Page 17 of The Cabin

“I’ll write that under the ‘maybe’ column,” I say, taking my time to write loopy cursive letters.

“What about puzzles?” I’m about to say no when I remember there are about a hundred puzzles in my cabin from, like, the 1900s. Could be relaxing?

“Okay, yeah, sure.”

“I bought a bunch of surprise activities at the store earlier. I wanna keep those secrets, though.”

His grin is mischievous and I side eye him. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

“They’ll be fun, I promise,” he assures me.

I glance down at the list. “We literally only have reading, yoga, plumbing, puzzles, and drinking on here. No wonder we’re divorced. We suck.” I eye him for a reaction. That may have been way too soon. He literally just signed his divorce papers on Friday. I, however, have been making self-deprecating jokes for almost three decades.

“I don’t know about you, but the first thing I look for in a potential partner is their puzzle completing skills. I mean, imagine if they’re the kind of person who starts in the middle instead of finding the border.”

“I start in the middle.”

He waves his hand in my direction. “Case and point.”

“Rude.” I start tapping my crayon on the table, trying to remember what all the blogs said that I spiral read before coming up here.

“Oh my god, it was so annoying and cliché. When I looked stuff like this up last week to prepare for this supposed spiritual getaway, all the stupid blogs kept saying,” I put on a shrill, mocking voice, “ ‘best way to get over someone is to get under someone new.’ ”

“Okay, how about ‘hook up with a stranger’?” he offers and I stare at him. I don’t know if he realizes it, but his eyes have done that thing where they go all dark again. I shift in my seat, crossing my legs.

“You literally just said this morning that we’re the only two people up here. I don’t know where you think we’re going to find any strangers.”

“Just write it down.” He’s gone serious, his words taking on a command-like quality. It’s a subtle shift, but I feel goosebumps pop up all over my legs. My hand moves across the page, writing the newest addition.

I add a, “yes, sir,” under my breath. Grayson snaps the crayon he’s holding.

“So, uh, where do we start?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

The hand running over his face is making it difficult to focus. So big…

“I guess the shower is the most pressing issue. I am not going back to that gym sock smelling YMCA ever again.”

“I kinda like how it smells!” I protest and he gives me a bored look.

“Whatever, psycho. Let’s go.”

I roll my eyes and grumble, “Sorry, dirty book club, looks like you’ll have to wait your turn.”

—

We’re stuffed into the space Grayson has mapped out for his bathroom, his hand stretched out towards me, a hammer pointed in my direction.

“Where do you want me to put this?” I grab it from him and try not to tempt fate by touching any part of him.

“I want you to use it,” he grunts, fiddling with something under the sink.

“To do what?” I cry, eyebrows high up on my forehead.

“To pull out the old nails in the wall.”

“I was thinking this was going to be a way more ‘you’ thing, than a ‘me’ thing. I was going to take on more of a supporting role.” I twirl the hammer in my fingers and almost drop it. I’ll blame it on being distracted. I’ve got a great view of Grayson’s butt in his jeans. Man does he know how to wear a pair of Levi’s.

He resurfaces, face covered in sweat. I kinda wanna lick it. Is that weird? Oh well. “If you wanna use this shower, you gotta help.”

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