Page 44 of The Lodge

Wouldn’t miss it, I finally write back.See you then :)

how to fix|

how to fixa broken heart

how to fixthe heat when you’re renting an apartment

how to fixa ruined laptop

13

I arrive at the ice-skating rink five minutes early. At ten on the dot, Tyler comes into view, headed my way on the path from the main lodge. He looks even more like an REI model than usual—dark jeans, red flannel shirt, leather-and-shearling bomber jacket, wavy hair peeking out from under a charcoal-gray beanie, forest-green backpack.

Honestly, he could pass for amodelmodel right now—like full-on Paris runway, if you swapped out his woodsy chic for high fashion. I’m trying to pinpoint exactly what it is that feels different, and I land on his beanie: something about it accentuates his cheekbones, making them look more chiseled than usual. Maybe it’s just the lighting.

As soon as he spots me under the lamppost where I’m waiting, his face splits into a huge grin.

“Hey,” he says when he gets closer.

It’s a single, simple syllable, but it’s the way he says it that gets me—soft and low, like a secret.

“Hey,” I reply. “Sorry I had to cancel earlier.”

He waves it off. “It happens. Need to talk about it?”

“Maybe. Not now, though. Right now I want to forget work even exists.”

Tyler grins. “ThatI can help with. But first—”

He gestures for me to follow him, so I do. Instead of taking one of the paths away from the skating rink, though, he leads me closer to the entrance to the ice.

“I thought you said we weren’t skating tonight?”

“We’re not. But wearein need of some cozy snacks,” he says. “I have it on good authority that you like the soft pretzels around here.”

Flashback to me devouring more than my half last night when we split one, and the way his gaze lingered just a little too long on the salt on my lips.

“Not sure what gave you that impression,” I say, straight-faced. “But if you insist, I guess we can get one.”

“Oh, we’re not getting onlyonethis time—we’re getting a half dozen!”

“A half dozen? Are we building a tiny pretzel fort for some lucky squirrel?”

He laughs. I love that I can make him laugh, even with what might have been the dumbest joke anyone has ever dared to tell.

“One for you, one for me,” he replies, “and a few for me to eat tomorrow morning for breakfast.”

He really does order a half dozen, and the girl behind the counter doesn’t even blink. We also get a pair of hot cocoas to go—marshmallows on mine, whipped cream on his. The cup is delightfully warm in my hands; I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my gloves until it was too late.

“The best way to eat these,” he says, setting his cocoa down on the smooth pine railing, “is like this.”

I watch as he carefully removes the lid, then—horror of horrors—tears off a piece of his pretzel and dips it into his cocoa. When he pulls it out, it’s soggy, brown, and streaked with whipped cream. He devours the whole piece in a single bite.

I blink.

“What. Just happened.”

Amused, he replies, “It’s salty. It’s sweet. It’s perfection.”

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