The Shuddering Part 10

Sawyer allowed himself to fall back onto his side of the bed, his eyes shut tight against the gnawing burn of his foot.

"Do you think that's what that stain was?" she asked. "The one we saw in the snow on the way back up here?"

"No."

"But what if it was?"

"Then there would have been cops." He sighed. "Right? Cops? Because there would have been a dead body. But there weren't any cops up on the mountain, Ape."

"How can you be so sure? The mountain is huge."

"I'm just sure." Rolling over, his face pressed into the mattress. "Jesus Christ." He cursed the pain, his words m.u.f.fled against the sheets.

But April was too wrapped up to worry about Sawyer's toe. "What about the noise?" she asked.

He pressed his hands over his face at the amount of throbbing heat radiating from his foot. He'd probably broken the d.a.m.n thing, and now he'd be grounded for the rest of the trip. Ryan was going to be p.i.s.sed, and Sawyer would be stuck in the cabin for the rest of the weekend. "G.o.dd.a.m.nit," he whispered.

April went quiet for a moment, then eventually spoke again. "Are you okay?" Her hand slid across his shoulders, rubbing his back. "Want me to get somebody?"

"I'll be fine," he said through clenched teeth. "I just need to sleep it off."

Again, April paused in thought before replying. "You're right," she said. "It was probably just an animal." Crawling across the bed, she slid on top of him, rolling him over to straddle his hips. "And now we're both wide awake." He could make out the outline of her raised arms as she pulled her T-shirt over her head, tossing it aside.

"Ape," he said, his throat dry. She silenced him by pressing her mouth to his, her teeth tugging at his bottom lip.

"Let me take your mind off that foot," she proposed. Wriggling on top of him, she caught the hem of his shirt, then gave it an upward tug.

"They'll hear us," he insisted, trying to roll her off him, but she squeezed her knees against his hips, refusing to budge.

"So let them hear us." She arched backward to fully expose herself, sliding her hands down her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to her hips, grinding against him.

Sawyer closed his eyes, trying to relax, unable to help the sudden ache between his legs. April hooked her fingers beneath the waistband of his pants, giving them a downward tug. He exhaled a throaty breath as she eased down onto him, his fingers coiling against the curve of her backside, letting himself drift when she started to move: rhythmic, slow, her breath coming in soft gasps. He sat up, his arms twining around her, his mouth against her neck. Her nails trailed up and down his back as he buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of shampoo-Jane's shampoo, the same scent he'd breathed in when he had first pulled Jane into his arms. Jane's face flashed against the backs of his eyelids, her head tilted back, as April moved on top of him. His heart quickened when April's soft moans drifted from between Jane's lips, his mouth traveling across the slope of her shoulder, Jane's name on the tip of his tongue- He tensed. This was the very reason he had kept his distance for so long-he wasn't over Jane. His stomach flipped.

"Ape," he whispered, trying to catch April's attention, but his uttering her name only made her increase her pace. "April." He caught her by the hips, trying to hold her still as he began to wither inside her.

"Tom." The nickname slithered past her lips, and as soon as it hit his ears he went limp, his heart hitching in his throat. n.o.body called him Tom but Jane. It was their thing, their history. But April didn't notice him tense beneath her. She continued to move, slithering her hands across his chest.

He caught her by her biceps, crushing her down into the mattress, their roles suddenly reversed. "Stop," he told her, catching her hand as she reached for his hair. He pushed it away, rolling off her, pulling his pants back up. April was left lying there-naked, stunned. But it didn't take her long to regain her bearings.

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?" she asked, full volume now. "Since when do you pa.s.s up a screw?"

"Will you keep it down?" he asked, nearly pleading. "You're going to wake everyone up." Pulling the sheets back up to his chin, he closed his eyes, determined to fall back asleep despite the pounding of his heart. But she wasn't having it. Grabbing the sheets by their hemmed top edge, she pulled them away from him with a jerk.

"Answer me," she snapped. "What the h.e.l.l is this?"

Their eyes locked. He was the first to look away.

