his jaw over the reminder.

  River was good to me when we talked about my ex. I can do the same for him.

  I take another chance, setting a hand on his shoulder. This feels important to say for many reasons. “I still hate what Hayden did to you,” I say, gently. “I know you’re over it. I know it was a long time ago. But I want you to know that just like you hate Ezra, I hate Hayden.”

  Now that I’ve voiced that, it’s like I’m speaking another language. Maybe an interpreter can translate for me: I don’t like your ex because he took you away from me, and treated you badly, and I would never treat you like that. If you gave me a chance, I’d be incredible to you.

  Can River decipher the sentence?

  The corner of his lips twitches. “You do?”

  “I do,” I say, then squeeze his shoulder. Touching him feels so good. Maybe it does to him too, since he breathes out harder, and I hope that the same sensations running down my arm are running down his as well.

  River jerks his face to me, locking our eyes for a few seconds, before he returns to the road. “Look at us, hating each other’s exes through all the years.”

  All the years.

  Yup, that’s what we have. So many years between us. So many pasts.

  And the future of our friendship.

  That’s the risk.

  But I believe in the reward. I want the reward. I hope he does too.

  “That’s what friends do,” I say, letting go of him.

  “That’s definitely what they do. Friends,” River says, adding the last word maybe for emphasis, but it comes out a little wistful.

  A little lonely too.

  I want to tell River that if he’d let me be his lover, I’d be his friend as well. I don’t think I could abandon him ever.

  I don’t have it in me.

  Our conversation slows, then fades to silence as River focuses on the road. The sky turns whiter, the clouds swell, and the hint of snow is hardly a hint anymore—more like a damn billboard, flashing against the sky. White blankets the horizon. I check my weather app once more as a green sign looms on the side of the road. Markleeville—twenty miles.

  My glasses slide down my nose, and I push them higher, peering at the forecast.

  The weather says one thing and one thing only.

  “So . . .” I begin.

  “Yes?” River asks.

  “The forecast calls for snow. And more snow. And then some more.”

  He goes to that quiet place again, the one where I’m left guessing. The place I’m spending a lot of time in today.

  And in this quiet spot, my mind operates as a train depot too, returning to Clueless and all the lessons from it.

  I suppose the biggest one is when Alicia Silverstone sees what’s been in front of her all along in Paul Rudd.

  My chest swells with new hope.

  The hope that River will see that too.

  The guy who’s been in front of him all along.

  8

  River

  Things that are fast—cheetahs. Supersonic jets. Snow falling outside Tahoe late on a Friday afternoon.

  Make that evening.

  The clock ticks past five as I hit the turn signal for the Markleeville exit, and we head down the exit ramp, coated in a dusting of flakes.

  “We’ll just be in and out like a Bugatti,” I say tightly, since driving in shitty weather is zero fun. Especially driving a car meant for the city, rather than the mountains. The last twenty miles on the highway took an hour. As soon as the snow began, traffic slowed and cars slogged.

  “Definitely. Open the cupboards, turn on the faucets, and then we’ll beat the snow,” Owen says, then he turns to me. “You okay?”

  “Why do you ask?” The question comes out at Mach speed.

  He points to my hands. “You’re kind of death-gripping the steering wheel. Which I get. I’d probably do the same too. But I just wanted to see if you were hanging in there,” Owen says, a note of concern in his voice. I know that tone. It’s the one he uses as the press guy with his ballplayers on the team, when he’s looking out for them, making sure they’re okay.

  The man is seriously good at taking care of others.

  Especially since a cursory glance at my hands shows he’s right. My knuckles are white. “Guess I’m a little tense,” I admit, then stretch my neck right and left, and loosen my grip. “My Honda is small. It’s not one of those monster trucks that eat up dirt and snow for breakfast.”

  “Can you even imagine driving one of those tanks in the city? You’d never be able to impress me with your parallel-parking skills in one of those,” he says, upbeat, a smile on his face again as I turn on the road through town, bathed in white already, like it’s getting ready to pose for a cute mountain town postcard.

  I’m so grateful for the distraction of talking. It makes driving in these conditions more bearable. “Is that all it takes to impress you? Parallel parking?”

  “Maybe I’m easy,” he says.

  “Ha. Things no one ever said about you.”

  Owen just smiles. Like that comment pleases him. I kind of want to linger on how he looks when he’s happy, but mostly I just want to get out of this damn car soon.

  “Hey,” Owen begins. “I never once asked if you wanted me to drive. Do you want me to drive?”

  I laugh, shake my head. “No way.”

  “Because you think I’m a terrible driver?”

  “No. Because I’m a terrible passenger,” I say.

  “That tracks.”

  “And why would I be a terrible passenger?” I toss back at him.

