Owen jerks his gaze back, locks eyes with me briefly, then shakes his head.

  “What? We are,” I say, like I need to emphasize just how on track we are with every task.

  “I know,” he mutters, then pushes past me to the stairs going up to the loft-style second floor. His feet fall heavily, the loud clops of a pissed-off man.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he mumbles, but it doesn’t seem like nothing.

  It sure as hell seems like something.

  It’s not in my nature to let things go. I come from a family who works shit out, that airs grievances so we can talk through them, move past them, hug it out. “Owen,” I say, insistent as he climbs the steps.

  “What?” It comes out caustic. He’s never used that tone with me before, not even when I forgot to get him Arcade Fire tickets that one time.

  “Why are you so pissy?” I ask.

  “You want to get going. If you want to drive in this weather, we need to go,” he says, making a move-along gesture.

  “Well, don’t you? Want to go?”

  Please say yes.

  Please say no.

  Please say something.

  My head is such a mess right now. I want to be stuck in the cabin with him, and I don’t want to be stuck in the cabin with him.

  “If you want to drive to Nisha’s now, we’ll drive there,” he says as he marches on to the main bathroom, and turns the faucet there on a drip, opening cabinets too, then spinning around.

  We nearly bump into each other in the bedroom doorway. I stop in my tracks. He stops too. I stretch my arms out to each side, blockading the door.

  Owen heaves a sigh. “Can I get through?”

  “No. Why are you irritated with me?” I ask, pushing again, waiting for an answer.

  His eyes are hard, like steel. “It’s snowing outside. There are already three inches on the ground, and you want to go,” he says plainly. “We don’t need to stand around and argue.”

  I should drop my arms from the doorway. But I don’t. Something about being in this room with him, the bed behind me, is rattling my brain, knocking rules and pacts out of order. “Don’t you want to leave? You don’t want to be stuck here, do you?”

  Owen’s face is stony. He doesn’t answer me, just presses his fingers to either side of his eyes, rubbing his temples.

  “Is your headache back?” My voice dips to a gentler tone as I step closer, like I’m a nurse and I’ll take care of him.

  He shakes his head. Holds up a hand. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Owen lifts his face. “Yes,” he says, irritation thick in his tone.

  Letting go of the doorframe, I back up, holding my hands in surrender. In a heartbeat, he pushes past me, then heads down the stairs, puts on his shoes, grabs my keys, and pushes out the door.

  What the hell?

  Grabbing my shoes, I follow him into the cold, standing on the porch. Wind kicks up and snow swirls in the air.

  He unlocks my car, stretches into the back seat, grabs the bags, and trudges back to the steps before I can head down.

  “I’ve got everything for his mom,” Owen says curtly. “Let’s just put it away, and we can get out of here.”

  “Fine,” I say, but then I stifle a laugh when I get an eyeful of him. Instinct takes over, and I lift a hand, pet his hair.

  He flinches, shirking away. “What’s that for?”

  “Snow. You’re covered in snow,” I say gently. “I was just trying to brush it off your hair.”

  “Yes, there’s snow in my hair because it’s snowing,” he bites out, then goes back inside. After he takes off his shoes again, we put some food in the fridge and other items on the counter.

  I move next to him, helping him silently. Popcorn, chips, champagne, the cocoa tin.

  When we’ve emptied the goods for the cabin, he dusts one hand against the other. “Want to go?” Owen’s voice is edged with annoyance.

  My chest twists with frustration. My mind spins with questions. “Why are you so pissed?”

  “River,” he says sharply, “be fucking realistic.” Owen marches to the front door, swings it open, then shows me the outdoors. “Do you see what I see?”

  It’s a veritable winter wonderland. The yard is covered in snow. The driveway too. The car boasts an inch of the white stuff on the hood.

  But the cabin is too dangerous. I don’t trust myself. “Yes, I see it’s snowing, and I also see you’re acting like a dick,” I say.

