by Laura Kaye
A rectangular box on the wall caught his attention. A jolt of triumph enlivened him. The thermostat.
Owen flipped the plastic box open and scanned the controls. He flicked the power level from “Heat” to “A/C” and lowered the temperature gauge to its coldest point. With a bit of a spring in his step, he returned to the bedroom and sat on the bed’s edge, awaiting the first blast of conditioned air. Minutes passed. Nothing happened. He rechecked the controls. Then he realized he hadn’t heard the heat blowing through the vents lately, either. Despite Megan lowering the setting, it still should’ve come on from time to time.
The gods were in the world, even if they weren’t of it, so Owen knew enough to know the basics of how mechanical systems worked. And he suspected the most likely answer lay beneath several feet of melting snow. To check—and, if needed, fix—the condenser, Owen would have to go back outside.
It could be worth it, though, if it meant he’d be able shut himself in their air conditioned bedroom until Megan got home. He froze. His gut clenched. Never in his long life—not even with Chione, and didn’t that tell him something—had he thought of the place where he belonged in the plural. Their bedroom. It had the most intensely satisfying ring to it. And he wanted it to be reality more than he could express.
He wanted to belong to Megan.
Not bothering with a shirt, Owen sucked in a deep breath and crossed the sunlit room. The heat of it seared through his skin, drawing out a flush and soaking him with sweat almost immediately. Outside, he rounded the house and slogged through the deep snow until a mound behind the garage caught his attention. Tall, squarish, and ice-glazed, the metal of the unit revealed itself as Owen ripped away a heavy chunk of ice. Palming the slick surface, Owen closed his eyes and issued the command.
Under his hands, the ice rattled, dripped, held.
He glared at the frozen shell covering the unit. Outrage joined a shot of adrenaline barreling through his veins. Bending, Owen consumed mouthful after mouthful of snow, cooling himself from the inside out. That should do it.
He tried again. Tremors shook the ice. Come on! He grunted, the strain of the command taxing his muscles, stealing his breath. A crack sounded out, loud and glassy. On one side of the air handler, the ice fell away into the surrounding snow drift with a wet thud. Once freed, the other side followed suit.
Owen staggered, his weight falling against the box. He praised the gods that the sun’s rays fell on the front side of the house in the afternoon. Every movement set his muscles to screaming. Not wanting to further test his powers, he removed the remaining snow from the unit’s top with his hands and dug out a narrow trench around it, hoping doing so would allow the air to flow properly. Looking through the top metal grate revealed the ice-crusted fan blades that were surely the problem.
His fingers wouldn’t fit through the grate, that much was clear. Tugging sweat-soaked hair back from his eyes, Owen surveyed the area around him. A broken icicle laying in a shallow indent in the snow caught his attention. He fought his knees’ urge to buckle as he trudged the short distance to retrieve it, then, back at the unit, guided it through the narrow opening.
“Yes!” he cheered to himself when the icicle made contact with the ice-covered blade. Please gods let him have one last reserve of energy. He closed his eyes and sent the command to melt along the length of ice to the frozen mass inside.
Within a minute, the glorious sound of dripping commenced. The icicle disappeared from his fingers and joined the interior ice in turning to water. A few minutes later, a mechanical whirr sounded and the fan rotated. Slowly at first, then so fast the blades became indistinguishable. Triumph washed through him, gave him the jolt of adrenaline he needed to make his way back in.
Owen pushed off the unit and chose the shorter route around to the front door. Groggy, leaden, he fell in the wet snow again and again. The cold entombment would’ve been welcome if he’d been shielded from the sun, but the side of the house was completely engulfed in bright yellow light. So, he dragged himself back to his feet. By the time he made it to the sidewalk, he was hunched, staggering. He lurched up the front steps, clinging to the railing to remain upright. The sun blistered his back. Sweat ran down his spine, soaking the waistband of the black track pants he’d donned earlier. His breaths came in ragged, wheezing scrapes.
