Page 6 of Our Long Days
Her excitement is contagious, shooing away my wariness. I can do this. There’s nothing weird or inappropriate about spending time with a member of the opposite sex who also happens to be your best friend’s younger sister. Patrick will be thankful I gave her a ride, even if it is to my place.
“You’ll have to wait and find out.”
“What’s your latest lumberjack project?” She leans across the bench, smirking.
“How many times do I need to tell you I’m a carpenter, not a lumberjack?” I cut her a sharp look.
“Have you ever chopped wood?”
“Yes,” I mutter.
“While wearing flannel?” Her pitch rises, humor lacing her words.
“It’s possible.”
I catch her dramatic shrug. “I’m sorry to report, you are, in fact, a lumberjack.”
My shoulders shake, deep laughter rolling from my throat. “You’re such a brat.”
She’s silent. Turning, I find her chewing her lip, amusement and something else I can’t name sparkling in her eyes.
We make a sharp left, and then my pride and joy comes into view.
I built it seven years ago, upgrading from my two-bed cabin. It was my first major project where I worked with a small team to bring my dream home to life. As we used only the lumber from the space we cleared, spruce, fir, and pine make up the three bedroom, L-shaped cabin.
It put Moore Lumber on the map and drew the attention of homebuyers and property investors across the northeast. I turned down a disgustingly large sum of money to sell it. Fortunately, the buyer loved the eight bedroom, two-story cabin we built him nine months later.
Under the midnight sky, there isn’t much to see. Banks of snow climb up the rails of the wrap-around porch, and with the low temperatures, the goats are tucked away in an indoor pen out back.
We both step out, and the security light illuminates the driveway.
The towering conifers sway with the wind, sending down sparkling specks of silver. I turn, fully expecting to find Florence shivering. Instead, she spins in a circle, pizza box abandoned, her arms spread wide, face upturned. Eyes closed, she catches snowflakes on her tongue.
Specks of white camouflage themselves in her silver hair, and the light glints of her septum piercing. Once round, her cheeks are now more angular, and there’s something about her graceful movements that remind me she’s no longer the wild twenty-one-year-old I remember. She’s flourished into something I’m struggling to put into words.
She spots me watching and freezes.
Where the fuck is that bottle of Jim?
“Let’s get inside,” I holler, and we stomp toward the house, shaking off the snow from our shoes.
A warm orange glow fills the room as I flip on the lights. Rustic on the outside, the interior is a mix of modern and natural. From floor to ceiling, honey-colored pine, darkened with age, covers the large open plan area. Splashes of white and cream lighten the room. In the middle of the living area, suspended from the ceiling, is a black steel fireplace. I make a beeline for it, the kindling catching quickly. With it lit, I face Florence, who’s nowhere in sight.
It doesn’t take long to find her. Hip propped on the kitchen counter, a slice in one hand and a half-empty bottle of amber liquid in the other, she winks. “Whiskey pairs perfectly with pizza.”
My head shakes with laughter at her boldness. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
We move to sit in front of the fire, inhaling the pie and passing the whiskey back and forth. Florence chats away in between bites, sharing stories about her travels. I listen intently, enjoying her animated expressions and flamboyant gestures.
“Cahuita National Park is the most surreal place. It’s hard to describe, but all the green and blue…” Nostalgia twinkles in her eyes as she plucks a piece of pepperoni off her pizza. “It reminded me of the forest and the bay meeting. Maybe that’s why it was my favorite destination.”
Swiping through her phone, she hands it over. A panoramicshot captures white sands, turquoise waters, and bowing palm trees. It’s incredible. What really steals the show, though, is Florence, feet dipped in the ocean, clad in a pink bikini, revealing sparkling, golden skin.
Does she still have the tan lines from that bikini?
A throat clears, and it’s then I realize I’ve been staring at the photo wordlessly. I cough into my fist, passing her phone back. “Beats skinny dipping in the chilly waters of the bay.”
A pizza crust bounces off my forehead. Scooping it up, I pop it in my mouth.
