Stranded in the Boathouse With My Best Friend

“I’m telling you, it’s a myth,” Emma said, nudging Conor’s arm with her elbow as they rounded a bend in the lakeside trail. “No one has ever actually gotten poison ivy from just looking at it.”

Conor laughed, a low, warm sound that was as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. “Says the woman who once tried to convince me that dropping your phone in rice is a government conspiracy.” He sidestepped a gnarled root snaking across the path. “Some of us are just more sensitive to the whims of nature.”

The air, which had been warm and still all afternoon, suddenly shifted. A cool breeze rustled the dense canopy of leaves above them, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant rain. Emma pulled the sleeves of her thin flannel down over her wrists. “Is that a whim of nature I feel?”

Conor glanced up at the sky, which had begun to take on a moody, bruised color over the far side of the lake. “Maybe. The forecast said it would be clear all day.”

They walked on in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on the gravel path and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. Then, a single, fat drop of rain landed on Emma’s cheek. She wiped it away. Another landed on her hand.

“Uh oh,” she said, looking at Conor.

He gave her a wry, half-smile. “Just a sprinkle.”

But it wasn’t. The sprinkle became a steady patter, then a relentless drumming against the leaves and the ground. Within moments, the sky opened completely. The rain came down in thick, blinding sheets, turning the dusty path to mud and plastering their hair to their faces. Their easy laughter was swallowed by a deafening roar as the downpour intensified.

“Okay, not a sprinkle!” Emma shouted over the noise, her clothes already soaked through. The water was cold, raising goosebumps on her arms.

“To the trees!” Conor yelled back, grabbing her hand. His grip was firm and warm, a stark contrast to the chilling rain. He pulled her off the path and under the dubious shelter of a massive oak. They stood pressed together, water streaming from the leaves in steady rivulets, drenching them anyway. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, vibrating growl that seemed to shake the ground beneath their feet.

“This isn’t working!” Emma gasped, shivering as a gust of wind drove the rain sideways.

Conor’s eyes scanned the dense woods along the shoreline, his expression shifting from amusement to genuine concern. “We’re still at least two miles from the car. We need real shelter.” He squeezed her hand, his gaze locking with hers. “Come on. I think I know a place not far from here.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just tugged her along the slippery shoreline. The neat gravel path was a distant memory, replaced by sucking mud and slick, moss-covered rocks. Emma stumbled, and Conor’s grip tightened, his strength the only thing keeping her upright as they scrambled through the deluge. The world was a blur of grey water and green foliage, the only point of focus the back of Conor’s drenched shirt and his hand locked with hers.

“Just a little further!” he shouted, his voice strained against the roar of the storm.

He veered abruptly, pulling her through a thick curtain of weeping willow branches that slapped at their faces. And then she saw it. Tucked into a small, sheltered cove, nearly swallowed by the overgrown woods, was a small, weathered boathouse. Its grey wood was silvered with age, and a thick chain held two wide doors shut. It looked ancient, forgotten, but it was solid.

“My family’s,” Conor explained, breathing hard as they reached the relative shelter of the eaves. Water poured off the roof in a solid sheet just inches from them. “Grandparents built it. God, I haven’t been down here in fifteen years.”

He let go of her hand to wrestle with a big, rusty padlock on the chain. It was stiff with disuse. “Come on, you piece of junk,” he muttered, jiggling it with both hands. With a final, frustrated grunt, he put his shoulder to the door. The old wood groaned in protest, but the rusted hasp gave way with a sharp crack. He shoved the heavy door inward, revealing a dark, musty interior.

They practically fell inside, the sudden dimness and relative quiet a shock to the senses. Conor heaved the door shut behind them, cutting off the wind and muting the storm to a relentless, rhythmic drumming on the tin roof. The air inside was thick with the scent of dust, dry rot, and old gasoline. Cobwebs draped from the rafters, where a faded canvas canoe hung like a sleeping beast. Nets, old life vests, and fishing rods lined the walls.

