Page 57 of Snowed In
“When did you get in?” Christian asks.
“A few hours ago.” She rolls her eyes. “Some of us are taking it better than others.”
“My ears are burning.” Another voice calls from above, and a second later, Andrew appears. Unlike Molly, who’s fully dressed, he’s still in flannel pajama bottoms paired with a thick navy fleece, his hair sticking out in all directions, much like my own brother’s. He was a few years older than me, so I don’t have as many memories of him as I do of Christian, but he smiles warmly as he comes down.
“Megan O’Sullivan,” he declares, coming to a stop beside Molly. His hand slides around her waist, squeezing her hip, but his eyes are on me. “You free for a swim later?”
“A swim?” Christian asks before I can answer. “Hannah said she just wanted to show Daniela the lake.”
“Yeah, and one thing led to another, and now we’ve challenged each other to a race.”
“I tried to stop it,” Molly tells us.
“We were thinking about bringing lunch with us. Go for a walk. Freeze to death. You know. Christmas things.”
Christian doesn’t look happy. “I don’t—”
“That sounds great,” I say before he can make an excuse. The whole point of this is that we spend time as a couple with his family. If this is what they do, then this is what we do. “Some fresh air would be nice.”
“See,” Andrew says, turning to Molly. “People like activities.”
“I like activities,” she says. “I just don’t likeyouractivities. You want some coffee?” she asks me. “I’m the only one who really drinks it, so I bring my own.”
“Coffee sounds good,” I say, and she smiles, heading to the kitchen. Andrew flashes me a grin and follows as if being in a different room to her is incomprehensible.
“So they’re likein lovein love,” I whisper to Christian when they’re gone.
“Sickening, isn’t it?”
“Do we have to be in love in love?”
“Not unless you want to change the touching rules.”
“I mean, a shoulder massage wouldn’t be frowned upon,” I say, and his hand lands on my back in more of a thump than a caress as he steers me toward the kitchen. I can hear Molly and Andrew inside, along with another voice, older and softer, which I guess is his mother. My nerves, which had been churning quietly away, kick up a notch, and I ground my heels in, forcing him to stop.
“I have to nervous pee,” I say truthfully, and his mouth contorts like he’s trying not to smile.
“Down the hall on your left,” he says, pointing up the stairs. “Wash your hands,” he adds loudly, and my glare is met with a smile.
I’m glad one of us is enjoying ourselves.
I find the bathroom easily enough but linger when I’m done, double-checking my makeup and smoothing down stray hairs. I’m just delaying the inevitable, but I want to make a good impression on his family. Between Isaac and Mam, I feel like he’s been doing all the work.
When I’m finally happy, I head back toward the stairs, glancing through the open doors as I pass, only to pause when I spy a familiar suitcase.
This one must be Christian’s room. There are two beds inside, one of which has been stripped bare while the other is carefully made, and curiosity pulls me further in before I can keep moving. His clothes hang neatly in the closet, a mixture of casualwear and the subtle, expensive pieces I’ve come to associate him with. At the sight of them, I realize how I’ve never seen where he lives in Dublin, even though he’s been to my place a few times now. The image in my head is of something very orderly and stern. Dark colors and sleek lines. More or less the exact opposite of the house I’m in now.
I definitely don’t picture any books there. But they’re everywhere in here. Stacked on the bedside table, packed tight along the windowsill. An old case shoved against the wall is crammed with them, and I run a finger over the top shelf, hoping for some random insight into the man.
I thought they might be very serious history tomes, and there are some there. But also, an assortment of crime and old copies ofGoosebumpswith battered spines and yellowed pages. I assume they’re all from his childhood, but the top one on his bedside table looks newer, with a torn sheet of paper slid halfway through it, acting as a bookmark.
Starting with You,the title reads, and then, in smaller print below that,Rebuild Your Life Step by Step.
“Can I help you?”
My heart leaps into my throat as I spin around to find a young woman standing in the doorway. She’s nearly as tall as Christian, with a slender figure and wide-set green eyes that are now narrowed in suspicion. She looks like she’s in her late teens. Which means…
“You must be Hannah,” I say. “I’m Megan.”