Yet hope abounded because he’d accomplished what he set out to do, and now everything would be all right.
He stumbled across the porch like a pinball, bouncing from one stabilizing object to another. But after he pushed the door shut, there was nothing immediately available against which to steady himself. He fell to his knees, so hard the floor shook and the nearest window rattled.
Needing to get out of the streaming sun before he let himself rest, he crawled on hands and knees across the wide great room. He caught sight of an air vent under a nearby window, and he stuck his hand out to feel the cold fruit of his labors. His outstretched fingers reached just to the vent’s edge.
Hot.
The air was blowing, and it was hot.
“Nonono,” he mumbled, his voice raspy. Had he not set the thermostat properly? In his mind’s eye he could see the lever pointing to “A/C,” but maybe his exhausted brain was playing tricks on him.
Grunting, he crawled toward the far wall where the thermostat hung just outside their bedroom door. Time and again, his sweat-slicked hands slipped, testing his already questionable balance.
When he slipped again, he went down on his right elbow, hard, the impact radiating into the depths of his bone. Willing his hands under him again, he gasped. He hadn’t slipped in sweat—well, not sweat alone. Blood streamed down from under the knotted T-shirt.
His wounds weren’t healing.
Nausea swamped him, rocking his body forward until he collapsed in a fetal heap. A long rectangle of brilliant afternoon sun framed his tortured body.
One by one, Owen’s senses went offline. He stopped hearing the constant patter of the melt. Lost the feminine smell of Megan that permeated the cabin. In his mouth, the sour taste of the threatening bile faded away. The world went black, empty, just a moment before he lost all feeling.
And then he was nothing, not there, not anymore.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Anticipation clawed at Megan’s stomach, that tingling, unsettled feeling that made it hard to sit still. She bounced in her seat, impatiently tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, chewed at her lip.
Just when she was in a hurry to get back to Owen, of course she was stuck behind a plow. She hung back to avoid the spray of salt shooting out of the big truck’s rear.
She inhaled a deep, steadying breath, not wanting to undo the calm she’d found while running her errands. Well, really, she’d found the peace afterward, in a most unlikely place. The busywork of shopping refocused her, gave her the shot of normalcy she needed. By the time she checked out, the fog had cleared from her brain and she could think clearly again.
So, after she loaded her bags into the car, instead of rushing right home, she drove to the only other shopping center in the immediate vicinity and hopped onto a stool at the Mountain Beanery coffee shop. Browsing groceries had made her hungry, so she ordered a bulging blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee, and sat and read the walls.
The Mountain Beanery’s idea of décor amounted to wallpapering bumper stickers over every flat surface. “What if the Hokey Pokey is what it’s all about?” read one. “I got kicked out of Cub Scouts for eating a Brownie” read another. She lost herself perusing them. “Mean People Suck” hung above “What if the whole world farted at once?” Megan’s appetite returned with gusto as the sayings, some silly, some clever, some downright rude, had her smiling again.
Occasionally, though, one gave her pause. “Life is short: Break some rules.” She knew only too well how short life could be. A runner, skiing e
nthusiast, successful attorney—John had been in the prime of his life. But so was she. With him gone, what kind of life had she been living? And how long was she going to tolerate living it this way?
On another sticker, Helen Keller declared, “Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.” Wow. You couldn’t really argue with Helen Keller. Was Megan honestly willing to give up the amazing adventure that was Owen Winters? Could she really be so cowardly as to allow her fear to leave her with nothing?
Her eyes scanned over the colorful array of words until another saying caught her eye: “Life’s greatest happiness is to be convinced we are loved.” She sucked in a breath. Oh. How many times had Owen told her he loved her and she hadn’t said it back? Even now, he was at home, and he didn’t know. He didn’t know, because she hadn’t told him. The muffin sat like a rock in her stomach.
Her eyes scanned for more kernels of wisdom. How ridiculous was that? Oh, jeez, the Dalai Lama now. “Take into account that great love and great achievements involve great risk.”