  He scoffs. “I’m a dick? Fuck you. It’s snowing like crazy,” he says, his voice rising, flinging his hand at the door. “We’re not going anywhere. You hate driving in this shit and the roads are dangerous, and you’re clinging to this false idea that we’re going to Nisha’s and having wine and charcuterie. Sorry. Hate to break it to you. You’re stuck here with me, and you’re acting like it’s a death sentence. And now, I definitely have a headache, so I’m going to lie the fuck down.”

  My best friend, the man I have developed a wild crush of inconvenient feelings for, makes his way to the couch, takes off his glasses, and flops on the cushions.

  Because . . . I’m a dick.

  For being so pushy about hitting the road.

  For acting like I can’t handle being here with him.

  And, mostly, for making him feel like shit.

  As he closes his eyes and turns the other way, I do the same. Walk away from him.

  Then, I turn on the heat. Hit the switch for the fireplace. And I head outside to unload the car.

  We’re not going anywhere, and that’s scaring the hell out of me.

  10

  Owen

  That settles that. Being alone with me is worse than spinning out on a snowy road. Message received. Loud and clear. So loud, in fact, my head is throbbing. Stretching my arm up, I reach for the throw blanket on the back of the couch, pull it down, and turn the other way.

  A rush of warmth fills the room.

  Yup, we’re stuck here, and I’m so damn glad I never said a word to River about how I feel.

  I rustle, flipping around in my bed. Blinking, I try to orient myself. Is it Monday? Am I late for work?

  Shit, I need to get up now.

  My eyes fly open.

  Wait.

  This isn’t my bed.

  This isn’t my home.

  Ohhhh.

  Right.

  My shoulders sag, and my chest squeezes with a pang of heartache.

  I breathe out hard, scoot up on the couch, sitting now. How long did I sleep? Grabbing my phone from my front pocket, I rub my eyes, peering at the time.

  It’s seven.

  A text from TJ flashes on the screen.

  TJ: You guys coming tonight still? Nisha was asking about you. She’s seriously worried. And she really wants you here.

  I tap out a reply.

  Owen: Shit. Sorry. Tell her I didn’t mean to freak her out. But we’re stuck here in Markleeville, waiting out the snow. Tell her we’ll try to be there first thing tomorrow, and I have some awesome farm veggies she’ll dig.

  * * *

  TJ: Ohhhhhhhh.

  He adds a winking emoji.

  Owen: Trust me. There is no ohhhhh happening.

  * * *

  TJ: I have hope, man. Enough hope for both of us. You can do it. Also, Nisha says have fun. I’ll echo that, but there are air quotes around my have fun. And I’m not talking about the vegetables. Maybe your eggplant though.

  I send him back a middle finger emoji.

  Shutting the message app, I glance around the cabin, my gaze landing on the windows overlooking the hill. A white blanket shines like sugary crystals.

  I reach for my glasses on the coffee table and yawn.

  Peering at the kitchen, I don’t see River there. Or here in the living room.

  He’s probably already retreated to a room for tonight.

  This is going to be so fucking fun.

  Standing, I stretch, then spot my backpack by the door. Toothpaste and a toothbrush sound perfect right now, so I grab the bag and head to the hallway bathroom. After I take a leak, I wash my hands, brush my teeth, and leave my backpack there.

  River probably took the upstairs bedroom anyway.

  Rooting around in my bag, I fish out my phone charger, return to the living room, and find a plug. Might as well juice up this bad boy, so I can watch a show or read a book tonight. It’s not like I’m going to be hanging out with River, drinking hot chocolate and cuddling by the fire.

  Ugh.

  What a pathetic idea anyway.

  But it’s a good reminder not to read too much into little moments. There were a few times when he gave off I’m interested vibes. The I’m bossy remark, the way he curled his hand over mine in the store, how he stumbled on words when the conversation turned a little heated.

  But clearly that was just me wanting what I can’t have. Good thing I didn’t say a word. I pride myself on knowing when to talk and when to listen—it’s what I do for a living and I’m damn good at it.