"I knew it," she hissed, sliding off the bed and stomping through the room. She s.n.a.t.c.hed her shirt off the floor like a matador waving a cape at a bull. "This is why you didn't want me to come up here with you, right? So you could f.u.c.k her instead of me?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He was shooting for indifference, fending off the nausea that was clawing its way up his throat. April was right: he yearned for a random run-in in an empty room, just him and Jane, so he could apologize and maybe, just maybe, she could forgive him for leaving, for losing touch and letting her go. He wanted the secrecy, wanted the torrid affair with the girl he still pined for. He had been forced to give her up: first for an education, then for some a.s.shole who had swept her off her feet, and so he'd moved on too. But when Sawyer had learned that Alex had cheated, a part of him wanted to break the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's jaw; the other part wanted to drop everything, move to Arizona and heal Jane's hurt. It didn't matter that he and April were together. It didn't matter that he'd given her a ring.

Again came the guilt, the question of whether he even loved April at all-because if he did, why would his first instinct be to run to someone else? He hated himself for it; had vowed to keep himself in check; purposely avoided Jane in conversations with Ryan, kept blowing Ryan off when it came to getting together again. But she just kept coming at him, worming her way into his thoughts, forever in the background, forever waiting like some phantom he couldn't shake.

April yanked her shirt over her head and threw open the bedroom door, making as much noise as she could as she marched toward the bathroom. Sawyer knew it would come to this. He knew from the moment they had gotten together but had tried to convince himself that he was wrong. April would take Jane's place in his heart, and when the news of the baby came, for a moment she had. Sawyer pictured himself as a husband, a dad, and even if his thoughts circled back to the girl from his past, all he'd have to do was look into his child's eyes and remember that April had given him this new life, this new purpose to exist. Because what could have been more powerful than that? He had gotten c.o.c.ky. A final trip up to the cabin? Sure, why not? What could possibly happen, especially with April on his arm?

But what happened had been inevitable. He saw her, he touched her, he smelled her, and he was addicted all over again. Jane made him weak, desperate. She broke his will. But he had waited too long, tying himself to April forever. And now Jane would never want him, and April would never take him back.

Ryan peered into the darkness as he lay on his side, listening to a m.u.f.fled one-sided argument taint the otherwise peaceful quiet. He considered getting up, making sure that all was well with his closest friend, but he decided against it, not wanting to get involved. Ryan was a believer in fate. Everything happened for a reason; nothing was random or left to chance. He and Jane being born at the same time; the implosion that had become their family life-all of these things had to happen to lead him to where he was now-with his sister, his best friend, and Lauren, a girl he hardly knew but was starting to need. They all had to take their own journeys, be it together or alone. He could only hope that Jane and Sawyer would journey together...and that Lauren would agree to visit him in Zurich.

He tried to make out the words, listening for the master bedroom door to creak open, for Jane to stick her head out into the hall. But the dispute came to an abrupt conclusion, and silence overtook the house once again. He relaxed, didn't move as he continued to listen and think. His move to Switzerland was part of his fate, a fate that would remove him from the life and people he knew. Maybe that distance was just what he needed to get his head on straight, to get over the fears Jane had so often encouraged him to let go of. He wasn't sure that he and Lauren would work out, but for the first time in his life he actually wanted to try. He wanted to let her in, to not push her away the way he had pushed Summer. Because who knew how that relationship would have turned out if he hadn't been so afraid?

He peered at the ceiling when he heard the same thump on the roof that he had before the argument had erupted. Oona stirred at the foot of the bed but didn't rouse, exhaling a loud breath through her nose before emitting a m.u.f.fled bark in her sleep. Ryan went through the possible animals that could make it up onto the roof-various foxes, possibly a cougar. As a kid, his dad had taught him that porcupines could climb trees, and they had caught one doing just that as they rode the snowmobile up and down the driveway while waiting for Thanksgiving dinner one year.

He closed his eyes, wondering just how hard Jane would scream if she saw a giant quilled rodent fall from the roof.

CHAPTER SIX.

Clyde hardly heard his cell buzz over the iron drone of Megadeth. Pushing through an alcohol-induced haze, he rolled onto his stomach-soured by more than a dozen guzzled beers-and tumbled four inches to the floor from the mattress pushed into the corner of his spartan room. He hefted himself onto his hands and knees, dirty blond hair hanging around his face in a curtain. The phone continued to vibrate and chirp while he crawled across a floor littered with dirty laundry and trash. Just as he groped for the phone, it fell silent, going to voice mail. Less than fifteen seconds later, he heard Pete's cell scream in the opposite room. He rolled onto his back, let his phone tumble from his grasp, and fell back into a dizzying post-bender slumber, because there was no better cure for a hangover than sleep.

