Page 11 of Melting the Grump
"I'm borrowing it." She pulls her phone from her pocket, frowning at the screen. "No signal. Yours?"
I check mine. "Nothing. But they know we're out here. Once the roads clear, someone will come looking."
Outside, the wind howls, rattling the windows. Through the dusty glass, I can see the world has transformed into a swirling white void, the early snow mixing with fallen leaves to create a surreal autumn blizzard. It's beautiful in its way, but also a stark reminder of nature's unpredictability, the very thing I'd been concerned about with the festival.
"I guess this proves your point," Abigail says quietly, as if reading my thoughts. "Weather can change everything in an instant."
I turn to find her watching me, her expression thoughtful in the soft orange glow from the stove. "I wasn't hoping to be proven right this way."
"I know." She pulls a blanket around her shoulders, and the almost child-like vulnerability in the gesture tugs at something deep in my chest. "For what it's worth, we did have contingency plans for bad weather. Just not for getting stranded during setup."
The stove crackles, sending shadows dancing across the walls. The barn smells of aged wood, hay, and the faint must of stored decorations. Despite the circumstances, there's something oddly peaceful about being here, sheltered from the storm with Abigail beside me.
"My father would have called this an omen," I say, surprising myself with the admission. "He was superstitious about things like this. Said the weather reflected intention."
Abigail shifts, turning to face me more fully. Our knees brush, sending an unreasonable jolt of awareness through me. "What do you think it reflects?"
"Poor timing and meteorological science," I answer dryly, and she smiles.
"No mystical weather gods punishing ambitious festival planners?"
"If there were, my father would have been struck by lightning years ago."
The joke falls flat, revealing more bitterness than I intended. Abigail's expression softens, and she reaches out, her hand landing gently on my forearm. Even through my jacket sleeve, her touch feels electric.
"You mentioned your father's festival last night," she says carefully. "It sounds like that shaped a lot for you."
I consider deflecting, changing the subject. But something about this moment, isolated from the world, firelight dancing over her features, makes evasion feel impossible.
"After the festival failed, my father changed," I explain, my voice low. "Became bitter, started drinking too much. The town didn't blame him, but he blamed himself. I watched him carry that shame for years."
"And you decided you'd never make the same mistake," she concludes softly.
I nod, unable to look at her directly. "Someone has to be the voice of caution. Someone has to consider what can go wrong."
"Is that why you stayed in Whitetail Falls? To protect it?"
The question hits uncomfortably close to truth I rarely articulate. "I stayed because it's home. Because I understand how things work here."
"But you could have gone anywhere with your skills. Construction companies are needed everywhere."
I fall silent, considering her words. Why did I stay, when so many of my classmates left for bigger opportunities? The answer has always seemed obvious to me, but putting it into words feels exposing.
"This town took care of my family after my father's mistake," I finally say. "I owe this place."
Abigail's hand remains on my arm, her touch a gentle anchor. "That's why you question change so carefully. You're protecting something precious to you."
"Yes." The simple word feels inadequate, but it's all I can manage.
"What about what you want?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. "Beyond obligation and responsibility?"
"I don't think about that much," I admit.
"Maybe you should."
Our eyes meet, and something shifts in the atmosphere—a charge, like static electricity before lightning strikes. Abigail is close enough that I can see gold flecks in her brown eyes, count the freckles dusting her cheeks, note how her lips part slightly as her breath quickens.
"What about you?" I ask, needing to redirect attention from my own vulnerabilities. "What do you want, Abigail? Really want?"