She scrambled off the stool and tugged her coat on, not willing to wait another second to get home to Owen. The barista called out a thank you and she waved. Over his head, a sticker read, “Thoughts are Reality.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” she mumbled to the universe.
As she made her way home, Owen dominated her thoughts. His playfulness, his enthusiasm for the smallest pleasures, his incredible skill at giving other pleasures, his dark beauty.
Since first waking in front of her fireplace on Christmas night, Owen Winters had showed her with every word, every action, that he was hers. She only had to claim him, to accept the gift he so clearly was. Owen’s words came back to her. “Want me. Need me. Love me. Your love will hold me here, with you. Forever,” he’d said the first time they’d made love. Later, when they’d ridden on the night wind, he’d declared himself “As real as you want me to be.”
Realization came to her in a flash of clarity. It didn’t matter that it had taken a wall full of pithy bumper stickers to screw her head on straight. All they’d done was reinforce what she already knew: loving Owen was worth the risk. Loving him would be the great adventure of her life. Loving him would make her life worth living.
The fear wasn’t gone. But she wouldn’t let it rule her. Not anymore.
Finally, she turned onto the rural route that led to her long driveway, thankful the plow hadn’t come this way, too. When the cabin came into view, a million butterflies erupted in her stomach. She was nearly giddy. The scene played out in her head. She’d run to Owen, throw herself around him, declare her love over and over.
What happened next… well, she had no idea. But they’d figure it out, together.
At the top of her driveway, she came to a hard stop and threw the Jeep into park. In a quick succession of movements, she hopped out, swung around the back of the Jeep, and ran down the sidewalk.
“Owen?” she yelled as she thundered up the steps. “I’m home!”
As she reached out for the door handle, she skidded to a stop. The decorative window next to the door was broken. Her heart leapt into her throat.
“Owen?” She wrenched the door open and ran in. She gasped, the air inside nearly a physical wall of heat. Panic squeezed her gut. “Owen?”
She took off across the great room, nearly slipped and fell on a small trail of puddles across the wide plank floor. Then she lurched to a halt.
Her eyes saw what lay there, but her brain couldn’t interpret it. A long, narrow oval puddle stretched out in front of her bedroom door. In it lay a pair of black pants and—
The agonized sound that ripped up Megan’s throat was nearly inhuman.
She dove forward, careful to avoid the puddle, that dreadful keening spilling out of her. “Nooooo. Nonononooooo.”
At the opposite end of the puddle lay a black knit cap. And two big buttons. One navy blue. One brown.
She reached out a hand, yanked it back. “Owen!” she screamed. “Owen, come back! I love you! Pleeeeease!” she wailed.
Her heart clenched until it was hard to breathe, until the room spun and black specks played at the edges of her vision. This couldn’t be happening. Not again. It couldn’t.
She wouldn’t let it.
The idea slammed into her brain so forcefully, she developed a headache, but she ignored the dizzying pressure and jolted from the floor. She flew out the open door, off the porch, into the snow. Her jeans quickly soaked through, but she ignored their dragging weight as she bent over and mounded the heavy, wet snow into a ball. Into three of them.
When she attempted to lift the two smaller balls atop the large, uneven base, her back screamed in protest. “Come on, come on, come on, please,” she chanted, a desperate prayer, a litany. When she finally hefted the middle section into place, it cracked in two, one side crumbling. “No!” she moaned.
Her bare hands icy and red, Megan repacked the middle ball where it sat atop the base. This time, it stuck. She held her breath as she settled the head into place. A deep fissure ran down the side, and she quickly patched and pressed it until it stabilized.
“Owen, I’m here, baby, I’m here. And I love you!” She scanned the heavens, called out, “Do you hear me?” Was he even out there?
Stepping back, her eyes scoured the snowman in front of her. Not nearly as tall as last time, and misshapen and a little lopsided. But he’d do. She hoped. Please let him do!
She stared at the blank canvas, knew what he was missing, but didn’t think for the life of her she could disturb the hat and buttons on the floor. A queasy shiver ran through her. She had to. They were part of what made him real before.