But he jerked awake a second later, Pete's voice cutting through a killer guitar solo. "Man," Pete said. Clyde peeled his eyes open, then squinted despite the room being mostly dark. Pete steadied himself against the doorjamb, his face a mask of postdrink nausea. "f.u.c.k, wake up, dude," he said, daring to release the doorframe before stumbling headlong toward Clyde's currently vacant bed.

"Get off my bed, man," Clyde groaned.

"Get up, dude," Pete replied.

"I'll get up if you get off my f.u.c.king bed, man. You don't do that."

Pete forced himself off the mattress, wobbly on his feet. "Do what? Listen, hey..."

Clyde crawled back across his floor, climbed onto his bed, and immediately collapsed face-first into his pillow.

"Clyde." The name was nearly a whine. "We're f.u.c.ked, buddy. Totally f.u.c.ked."

A m.u.f.fled syllable drifted from the folds of Clyde's sheets, a "what?" squelched by a pillow in dire need of replacement-its body shapeless and flat, its sham stained with hair grease and sweat.

"Hey, did you hear me?" Pete kicked at one of Clyde's still-shoed feet. Without warning, Clyde rolled over and launched the dirty pillow at his roommate with surprising force. Pete stumbled backward, nearly tripping over a pile of clothes before his shoulder caught the wall. After regaining his footing, he said, "Guess what?"

"What?" Clyde asked begrudgingly.

Pete ambled over to Clyde's window, shoving the curtain aside to reveal the darkness of the morning. Fat flakes tumbled past the gla.s.s.

"Aw, s.h.i.t," Clyde hissed, then clapped his hands over his face. This was just what they needed. They hadn't partied in nearly a week, holding out as the meteorologist fumbled every forecast. They'd finally had enough, ending up at the liquor store, where, lo and behold, there was a sale on thirty-sixers of brew. Deeming it a sign from G.o.d himself, they proceeded to get epically plastered while playing Xbox and listening to Metallica's Master of Puppets on repeat. And now it was snowing.

"We got called in," Pete announced, holding his fist up to his mouth, fighting back a diaphragm-rattling belch. "Side roads off the highway," he said. "We've got an hour."

"What time is it?" Clyde murmured, trying to sit up.

"Four thirty."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n." He winced against the taste of his own mouth. "Coffee?"

"I'll make some," Pete said. "I need some f.u.c.king Tylenol."

Clyde sighed unsteadily, then pulled his hand down the length of his face before letting it fall to the bed. He was tempted to call in, but the resident road crew was small, and that would leave the others high and dry. Clyde liked to think of himself as loyal-not the kind of guy to screw over the other guys on the team.

Dragging himself into the bathroom, he leaned over the sink and splashed cold water onto his face. He was still dressed from the night before, so all he had to do was grab his coat and hat and charge into the snow. Clyde's plowless pickup was parked just yards from the house. It was a pain in the a.s.s to detach the plows after every use, so the boys took turns-one truck would be street ready while the other was left with plow and chains. It saved them a h.e.l.l of a lot of time on mornings just like this, mornings when the wind was so cold it made their bones ache and their eyes sting. Clyde winced against the chill as he marched toward his pickup, his head throbbing, his brain swollen, his stomach sour. He had to pause next to the front fender, antic.i.p.ating the inevitable as sickness curdled at the back of his throat, but after a few deep breaths, he regained his bearings and climbed inside the cab.

He drove around to the back of the house, headlights cutting across the darkness, illuminating Pete's old Chevy and the self-built carport next to it where they kept all their gear. Clyde's plow was parked beneath the lean-to structure, bright yellow paint chipping off ten-gauge steel. He had helped his dad paint it decades before, just before Christmas. His mother had picked out the color-yellow being her favorite. Parking so that his high beams shone against the carport's shoddy construction, he rolled down his window and stuck his head into the cold, expertly lining up the truck so that the plow would slide into place. Satisfied with his position, he cranked the stereo and reached into the glove compartment for a smoke. Despite his pounding headache, music helped wake him up, and at the moment being awake was more important than being comfortable.