  Owen holds up his thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “You’re just a little controlling. I bet you’d be a back-seat driver the whole time. Shouldn’t you slow down? Shouldn’t you speed up? Let me show you a shortcut. The light’s green, the light’s red, the light’s pink and sparkly. Wait, there’s a duck crossing. Let’s stop and take pictures of ducks,” he says.

  “Sparkly pink lights? There are sparkly pink lights in your world of fictional roads?”

  “Yes, and you’d point out every single one.”

  I shrug lightly. “I probably would. Also, I’d definitely take pictures of ducks,” I say as we roll through the quaint downtown, its stores closing at the end of the day.

  “You would.”

  The GPS tells me to take a right at the stoplight, and I follow the lead, then let out a long exhale. “Maybe I am tense.”

  “Told you that you needed that shower, hot-stone-massage thingy,” he teases.

  “Hey! Maybe Declan is going to surprise us with masseurs waiting at the cabin.”

  Owen snaps his fingers. “Dammit. You weren’t supposed to guess, River.”

  “I better drive faster,” I say, except I won’t and can’t, since we’re chugging up a winding road to the cabin now. The white stuff is flinging itself down from the sky, and the homes on each side of the road boast carpets of snow across their front lawns.

  My little car curves around the bend.

  Owen peers up at the windshield, taking in the scene. “Snow’s coming faster.”

  “Yeah, but I bet it stops soon, and we can still make it to Nisha’s tonight. It’s only five,” I say, staring straight ahead at the white flakes as the sun dips below the horizon.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” he says.

  But we’ve got to make it to Tahoe. Staying alone in a cabin here is not in the plan. “Nah, it’ll be fine. It looks like it’ll stop very soon,” I say, trying to will it so with the weather. I nearly believe it myself.

  The GPS chirps, “In four hundred feet, your destination will be on your left.”

  A cough seems to burst from Owen. “River . . .” he says tentatively.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s supposed to snow for a few hours. The roads are slick. Your car is tiny.”

  “What are you saying?” I ask, but it’s a rhetorical question.

  He’s saying Declan’s family cabin is our hotel room for the night.

  Just the two of us.

  All alone.

  But if that happens, temptation will spiral to the roof. It’ll pull me into its tantalizing grip. Surely at some point, I’ll tell him I want him, and then shove him against the wall. Slam my body against his, jerk him close, yank his hair, and kiss the breath out of him.

  And my heart will go wild. It’ll throw a parade and toss confetti as my lips crash down on his.

  It’ll cheer me on and shout more, more, more.

  That’s the problem.

  Just because Owen and I are going to a cabin doesn’t mean I can do those things to him.

  Or that he wants me to.

  We made the pact for a reason.

  At the time, it was because the end of Ansel hurt too much. I didn’t want to risk that pain again.

  But over the years, Owen and I became closer and the pact became a symbol to me. It’s a declaration of who we are to each other.

  Important.

  Necessary.

  Steady.

  Plenty of men, straight or queer, sleep with friends, and do just fine. More power to them. But that’s not me. I’m not a just sex guy. Pretty sure Owen isn’t either.

  Now, our deal is a statement of how precarious happiness is, how easily life as we know it can capsize when a relationship or even a fling becomes too heavy for it to hold.

  Hell, the man just talked me through the last few miles of rough driving like an air-traffic controller chatting with a tired pilot, guiding him home to a safe landing.

  But a cabin in the snow isn’t a safe landing.

  This is not a parallel-universe cabin.

  It’s not a sex cabin.

  It exists in the all-too-real world. I want to leave the cabin with our friendship intact.

  And this cabin is . . . a holy fuck cabin.

  “Wow,” I say turning onto the road where a two-story wooden home with a peaked roof looms boldly at the end of the street.

  Owen stretches out his left arm, pointing like the cabin is the Emerald City. “Calling that a cabin is like calling a lion a pussycat.”

  My eyes drink in the majesty. “More like a chalet. I was stupidly picturing a little rustic thing in the woods. I should have checked out Redfin,” I say, as I pull onto a gravel driveway, stopping at the top.

  If we get snowed into the driveway, it’ll be harder to leave.

  And we must leave.

  But first . . .

  I cut the engine, relief flowing through me as the car quiets. “Ugh,” I say, slumping over the steering wheel. Then I lift my face. My pulse skitters, then starts to settle. I peer at Owen, a crush of gratitude hitting me again. “You told me about the ducks and parallel parking to distract me from the shitty conditions.”

  “You were tense. I just wanted to help take your mind off things.”

  “That was officially not fun. Those last twenty minutes.”

  “But did it help? The ducks and pink lights?”

  “Yes. You were great, and I’m so lucky,” I say, and there I go again—letting my hungry heart get away from me. This man knows me so well, and does all these little things that make a day . . . better.

  I can’t be in this cabin with him, or I will do something I’ll regret.

  Kiss him. Touch him. Taste him.

  Have him.

  But I can’t lose him. Owen Hayes makes my whole life better.

