And then her hands are back on me.

Chapter Twenty-Three

As it turns out, starting the fire is its own obstacle.

It takes more tries than I expect to get our freshly cut logs to catch fire inside the woodburning stove, especially since we’re fairly certain there are different methods for arranging the logs, but we haven’t the faintest idea what they are. We curse our mothers and their respective reasons for keeping us out of Girl Scouts.

My mom: lack of money, lack of interest, lack of sobriety.

Her mom: a busy schedule of piano lessons, swim practices, ballet recitals.

“Ballet recitals?” I gasp.

Jack gives me this bemused look, half-concealed as she bends forward to stoke the fire. “I was fucking incredible at ballet.”

After thirty minutes of blowing on measly flames and praying for the bigger logs to fucking burn already, they finally do, and we both sit on the rug, close to our hard-earned fire, four hands outstretched as we try to thaw them.

And then, our mutual goal of starting a fire achieved, we seem to simultaneously remember all the rest: the bathroom kiss, and me marrying her brother, and Andrew kissing Dylan, and her hating me, maybe for real.

It’s six o’clock in the evening, and we’re trapped in this ramshackle little cabin together for at least the next twelve hours, and oh my God, what the hell should I say?

Thankfully, Jack starts saying things first. “We should, uh—” Jack looks nervous. Jack never looks nervous. “We should get out of our wet clothes.”

I want to find a way to turn that statement into a joke, but my mouth has gone as completely dry as my clothes are not.

Jack climbs off the rug and goes to the antique dresser beside the one bed. It turns out the Singhs both went to Cornell and enjoy advertising the fact on their T-shirts and sweatshirts and sweatpants. It also turns out they’re both significantly smaller than we are, but we don’t have any other options. Our clothes will never dry on our bodies, and my teeth have been chattering for so long, my jaw hurts.

Jack hands me a pile of clothes, and then we both stand there, staring at each other uncertainly. Without agreeing to, we slowly turn our backs like cowboys in a duel. Which is ridiculous. We’ve seen each other naked before.

Though perhaps seeing each other naked now might complicate things.

I can hear the shifting of wet flannel, and I imagine her removing her shirt to reveal the inky sketches of tattoos all down her arms.