Lighting his cig, he sucked in a lungful of smoke and slid out into the predawn darkness, snowflakes glittering along the sides of the carport that would more than likely collapse in on itself before next winter. He busied himself at the pickup's front b.u.mper, Slayer coiling through his open door. When the CD paused between tracks, a low-octave moan caught his attention. He raised an eyebrow, jamming his arm into the truck to crank down the music. A shadow cut across the wooded backyard, Clyde catching the movement from the corner of his eye. "Hey, Pete?" Another moan sounded in reply, and Clyde couldn't help but grin. "You okay, buddy?" he asked, looking back down to what he was doing, his cigarette dangling from the swell of his bottom lip. "You want to hand me the socket wrench from the tool chest?"

The moaning continued, only to be cut short.

Clyde glanced up, blinded by the high beams, unable to see a thing beyond the truck's front b.u.mper. "Pete?"

Nothing.

He sighed, took another drag off his cigarette, and flicked it into the snow. "You suck at holding your liquor, man," he said. He stepped out of the headlights and could hardly see a thing. His eyes fought to adjust to the sudden darkness, but all he could make out were the windows of the house-illuminated from the inside out-and the interior of his truck, brightened by the weak glow of the dome light above the dusty dash. He ducked inside the truck, turned up the music to a low roar, and stepped around to the bed of the pickup. Stopping next to the toolbox mounted flush against the back of the truck's cab, he shoved the heel of his hand against a push-b.u.t.ton lock, sending one of the box's two metal lids bouncing upward on its spring. A tiny light blinked on, Clyde's menagerie of tools glittering in the anemic yellow glow. He rifled through the mess, haphazardly shoving his precious gear this way and that.

"Socket wrench, socket wrench," he mumbled, as though chanting the tool's name like a mantra would make it spring from the pile of chrome-plated metal. "Son of a..." It was nowhere to be found, and Clyde's mind bounced to the last time he couldn't find a piece of equipment. Pete had borrowed his Dremel tool, and it had been Clyde who had found it in the tool chest on the back of Pete's truck. He slammed the lid of his box closed and marched across the yard toward Pete's Chevy, nearly tripping over a fallen branch on his way. He cursed beneath his breath as he regained his footing, grabbing the branch by its brittle wood and tossing it aside.

The branch came back at him, landing just shy of his boots.

"Pete?" Clyde blinked, squinting into the dark. "Hey, stop f.u.c.king around, man. Where's my ratchet?"

Nothing.

"Whatever," he muttered, popping Pete's toolbox open, and there it was, the tool Clyde was looking for. "You know, I don't care if you use my s.h.i.t," he announced, grabbing the wrench and turning back to his own truck. "But it sure as h.e.l.l would be nice if you'd put stuff back where you found it. It's called common courtesy."

Another moan, this one phlegmy, like a death rattle deep within a chest.

"I should pay your mom a visit," he continued, stepping back around his front b.u.mper. "Complain about how she raised you in a barn before giving her a nice Clydey-boy screw." Pete hated mom jokes. It was one of his pet peeves. And yet there was nothing beyond the drone of Clyde's music. Not a "f.u.c.k you," not a witty quip in return. The lack of a comeback suggested that Pete was somewhere out there in the dark puking his guts out. "Pete? You gonna survive?"

He slid the ratchet onto the hood of his truck. Curiosity getting the best of him, he stepped back into the inky early morning, snowflakes drifting across his line of sight. He did a double take when he spotted someone standing in the darkness a dozen yards away, but it sure as h.e.l.l wasn't Pete. The guy was tall and toothpick skinny, and while Clyde couldn't see much of anything it almost looked like the stranger was naked-there were no lines to suggest the fold of jeans or the padding of a winter coat. The silhouette reminded him of the sick pictures Pete had showed him once; naked men and women with their hair shorn standing in long lines, numbers tattooed onto toothpick arms. But there was something about the guy standing a dozen yards away that didn't sit right; his arms were too long for his body, and that head...it was ma.s.sive, like one of those old-timey water babies in a circus freak show.

