I would choose you

Aftermath

I woke up tangled in too much warmth and too little space. Nicole was sprawled across the bed, one arm draped over my blanket, her hair spread out like silk threads all the way to the edge of the mattress. The sun was already high, painting golden stripes across the wooden floor. My body ached pleasantly - the aftermath of too much dancing, too much laughing, too much sweet vermouth.

I slipped out from under the covers carefully, trying not to wake her, and stood for a moment just watching her breathe. She looked peaceful. I tiptoed to the door, slipped on my shoes, and closed it quietly behind me.

The hallway was silent. A light snow was falling outside, dusting the windows in soft patterns. When I passed the living room, I paused, frozen in awe and mild horror.

It looked like a tornado had come through in the night. Paper cups were scattered like leaves across the floor, two bottles lay uncapped on the couch, and one chair was turned over entirely, abandoned in some moment of drunken exuberance. A trail of silver tinsel - where did it even come from?- wound across the fireplace mantle and down into a puddle of something that might’ve once been champagne.

I kept walking.

The kitchen was bright and quiet. Abraham was already there, sitting at the table in a thick woolen sweater, reading a book with one hand and holding a mug in the other. When he saw me, he smiled and stood, pouring dark coffee from the pot on the stove and handing it to me without a word.

“Here,” he said gently. “This will help.”

I took the mug gratefully, the smell alone grounding me. I sat in the rocking chair across from him. The wood creaked under me and settled.

“How was last night?” I asked, bringing the mug to my lips. “I left a bit early. What did I miss?”

Abraham raised his eyebrows, then chuckled. “You didn’t miss much. Just chaos.”

I smiled into my coffee. “Go on.”

“Well,” he began, shifting in his chair, “about ten minutes after you went upstairs, August and Max both decided it was the perfect time for a duet. They pulled out their guitars and started strumming over the record player, right over Super Trouper, if I remember right.”

“Of course they did.”

“They were absolutely terrible. August kept missing the chords, and Max was pretending he didn’t notice. They sounded like two dying whales serenading a campfire.”

I laughed.

“But that didn’t last long,” Abraham continued. “Because August had to throw up.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Right in the middle of Fernando. He stood up, announced something about ‘the eternal burden of consciousness,’ and ran outside.”

I stared. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were. He said he needed air and went out for a walk. Alone.”

“In the snow?”

“He was wearing warm shoes and a scarf.”

“Oh my God.”

“I figured he’d come back in ten minutes. But after half an hour passed, I told Arthur, and we went to look for him.”

“Was it hard to find him?”

Abraham smiled wryly. “Not really. The snow was fresh, and August, for all his mysterious posturing, is not very stealthy. We just followed his footprints. He was wandering around near the lake, walking in slow circles like a cursed Victorian child ghost.”

I nearly choked on my coffee.

“He told us he was fine, that the house was too small and full of heat and air and memory and that he didn’t want to return to the confines of artificial walls. He also claimed that he was fully sober, just needed to let out some energy. Meanwhile, his hands were completely frozen.”

“What did you do?”

“We dragged him back, obviously. He didn’t want to go. Kept mumbling about freedom and starlight. But we couldn’t leave him out there. Eventually, Arthur and I had to push him into the house. We locked him in Arthur’s room so he wouldn’t go out again.”

“Wait, you locked him in?”

“It was for his own good. He tried to open the back door at least three more times. He said the snow was ‘calling him.’”

I leaned back in the rocking chair and shook my head. “Of course he did.”

Abraham grinned. “This place brings out the best and worst in people, I think.”

I looked out the window, the lake gleaming faintly through the trees. “So far, it’s mostly been the best.”

He nodded. “Mostly.”

We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping coffee and listening to the occasional creak of the house, the distant shifting of someone waking up above us.

Soon Abraham went to read in the patio, curling up under a blanket with the sun pouring across his lap, and the kitchen was empty once again.

I stood, stretched, and turned toward the pantry. It felt like a good morning for something hot and comforting. After rummaging through jars and unlabeled tins, I found a can of tomato paste and a row of eggs nestled together in a little cardboard carton like sleeping birds.

There was a deep cast-iron pan by the stove. I added oil, garlic, tomato, spices, and soon the smell of shakshuka filled the room. The bright scent of cumin and simmering tomato wrapped around me like a memory of home I hadn’t even realized I missed.

I cracked the eggs in carefully, letting them poach in the bubbling sauce, and lowered the flame. Just then, I heard slow footsteps creak down the stairs.

Max slowly entered the kitchen. He looked like he’d wrestled with sleep and lost. His long black hair was tangled, half-falling into his eyes, and the shadows under those eyes were even deeper than usual. His hoodie was inside out.

He squinted at the light and groaned. “What a night.”

“Good morning,” I said, sliding a plate in front of him. “Eat before you pass out again.”

He mumbled something that might’ve been gratitude, then sat and picked up his fork with both hands, like he needed to brace himself. He ate in silence, slow, methodical bites, head bowed over the plate like it was sacred.

A few minutes later, Arthur came bounding in like a storm of joy.

His hair was a mess, with pants half-tucked into one sock, and his cheeks were pink with leftover excitement.

“Morning, campers!” he declared, arms spread wide.

Max winced. “Not so loud.”

Arthur ignored him completely. He spotted the shakshuka and let out a dramatic gasp. “Oh, Sylvia. You absolute goddess.”

I set another plate on the counter.

He took it reverently, inhaled the scent, and gave a moan of approval. “This. This is life.” He took two enormous bites, then jumped back to his feet. “But you know what else brings life?”

Max muttered, “Sleep?”

Arthur grinned. “A walk. That’s what. Fresh air, snow, sunshine - we’re going to shake off the sins of last night like proper pagans.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You think everyone’s going to want to get out of bed for that?”

“Yes, of course. Go wake the girls. I’ll go wake the August. He really enjoyed walking last night.” Arthur gave me a wink.

I laughed, wiping my hands on a dish towel. “Alright. I’ll do my part.”

“Excellent. Meet back in twenty.”

Arthur took his plate with him, already halfway to the stairs, humming some dramatic march under his breath.