  I’m more grateful than ever that I listened to my instincts to shut up.

  River and I were never going to happen, and this snow is simply slapping me in the face.

  Which means I will definitely get on the apps when I return to San Francisco. Boyfriend Material is one I’ve been hearing a lot about, so when I plug in my phone, I go to the App store, download it, and set up a profile real quick. I’ll do the rest when I’m home, but this is the first step in getting over the guy I can’t have. I flop down on the couch when a door whisks open, and River sails in from the back deck.

  “Popsicle. It’s official. I am a certifiable popsicle, but there’s a hot tub outside, and I bet if I were in it, I’d be a melted popsicle.” He’s draped in his outgoing bar owner persona again—only it’s not a persona. It’s just who he is. Happy, upbeat, fun.

  Maybe he’s over our first big fight.

  Sure seems that way, judging from the smile he’s sporting.

  “Did you take a dip in it to practice your melting theory?” I ask, even though he’s fully dressed, and his hair is dry.

  He shivers dramatically. “No way. It’s too cold on the deck. But I was checking everything out. Rooting around. You know me. I’m like a cat,” he says, walking toward me.

  “Curious,” I say, my voice still a little empty, even as we slide back into banter. How does this work? Do we just snap back in place, like a rubber band?

  River stops at the chair across from the couch, sits, and tries to catch my eye. But it’s too hard for me to look at him, and I feel so stupid for wanting him with an ache so persistent it won’t go away.

  “Owen,” he begins in a gentle, contrite tone I’ve never heard from him before.

  It’s enough to make me look up. “Yeah?”

  He leans forward, clasps his hands. “I’m really sorry.”

  That’s not what I expected to hear, so I take several seconds to process. I’m a thinker by nature. I ponder, and the thing is—we’re not apologizers, River and me. Sure, we’ve said sorry here and there, but only over little things. Forgetting to get tickets for a concert. Missing a coffee meet-up. Saying something dumb about the other person’s favorite singer.

  Never something like this.

  This feels bigger. More important.

  “You are?” I ask carefully.

  “I was an ass,” he says, shrugging, but owning it. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  But I know what got into me. Desire. Lust. Longing. And I need to do the same thing he’s doing—fix our friendship. “I’m sorry too,” I say, meeting his eyes. “I got all pissy. And I don’t know why I acted that way either.”

  I try not to feel guilty for that lie. But he doesn’t need to know everything that’s in my heart.

  He clears his throat, soldiers on. “I think I just wanted things to go a certain way today. I had this whole vision of road tripping with you, and listening to podcasts and music, and chatting and eating snacks, and debating anything and everything, and getting to Nisha’s and seeing her and Hailey again, and meeting all your friends, like TJ and everyone else,” River says, with an earnestness in his tone that keeps catching me off-guard. I’m so used to his charm, but this side of him—this open side—is wildly endearing too, as he rattles off a dream day. “I was so caught up in that, and I wanted you to have the Friendsgiving you love with all your buddies, and . . .” He stops, scrubs a hand across his jaw, his eyes swinging away from me. A few seconds later, they’re back on me, and they flicker with a new vulnerability. “Then things started to change.”

  I latch onto those last words, desperate to understand them, and him.

  My throat is dry as a desert but I manage to ask, “What changed?”

  River sighs heavily, shoves his hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he says, like he’s as lost as I am. “Maybe it was the snow. I don’t entirely know, Owen. We just got here and all I could think was how I’d wanted everything to go as planned. The pie and the drive and the trip and the . . . everything.”

  So maybe he’s not talking about feelings. But that’ll have to be okay. Even if we’re never more than friends, that’s enough. River’s the guy who wanted to road trip with me, to hang out, to talk with me. That counts for more than something. That counts for so much. And you don’t throw a friendship like that away, not when I can see us doing the same thing in five, ten, fifteen years.

  “Yeah, I get it. No worries. I was kind of wound up as well,” I say, and that’s true enough.