"What the s.h.i.t?" he whispered, blinking a few times to try to get a better view. As he was about to take a step forward, a crash behind him made him jump out of his skin. He reeled around, his gaze snagging on his freshly crumpled hood, as though something heavy had landed on it-but there was nothing there. The music played on while one of his headlights flickered, then cut out. His heart thumped in his chest beneath the rush of adrenaline, but his reflexes were still dulled by the alcohol that tainted his bloodstream. Impaired judgment had him weighing the fact that his truck hood was wrecked over the shadow figure that loomed in the distance. He'd made a move toward the pickup when he was shoved backward as though something had lunged at his chest, the air rushing from his lungs, the seat of his jeans skidding across the ground.

He froze, stunned, unsure of what had just happened.

Something leaned into his line of sight, but he couldn't make out what it was. The headlight shone behind it, throwing the figure into silhouette, its gaunt body nothing but bones and sharp angles. The devil, he thought. Lucifer, in the flesh. Panicked, he began to crawl backward, the snow burning the exposed skin of his hands. But before he got more than a few feet away, he b.u.mped into something behind him, something that emitted a deep, rumbling growl. The thing in front of him pulled its arm back, the silhouette of a giant four-fingered hand held aloft, the palm shovel-like with thin, rangy digits jutting out. Clyde opened his mouth to scream as the hand swiped through the air, black talons catching the light, but he gurgled instead. His eyes widened as hot blood bubbled from his neck. His hands flew to his throat, trying to keep the blood from spilling, but it poured across his fingers.

He fell onto his back, gasping for breath, staring at the house just a handful of yards away, a house that was safe and warm. Just then, he saw Pete casually step across the kitchen, a fresh pot of coffee held in his hand, oblivious to what was going on just outside. Clyde reached out, praying to G.o.d that his friend would sense that something was wrong, that he would stop to look out the window. But he didn't.

As soon as Pete disappeared from view, the two...things that loomed above Clyde stared down at him, and while he couldn't see what they looked like, the distinct scent of urine over the hot metallic aroma of his own blood sent him into a panic. He tried to scramble to his feet despite his injuries, but one of them lunged forward, its teeth tearing into Clyde's shoulder. He choked on his blood as he tried to cry out, his efforts drowned by the wail of guitars, the banging of drums. His entire left side felt like it was on fire. He rolled onto his injured shoulder in a feeble attempt to cool the burn with the snow as he clawed at the ground, trying to skitter away from his attacker. But as soon as he turned away, he felt a viselike grip catch his leg. With a single blink, Clyde stared toward the house, trying to scream but unable to catch his breath, praying for salvation, sure this couldn't really be happening. And then he felt the ground slide out from under him as he was jerked backward, the cabin suddenly gone as he was pulled into the trees.

Pete couldn't hear anything above Megadeth's wail, so when he finally saw the creature standing in the mouth of the kitchen, it was far too late for him to run. The skeletal thing filled the entire doorway, leaning down to duck through the threshold, its spiderlike arms bending at unspeakable angles as it pulled itself into the room. Clyde's lidless travel mug slipped through Pete's fingers and crashed to the floor, hot coffee sloshing across his boots. Despite the monster's size, the thing's height was far from its most disturbing attribute. Pete choked on the air in his throat as he stared at its black marble-like eyes sunken deep into an overly large head, an impossibly wide mouth full of thick, yellow teeth inside its skull. Impossible, he thought. He tried to breathe and cry out all at once, backing himself into a corner as the thing advanced snorting through a nonexistent nose at the scent of freshly brewed coffee, a scent that mingled with the blood smeared across the monster's face and arms.

Pete pressed himself against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut, the most arbitrary thought careening through his brain: Jura.s.sic Park. It had been his absolute favorite movie as a kid. He had been so obsessed with it, his parents hadn't had the heart to return the VHS tape back to the rental place, and after months of late fees, they bought it instead. Now the adult Pete stood glued to the kitchen wall, a warm trickle of urine dribbling down his thighs, convincing himself that if he didn't move, if he didn't breathe, if he didn't make a sound, the h.e.l.lion in front of him wouldn't realize he was there, just like the T. rex in the movies. But even with his eyes closed, he could hear the thing coming closer. He could smell the blood, refusing to believe it was the blood of anyone he knew. When he finally opened his eyes, he was standing face-to-face with a grinning demon, the thing's broad teeth mere inches from the tip of his nose.