Fighting back nausea, she turned and ran back inside before she chickened out. The heat was suffocating. Why the hell was it so hot in here? Careful to step around Owen’s remains—the word curdled in her stomach, turning her saliva sour—she flipped the thermostat open. It was set to air conditioning.
She moaned. “Oh, Owen.” The unit’s freon leak; she’d known about it but not yet gotten it fixed because she hadn’t needed the cold air. She slapped her hand over her mouth. But he had. Owen must’ve needed the cold air. Shaking her head in horrified disbelief, Megan switched the unit off.
John…John hadn’t been her fault. But Owen…
She squeezed her eyes shut, ground her fists against them, and beat back the images that wanted to play on the insides of her eyelids. Owen, in distress. Face red, gasping for breath. Struggling, collapsing. Melting. “No,” she whimpered, then she dropped to her knees.
Carefully, reverently, Megan lifted the sodden black cap from the puddle. It settled heavy and soaked into her lap, and she stroked it, her hand feeling his silky layers in place of the soft knit. “I’m sorry,” she said, her stomach rolling as she gathered the buttons. She couldn’t have felt worse if she were plundering a grave. She shuddered and shook her head. Don’t go there, she warned. Just. Don’t.
“Hold on, baby,” she murmured, then pushed up from the floor. She willed herself out the door, down the steps, across the yard.
She stopped short. The snowman had collapsed. In its place stood a crumbled pile of wet, heavy snow.
She swayed, turned in a helpless circle, her arms flailing. Despair made it impossible to form a complete, logical thought.
The blue of the mid-afternoon sky was oppressive, weighed down heavily on her tired shoulders. She crumpled to the ground, hugged the cap and buttons to her chest. Rocking back and forth, the tears flowed. Her breathing hitched, her gaze lost focus.
By the time her eyes ran dry, it was getting dark. Bright pinks and oranges played along the western horizon, but they didn’t hold any splendor for her. She didn’t have her North Star. Without Owen, she was simply lost.
Everywhere her body touched the snow, she was thoroughly wet and numb. She shifted
positions, unleashing a torrent of pins and needles all down her legs. The sensation was a welcome diversion from the alternating extremes of nothingness or devastation. When she shifted again, an odd shape in the snow caught her attention.
Megan reached out, felt its firmness. All at once, she knew what it was. The snow kid she’d made. However many inches melted today had uncovered his head and shoulders. Hope jolted through her.
Frantic, she dug the kid’s form out of the drifted snow, careful to work around his body so he didn’t fall over. When the whole front side stood clear before her, she stopped. On her knees, she crawled up to the smallest snowman. He was shorter and narrower than the day she’d made him, but otherwise in good shape. The little guy was her last chance.
Hands so numb she couldn’t feel the fabric, Megan struggled to get the knit beanie on the kid’s head. It mostly covered the small face, so she folded the edges up as best she could. Cupping the back of the head in her left hand, she pressed the eyes into place with her right. The brown on the right side, the blue on the left. Just like it was supposed to be.
Then she curled up against the snow kid’s belly, the snowflake mark Owen gave her against the icy cold. The tears came unbidden, ran down her cheeks, dripped into the snow.
She lay there through the sunset, into the night. Time’s passage meant nothing, particularly as her body lost feeling. Her eyelids drooped, closed for short whiles, reopened, unseeing.
Some time later, she awoke. Groaning, she tried to move, but her body wouldn’t cooperate. She sagged back into the snow, the reality of Owen’s loss crashing over her anew. Nausea swamped her and she clenched her eyes shut.
When it passed, she stared up at the broad dome of the soaring nighttime sky above her. A thousand stars twinkled. The brilliant canopy made her think of John. She frowned then, shame heating her face and finally giving her some motivation. John wanted her to live, to be happy. He wouldn’t want her out here wallowing. Neither would Owen. She was doing none of them any good falling apart like this.