  “Thanks for driving. You should relax for a bit,” he says.

  “I need to stretch my legs. And then we need to hit the road again.”

  Owen rubs his ear, and his brow creases. “What? Hit the road again?”

  As I unlock the door, I wave my hand behind us, indicating the snow-covered streets. But it’s only an inch or so. It’s not slick yet.

  I plaster on a can-do grin. “We’ll just do our thing here, but we can still make it to Nisha’s tonight, don’t you think? We can hang out with them, pour some wine, have a charcuterie board. She makes great charcuterie.”

  Owen pulls a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me face. “Seriously?”

  I scoff, gesturing dramatically to the cabin. “Well, she does, and we don’t want to be stuck here. Our friends are waiting for us. I mean, do you want to be stuck?”

  Owen says nothing. He gets out, shuts the door.

  I get out too. “Do you?” I press.

  “It’s not as if I woke up this morning thinking please let me be trapped in a fucking chateau tonight.”

  That only bolsters my point. Neither one of us wants to be here. “So, we’ll be in and out. And get back on the road.”

  We walk through the coating of snow to the front steps, then he says, “Yeah, whatever you say.”

  Yup. This will be a quick trip, and we’ll be on our way.

  Safe and sound in a house full of people.

  All the other people I don’t want to kiss and touch.

  All the other people I don’t want to spend the night with all alone.

  9

  River

  “I’m a polar bear. Wait. Make that a popsicle,” I say, shivering in this icebox of a house.

  “You’re so California,” Owen says, as he shuts the door after me. But his voice is flat.

  “Says the guy from Vancouver,” I point out as I head to the kitchen, opening cupboards with renewed vigor.

  “I’m hardly from there. I just lived there till I was eight,” he says, joining me in the task, jerking open the cabinets.

  “But it made you sturdy. You’re like a mountain man,” I say, trying to keep the mood light.

  “Yes, River. I’m practically a lumberjack,” he says drily, as he heads to the sink, turning the faucet on a smidge.

  Tantalizing images flick past me thanks to that word—lumberjack. Owen in flannel. Owen chopping wood. Owen in front of the fire. A low rumble escapes my throat.

  My friend snaps his gaze to me. “Do you have a lumberjack fetish?”

  No, I have a you fetish.

  Apparently, I’m just fully realizing it today.

  And it’s radically fucking with my head.

  Best to deny everything. That’ll keep me focused. “No, I don’t.” I gesture to the Travel & Leisure cabin that requires gawking. The kitchen is modern and new—white counters and a steel fridge, and it opens into a sunken living room. A stone hearth frames that room, rising to the ceiling. My eyes travel up, taking in the logs for days above us, and yet this is hardly a log cabin.

  “Damn, Declan takes care of his mom,” I say, admiring the place.

  “He sure does. I kinda love when these superstar athletes I work with have soft spots for their families,” Owen says.

  “Me too,” I say, and I want to just gawk and talk and ask why he loves that, and if it’s because maybe it makes them human and real and not quite so larger-than-life.

  But there’s no time to linger.

  “Anyway,” I say, gesturing to the rest of the home, “we have to do the rest of the taps, right? Other cabinets too?”

  “Yes. That’s the point. Anything can freeze so you want the water to be flowing through the pipes. At a trickle, that is,” he says.

  “Too bad. I kind of wanted to take a tour,” I say, then glance at the time on my phone. “But we’ll have to be speedy, so we won’t be stuck here. No time to stare.”

  Owen shoots me a look like I’ve gone mad. “I wasn’t staring. I was just answering your question.”

  “I know, but there’s no time to lose,” I say, shooing him along.

  “Got the message. I’m going,” he says, then bends, unties his motorcycle boots. His gaze drifts down, and he points at my shoes. “Take off your shoes too. It’s rude to walk around in shoes in someone’s home.”

  “Obviously. I’m not a troglodyte,” I say, as I toe them off.

  “I wasn’t saying you were.” Shoving his hand through his hair, he hoofs it down the hall. Like he can’t get away from me fast enough.

  Owen darts into the hallway bathroom, turns on the faucet, then wheels out of there before I can reach him. He continues down the hall, passing the framed photos on the wall—pictures of mountains, sunsets, and seascapes. At the end of the hall, he turns through the doorway. “Guest room,” he says.

  “Is there a bathroom in there?”

  Not answering, he pads softly over the beige carpet, around a king-size bed, then to the en suite bathroom.

  He’s in and out in a flash. “Done. Opened the cupboards too.”

  “You are indeed speedy,” I say, injecting even more cheer in my tone.

  Owen doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t pick up from our texts earlier in the day about speed. He simply pushes on, through the cold, eerily quiet hallway, continuing the task, and I follow him, as if I’m some sort of puppy.

  Silence has fallen over the house, and us.

  “We’re almost done,” I say, just to fill the emptiness.