When the creature lifted a hand of long, bony fingers to Pete's face, he couldn't help the muted whine of terror that escaped his throat. With his cheeks in its grasp, sharp claws digging into his flesh, the savage canted its head to the side, seeming to study the horrified expression that Pete could feel twisting across his face. It was staring at the thud of his pulse just below his jaw that pounded in time with the drumming of his runaway heart. Pete cried out as it lifted him from the floor by his head alone, his legs dangling, his neck feeling like it was about to tear away from his torso, his boots kicking the wall behind him as he struggled to get free.

And then Pete went involuntarily still, a sensation he couldn't quite place spreading from his stomach out to his limbs-hot and cold all at once. Suddenly he crumpled to the ground as the creature pulled its free hand away, and for a moment hope speared his heart. It was letting him go. He was going to survive. Like a shark, the thing had come to realize that Pete wasn't its rightful prey. But its fist clung to something long and gray-something that felt like it was tugging on Pete's insides like a rope or a string.

Before he had enough time to process the scope of what was happening, the monster began to eat, pulling entrails out of Pete's belly like an unbroken cord of sausage. A scream ripped its way out of his throat. Pete shot out an arm and grabbed at the strand of slick viscera, jerking it backward in a gruesome game of tug-of-war, as he fought for what was rightfully his, fought the horrific feeling of himself literally unraveling from the inside out. The savage ceased its chewing, seeming bewildered by the fact that its gutted game was fighting back.

But Pete was fading. Black spots bloomed in front of his eyes. The burning crawl of blood loss snaked around the inside of his skull and squeezed his brain. He pitched to the right, rolling onto his stomach in an attempt to catch a breath, but he choked instead, inhaling the blood that was splashed across the linoleum. It was his blood. His blood. Everywhere. So much of it he could see his own reflection in the deep burgundy beneath him, his own expression of baffled terror echoed back at him, but twisted as in a funhouse mirror.

His diaphragm gave way to an unnatural rattle and a sob ripped its way out of his chest as he saw a matching pair of alien legs enter the kitchen, the sound m.u.f.fled by a wet tremor of a growl as the two creatures began to fight. He stared at their sinewy legs as they dodged each other.

His world went black as they snarled at each other, the sound reminding Pete of hog hunting with his pop. The kitchen table turned over next to his head. The refrigerator shook as one of them fell against it. Dishes crashed to the floor above the sound of Clyde's music droning from across the house, Pete's wheezing breaths coming in short bursts now. Before he could summon up another cry, something grabbed him by his neck, yanked him upward, and gave him a vicious shake. And despite the wail of the music, the last thing Pete heard was the snapping of his own neck.

Jane squinted against the sun that filtered into the room, rolled onto her back, and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes while Lauren remained motionless beside her. She would have liked nothing more than to stay in bed for an hour longer, still tired from the night before-she and Lauren had stayed up long after crawling into bed, whispering across the sheets about Ryan and Sawyer and the weird way April had looked at Jane during their game of pool, April's expression teeming with bad vibes. And then there had been the fight. Both Jane and Lauren had lain breathless in the dark, their ears straining as hard as they could. Jane had nearly crawled out of bed to peek into the hall, but Lauren had stopped her, grabbing her arm and giving her a shake of the head.

"Don't," she'd whispered. "What if she sees you?"

Jane had nearly rolled her eyes at the suggestion. So what? she thought. Let her see. Jane wasn't the one making a ton of noise in the middle of the night, waking everyone up. But Lauren was right. If Jane had been caught eavesdropping, it would have caused even more drama. And yet, long after the argument had subsided, nearly an hour after Lauren had fallen asleep, Jane remained wide awake, contemplating tiptoeing down the hall and pressing her ear to the very last door. She imagined sneaking downstairs to find Sawyer sitting in a dark living room, staring out the large picture window that overlooked the mountains and trees. He'd turn to look at her when he heard her approach, they'd stare at each other for a long while-breathless, silent-and then his face would brighten like the moon lighting up the night.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't will herself to feel good about the anger she'd heard from down the hall. Lauren would have reprimanded her for being so "nice," so "fair," but Jane couldn't help it. n.o.body liked being in the middle of an argument, especially not when it was on display for everyone to hear. She was sure Sawyer was miserable, embarra.s.sed, uncomfortable, and there was nothing about that that made her happy. Her incessant thoughts had afforded her a little over three hours of sleep, but the host wasn't allowed to sleep in. She had breakfast to make; she was sure the boys would be itching to go back up the mountain.

