Page 50 of The Lodge

Puffin greets us at the door, rubbing his head on my legs as always. He trills out a tiny meow—histreat, pleasemeow—and trots hopefully toward the kitchen.

“He acts sweet,” I tell Tyler, “but he turns into a total drama queen if he doesn’t get his midnight snack.”

Tyler laughs. “I mean, same, honestly.” He holds up the bag of leftover soft pretzels. “Want me to heat one up?”

“One for us to split, or one for each of us?”

“Yes,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

When we get to the kitchen, the smell of honey nut latte is strong. It’s more likeburnthoney nut latte—and fried electrical parts.

“Oh,” Tyler says, eyeing my kitchen island.

Like some sort of monument, my laptop is positioned in an upside-down V, precisely as the internet advised. There’s a small puddle of brown liquid underneath it, and all I can think is: this is basically the electronics version of a horror film.

I’m fairly certain it’s deader than dead.

Electrocuted—then exsanguinated.

“Not ideal while trying to hit a deadline,” I say.

“Not idealever,” Tyler counters. “Any chance it might still work?”

I sigh. “I think it’s fried. Itsizzled.”

“Sizzling’s no good.”

Puffin meows again, more insistently this time. I manage to get the container of treats off the shelf, but the screw-top lid proves tricky with just one hand—that’s what I get for going the environmentally friendly route and packing his treats in an old jelly jar.

Without me even having to ask, Tyler’s by my side in a heartbeat. I hand over the jar, and he opens it easily before pouringfivetreats into Puffin’s food dish.

“You’re going to be his new favorite person,” I say. “I usually only give him one or two at a time.”

Puffin practically inhales them—predictably—then starts rubbing on Tyler’s leg.

“See, Tyler? He loves you already.”

“What can I say? I’m good with pets.”

“Says the guy whose pet is a goldfish,” I tease.

“Hey, Pete’s nearly eight years old! He hasn’t died from malnourishment yet, nor has he slammed himself up against the glass to put himself out of his own misery.”

“Give this man a trophy,” I announce to the kitchen appliances. “His goldfish is content to live another day!”

Tyler grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and nudges me playfully in the (uninjured) arm.

“I, on the other hand, might not live another day if we don’t have our midnight snack.” He pulls two giant soft pretzels out from our to-go bag.

Ten minutes later, we’re settled on the living room floor nearthe fireplace, a plate full of reheated pretzels between us on the woven rug. Tyler lit a fire for us—something I had no clue how to do—after pointing out that my clothes were still a bit damp from falling into the snow. In my bedroom, I peeled off everything that was even a little wet and changed into black yoga pants and a thick lavender hoodie.

And now, we feast.

“What are you going to do about your laptop?” Tyler asks, mid-bite.

“Other than begging someone at the Apple Store to make another one magically appear on my doorstep?” I sigh. “Probably wait a couple of days to see if it comes back from the dead, then order a new one if it doesn’t.”

Icouldspend some of my book deal money to buy a new one—but that’s just one more expense standing in the way of me eventually finding a bigger, better, warmer, quieter apartment.

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