Emma pushed her dripping hair from her forehead, a violent shiver racking her body. “Dry,” she managed to say, her teeth chattering. “It’s dry.”

Conor nodded, his own breathing ragged. He stood dripping onto the dusty floorboards, his gaze sweeping over the forgotten space. He walked over to one of the grimy windows, wiping a small circle clean with his sleeve. Emma came to stand beside him, close enough that she could feel the cold radiating from his wet clothes.

Outside, there was no change. The sky was a dark, churning mass, and the rain fell with an unyielding intensity that suggested it had no intention of stopping. The wind howled, rattling the windowpane in its frame.

“Well,” Conor said, his voice low and quiet in the enclosed space. He didn't look at her, just kept his eyes fixed on the tempest outside. “The car is miles away, and there’s no way we’re walking in that. Not safely.”

Emma hugged her arms around herself, watching a new stream of water begin to leak from a corner of the window frame. “So we wait it out?”

He finally turned to look at her, his expression unreadable in the gloom. “I don’t think it’s going to stop, Em.” He let out a slow breath. “Looks like we’re here for the night.”

The words hung in the air, as tangible as the dust motes dancing in the slivers of grey light. For a night. The idea settled into Emma’s bones with a chill that had nothing to do with her wet clothes. She looked around the cavernous, shadowy space, at the cobwebs and the grime, and then back at Conor. His face, usually so open and easy to read, was a mask of stoic resolve.

“Okay,” she said, her voice small but firm. “Okay. Then we need to get warm. And dry.”

A switch seemed to flip in Conor. The concern in his eyes was replaced by a familiar, practical energy. “You’re right.” He scanned the boathouse again, his gaze landing in a dark corner. “There. The old wood stove. If we can find something dry enough to burn, we can at least stop shivering.”

The task gave them purpose, a way to push back against the helplessness of their situation. While Conor knelt by the pot-bellied stove, wrestling with a stiff latch on its door and checking the flue, Emma began to forage. She moved through the clutter, her sneakers squelching softly on the floorboards. Most everything was damp or covered in a fine layer of mildew. She found a stack of old newspapers from a decade ago, yellowed and brittle but miraculously dry, tucked inside a metal tackle box.

“Jackpot,” she announced, holding them up.

Conor grunted, his arm disappearing up the stovepipe. He pulled it out, covered in black soot to the elbow. “Good. Now we just need actual wood.” He looked around, his eyes landing on a splintered wooden crate in the corner. “That’ll have to do.”

He kicked at the crate, and a few dry planks splintered off with a sharp crack. Together, they broke them into smaller, manageable pieces, their hands brushing as they worked in the tight space. Their easy, familiar rhythm fell back into place, a silent communication built over years of friendship. He’d hold a plank steady, and she’d stomp on it with her boot heel until it snapped. They worked without much talk, the only sounds their movements and the incessant drumming of the rain on the roof.

Conor expertly crumpled the old newspaper and arranged the kindling inside the stove’s belly. “My grandpa taught me,” he said, answering her unasked question. “Said a man who can’t build a fire can’t do much of anything.”

“Did he have any wisdom for women?” Emma asked, a small smile playing on her lips as she handed him a book of matches she’d found in the tackle box.

“He said a woman who puts up with a man who can’t build a fire is a saint,” Conor shot back without missing a beat, a flash of his old humor returning. He struck a match. The flame sputtered, then caught on the dry paper.

They watched with held breath as the tiny flame licked at the kindling, faltered, and then flared to life, catching on the larger pieces of wood. A slow, creeping warmth began to radiate from the iron stove, pushing back the damp chill. The firelight flickered, casting their shadows long and dancing against the walls.

“Now for the five-star accommodations,” Emma said, finding two thick, folded blankets on a high shelf. She shook them out, sending a cloud of dust into the air that made them both cough. They were musty and smelled of cedar, but they were thick and dry. She laid them on the floor near the stove, creating a small island of relative comfort in the dusty boathouse. The fire crackled, a cheerful sound against the storm’s relentless rhythm. The small space around the stove felt like the only place in the world.