Sitting up, she grabbed her discarded socks off the floor and pulled them onto her feet. She shivered against the cold, rubbing her arms as she made her way toward the window for her first look at the world. She paused to pull a sweater over her head, her fingers snagging in the tangles of her slept-in hair, and then she blinked at the view. There wasn't a speck of green as far as the eye could see. It had snowed overnight, and it had snowed hard.

A childlike thrill speared her heart as she rushed across the carpet to the bedroom door, opening it quietly despite her excitement, not wanting to wake her friend. She took the stairs two by two, skidded to a stop in the hall, and marched into the kitchen without a thought to her appearance. Despite her love for the summer, a fresh coat of snow always left her excited. And she pictured her and Ryan building a giant snowman on the porch just outside the kitchen door.

Her wide smile faltered before it altogether disappeared as she rounded the corner. Sawyer stood at that very door, his back to her, looking out onto fresh powder. He held a steaming mug between his hands, and there were a couple of backpacks at his feet. It looked like he was contemplating an exit despite still being in his pajamas, just out of bed, his hair a mess. He eventually turned to offer her a tired smile. A moment later he looked away.

"Remember the winter break when we got stuck up here?" he asked. "Your dad was so p.i.s.sed."

Jane frowned at his tone. She could hear it in his voice; something was wrong. Stepping across the kitchen to the coffeemaker, she poured herself a cup. The coat of snow on the deck's railing was at least six inches thick. She looked back to him and his bags.

"Something happen?" she asked. She hated the way his shoulders slouched. They had had a great time the day before, and now he was standing there, wounded, looking out onto the landscape, apparently yearning for escape.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I guess you could say that."

"What?" Jane asked, her question almost a whisper.

Sawyer shook his head. "I f.u.c.ked up." He shrugged, took another drink. "Nothing new."

She pressed her lips into a tight line, trying to refrain from a full-fledged interrogation, but it was hard. Her curiosity had kept her up half the night, and now it was back with a vengeance, but there was more to it than that. The bags at his feet turned her stomach. She didn't care what April did, but Sawyer couldn't leave. This was their last visit up here, none of them sure when they'd be able to get together again next. After this, the cabin would be gone forever. After this, Ryan would pack his own bags and offer her his usual salute and toothy ready-for-adventure grin before giving her a hug and walking into an airport terminal. Her heart quickened at the idea of it-losing this final opportunity to be together, losing her last chance to make things right with the boy that she'd lost so long ago. She couldn't bear to look at him, her sinuses flaring with her sudden urge to cry. "I heard," she said, keeping her voice as steady as possible, staring down into her mug, the scent of java doing nothing to soothe her nerves. "What was it about?"

He sighed. "Jane, can we-" His mouth snapped shut, cutting his sentence short when April marched into the kitchen, fully dressed, looking like she'd been up for hours. Jane turned to face them, her mind reeling with those three cryptic words. Can we what? She watched April wrap a scarf around her neck while standing at the mouth of the hall, staring at her beau. And for the first time that weekend, Jane was seized with a genuine pang of animosity toward the stranger standing in her childhood mountain getaway. She wanted to grab the ends of that scarf and pull them so tight around April's neck that her perfectly pale complexion turned an ugly shade of blue. She wanted to openly roll her eyes and ask her where it was that April planned on going in such weather, and then banish her to the upstairs study like the unwelcome little b.i.t.c.h she was.

But rather than spitting out the profanities that were dangerously balanced on the tip of her tongue, she squared her shoulders, took a breath, and forced a smile that filled her with self-loathing. "Good morning," she said, the spirited tone of her own voice ringing in her ears. She was a hypocrite. A liar. A two-faced fake.