  He tilts his head, studying me. “You were?”

  “I guess I wanted things to go a certain way too. And then I was frustrated because sometimes you think you can do anything. You’re so confident, which is awesome, but you’re not always realistic.” I gesture to the toasty luxury cabin. “It’s not the worst thing to have to spend the night here, River. It’s like a travel brochure cabin.”

  River’s smile flashes again, bright and buoyant. “Do they even make brochures anymore?”

  I laugh, and it’s the first one in a while that feels real. “I don’t think so. You have me there.”

  “I do have you there,” he says, a spark in his eyes, a naughtiness in his tone once again. Innuendo is never far away with River. I take its return as a sign that all is well.

  His gaze travels to the window. “It really is gorgeous here. I did kind of want to take a tour of the home, check everything out, and stare at it all. So I did while you were asleep. I love checking out homes. Did I tell you when my neighbors had an open house a few weeks ago, I went? I was like Ooh, this is their bedroom, I bet he banged her here.”

  I laugh again, this time at the absurdity. “So you like to spy on your neighbors?”

  “No. But sometimes, I can’t stop thinking about what people are up to behind closed doors.” He drops his voice to a confessional whisper. “Like if I’m walking down the street, I wonder about the couples I pass.”

  “Your brain is a very overactive place,” I say.

  “Sometimes it’s too busy. And you’re right. I do sometimes think I can do everything, so I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

  “Bring it,” I say, wiggling my fingers.

  Drawing a deep breath, he leans forward, palms pressed on his knees. “The pecan pumpkin apple pie was terrible.”

  “You made it? For real?”

  “I did. Baked it yesterday. I made two—one to taste and one for tomorrow—and they were disgusting. Tossed them both in the trash. I officially cannot bake pies,” he says, banging a fist on the arm of the chair.

  “One bad pie attempt doesn’t mean you can’t bake them.”

  River waves a hand dismissively. “Eh, it was boring. Baking is so boring. I went out and bought a pie instead, and I bet it’s divine.” He takes a deep breath, his lips curving into a kind grin. “Does your head still hurt?”

  “No. I feel better,” I say, and that’s all true.

  “Good. I hate it when you get headaches,” he says.

  “Really?” That makes me laugh for some reason.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  I shrug. “That’s sort of a random thing to hate.”

  “No, it’s not,” he says, insistent. “I don’t like it when you don’t feel good, Owen. I want to fix it for you. I wish I could take them all away. Stomp on them and crush them out of existence.”

  My heart hammers again.

  Yup. I need to get back in the dating game for sure. Turn my attention away from River. Get all the way over him because every little thing makes my dumb heart jitter.

  I pat the couch. “Naps cure pretty much anything, so I’m all good.”

  “Naps should come with a label. Like the opposite of a warning. Instead, they should say . . . naps are always a good idea. Anyway, we’re here now and you feel better. I say we make the best of tonight. Want to pop open some champagne and play a board game? That’s what they do in cabins, right?”

  They do other things in cabins. Lots of other things.

  But at least we’re not arguing. We’re having fun again, like we vowed to do back in college. Stick together. No matter what. “Yes. But does that mean we’re sneaking champagne from the hostess gift for Declan’s mom?”

  River brings his finger to his lips. “Shh. I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

  I wink at him. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  He pops up, heads to the kitchen, and grabs the bubbly. “By the way, I texted Grant and Declan. Told them we needed to spend the night here. They were totally fine with it. Did you tell Nisha?”

  “I texted with TJ, so she knows, but I’ll give her a quick call,” I say, then grab my phone from the floor, and hit her name.

  One ring, and she picks up.

  “You had me so worried,” she says, and I can practically see her in her home, shaking a finger, all statuesque and goddess-like.

  “Sorry, Mom,” I tease.

  “If it weren’t for TJ, I would have gone to Markleeville and tracked you down myself,” she says, sighing like she’s still annoyed, though I know she’s not.