“My wife died at thirty-two. Life isn’t fucking fair. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”
“No!” I snapped, pointing my finger. “Not better off, the exact opposite. Look what’s happening, literally right now, you bring up the past and immediately we’re fighting about something so stupid! It’s my past, Archie, and if I want it to stay buried then it stays fucking buried. I’m sorry I said all those things in the car last night, it was a mistake, a momentary slip, and believe me when I say it won’t happen again. And yes, I know your wife died at thirty-two, and that’s a really shitty deal, but I’m not her and I’m the furthest thing from perfect and if you think I’m ever going to be anything like her, then—” I stopped cold, mid-yell. “You know what, this is exactly why I never should’ve started this in the first place, I knew this was a bad idea.” I stomped off in search of my clothes. Once again, I was shaking. In the span of twelve hours I’d let that smooth surface crack and I was already paying the price. I was saying things I should never say, and I was hurting Archie, I could tell.
This is the very reason I don’t get involved. Because when two people share something, anything, someone gets hurt. And I promised myself a long, long time ago that I’d never be the one to hurt someone else. I needed to get out before anything else was said.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Home. Back to the hotel.”
“In the snow? You’re going to walk a mile, uphill, in the snow?”
I stabbed my legs into my pants. “You don’t think I can do it?”
“It’s not about that, for God’s sake.” He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “Is everything a competition with you?”
I grabbed one of his winter hats out of the coat closet, along with a coat as well, and shoved it down on my head so hard it covered half my face. I pushed it up angrily in a huff. “Yes. No. I don’t know. Just shut up.”
He bit his bottom lip, trying not to laugh.
“What?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “What?” I shouted, stamping my foot.
“Your pants are on backward and when you pushed your hat up your nose got caught and, I shouldn’t say this, but I’m gonna, you looked like a piglet.”
My jaw dropped.
He grinned. “And I think you’re an idiot for running out in the snow just to prove a point. Because this is horseshit.”
“Horseshit?” I sputtered.
“Horseshit,” he agreed, grinning wildly. “Horseshit that you would let something like your past keep you from spending the morning with me. Maybe put on some snowshoes and go out for a hike in the woods. Or I could fuck you senseless in the bathtub. Whichever. They’re both great options. Up to you. But don’t leave just because you don’t want to talk about your past, that’s silly. We’re grown-ups.” He turned to head back into the kitchen, but then stopped and looked back over his shoulder. “And believe me, I know you’re not anything like my wife. But you’re crazy if you think she was perfect. She was impatient, had no attention for detail, was famous for leaving messes and not cleaning them up and most of all, she could be a real pain in the ass sometimes.” He tilted his head to the side. “Huh, you two do have something in common.”
He headed over to the sink to do the dishes, whistling while he worked. He didn’t look back, he didn’t say anything else, he just did his thing.
Which infuriated me. “Listen, Mister Pry Into Everything, just because you’re ready to talk about my past doesn’t mean I am, okay? And that doesn’t make me horseshit.”
“I didn’t say you were horseshit,” he corrected, pointing at me with a scrub brush, then gesturing broadly. “I said this was horseshit.” He turned back to his dishes. “You can’t let the past define you, Clara.”
“Says the man still wearing his wedding ring,” I muttered. His back stiffened, his head snapping up on his neck. I stood my ground. If he could push me I could push right back.
But as I watched and waited for him to explode, to yell at me, to tell me I was wrong, to tell me that this was his sacred cow and I had no business even bringing this up to him . . . the opposite happened. His back relaxed, he shook his head, and he went back to his dishes. A moment later, he spoke.
“Fair point. I won’t push.” But then he looked over his shoulder at me. “Today. But I will again, and soon.” He went back to his dishes, calm and cool and collected. “But you really don’t have to leave.”
I considered. It did look cold out there. And the snow was really deep. And being a late snow, it was wet and heavy—it’d be really hard to wade through all of it. Uphill, like he said.
I looked back toward the kitchen. He was making another pot of coffee, it smelled heavenly. He was whistling “Stay” from Dirty Dancing, that sonofabitch. A snowshoe hike did sound nice. The bathtub fucking sounded nicer. The question was, could we go all day without talking about shit I just really wasn’t ready to verbalize? He said he wouldn’t push, but would he?
Uphill versus fucking.
I pulled off my hat. I pulled off my pants. I walked soundlessly back into the kitchen, picked up a towel and a plate from the rack, and started drying.
I chanced a look at him, next to me, still whistling. His grin was enormous.
I kept my eyes on the plate. “So, to be clear, the fucking is happening before the hike.”
He set down his plate, set down my plate, picked me up by slipping his beautiful hands around my naked bottom, and started heading upstairs. “And after the hike.”
Archie was as good as his word and didn’t push me. But there was something hanging over us now, something palpable, a tension that wasn’t there before. Or rather, it’d changed shape. Before I’d been trying to avoid getting involved. Now I was involved and trying desperately to avoid talking about anything of substance. I was leaving, that we both knew, so why muddy the waters with more details that can’t change anything? And speaking of muddy . . .
The snowstorm that blew in and out over the course of just two days left the ground wet, muddy, sloshy, and gross. Exactly the kinds of conditions that make for a great Tough Mudder race.
Natalie was hoping that we’d all forgotten about the race, and more important, that she’d said she’d participate.
“Pretty sure I said I’d be cheerleading, as in from the bleachers,” she said as we all arrived at the Mountain House before six on the morning of the race.