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.

They sat on the blankets, their backs against a dusty wooden chest, facing the small iron stove. The heat was a living thing now, a welcome presence that slowly seeped through their damp clothes, chasing away the deep-seated chill. Outside, the rain was a constant, heavy roar on the tin roof, but inside, the crackle of the fire was the dominant sound. Emma pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The initial adrenaline had faded, replaced by a quiet awareness of their isolation.

Conor rummaged in the small backpack he’d dropped by the door. After a moment, he pulled out a single, slightly crushed granola bar and a small Ziploc bag containing a handful of trail mix. He held them up with a wry grin. “Dinner is served.”

Emma managed a small laugh. “A feast.”

He sat beside her on the blankets, the wool scratchy against her bare arms. Their shoulders were close, not quite touching. He carefully broke the granola bar in two, the snap loud in the quiet room, and handed her the larger half. Then he opened the bag of trail mix and held it out between them.

“Don’t eat all the M&Ms,” she warned, her voice soft.

“Never,” he promised, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the small portions of food feeling precious. Emma savored the sweetness of the chocolate and dried cranberries, a stark contrast to the musty air. When they were finished, Conor carefully folded the empty wrappers and tucked them back into his pack. The simple, domestic act felt strangely intimate.

Emma leaned her head back against the chest, looking up at the dark rafters where the canoe hung. “I can’t believe you never told me about this place.”

Conor followed her gaze, his smile fading into something more thoughtful. He picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t think about it much anymore.” He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes scanning the cluttered corners of the room, now softened and obscured by the shadows cast by the fire. “My grandpa and I practically lived here in the summers. He taught me how to bait a hook right over there,” he said, nodding toward a workbench littered with old lures and spools of line. “Taught me how to clean a fish, too. My grandmother refused to let us do it in her kitchen.”

Emma watched his face, the hard lines of his jaw softening in the flickering light. He wasn't looking at her, but at some point in the past she couldn't see.

“He’d wake me up before dawn,” Conor continued, his voice lower now, rougher. “We’d take the canoe out when the lake was like glass. He never said much. We’d just… sit. And fish. Afterward, he’d let me steer the motorboat back, even when I was way too young.” A real, wistful smile touched his lips. “I felt like the king of the world.”

He finally turned to look at her, and she saw a vulnerability in his eyes she had never seen before. Conor was always the steady one, the one with the quick joke and the confident plan. This man, talking about his grandfather with a quiet reverence, felt like a stranger and yet, somehow, more himself than ever.

“It sounds…” she started, but couldn’t find the right word. “It sounds perfect.”

He gave a small, sad nod. “It was.” He looked away again, back at the fire. “After he passed, it just… wasn’t the same. Coming here felt wrong, somehow. Like trespassing.”

The silence that followed was heavy, filled only with the crackle of the fire and the drumming rain. Emma didn't know what to say. She felt like she was seeing a piece of him that he kept hidden from the world, a tender spot that still ached. She wanted to reach out, to put a hand on his arm, but the gesture felt too big for the fragile space between them.

Instead, she shifted slightly, her back pressing more firmly against the wooden chest they were leaning on. A dull thud from inside the chest answered the movement. Curious, she turned, running her hand along the dusty lid. "What's in here?"

Conor blinked, pulled from his reverie. "I don't know. Old fishing gear, probably. Maybe more blankets."

She lifted the heavy lid, which creaked in protest. The scent of cedar and old paper billowed out. On top of a neatly folded stack of wool sweaters lay a small, unassuming cardboard box tied with a faded ribbon. Emma lifted it out, her fingers dusty, and placed it on the blanket between them.

"What is it?" Conor asked, leaning closer. The movement brought his shoulder flush against hers. The warmth from his body was immediate, a solid, comforting presence.

Emma carefully untied the ribbon, the brittle string crumbling slightly under her touch. She lifted the lid. The box was filled with photographs, their curled edges and sepia tones speaking of another time. She picked up the one on top. It was a picture of a much younger Conor, maybe seven or eight years old, grinning proudly as he held up a small, silvery fish. A man with kind, crinkled eyes and a thick white mustache had an arm slung around his shoulders.

"Is that him?" she asked softly, handing the photo to Conor.

His fingers brushed against hers as he took it, a spark of contact that seemed to linger in the cool air. He stared at the image, a faint smile on his face. "Yeah. That's him. My grandpa." He looked from the photo to her. "We must be sitting right where that picture was taken."

They fell into a comfortable rhythm, passing the small, stiff squares of memory back and forth. There were pictures of a woman with a warm smile who must have been his grandmother, posing with a pie on a porch that was no longer there. There was Conor as a teenager, looking lanky and awkward in swim trunks, pretending to be scared of a tiny crab. With each photo, Emma felt the boathouse transform. It was no longer just a dusty, forgotten shelter, but a place filled with the ghosts of laughter and summer days.

To see them better in the dim, flickering light, they had to lean in close, their heads nearly touching. Emma was acutely aware of everything about him: the faint, clean scent of his soap underneath the dampness of his clothes, the way the firelight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, the soft sound of his breathing. When he passed her a photo of his grandparents dancing, their arms wrapped around each other, his knuckles grazed the back of her hand. The touch was fleeting, accidental, but it sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the cold. She didn't pull away.

“They looked happy,” Emma murmured, her voice barely a whisper. She traced the edge of the photograph with her thumb. “Your grandparents.”

Conor nodded, placing the photo carefully back in the box. “They were. Most of the time. Fought like cats and dogs some days, but they always figured it out.” He looked at her, his expression serious in the firelight. “Not everyone gets that.”

The observation hung in the air between them, pointed and personal. The playful mood that had accompanied the first few photos evaporated, replaced by something heavier, more honest. The rain on the roof seemed to grow louder, isolating them further.

“No,” Emma said, her gaze dropping to her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “They don’t.” She thought of Mark, of their last few months together. The silence had been the worst part—the quiet dinners, the conversations that skimmed the surface, the feeling of being roommates instead of partners. “It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Trying to make it work when you know it’s already broken.”

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but the words slipped out, raw and unguarded in the strange intimacy of the boathouse. She felt Conor’s eyes on her, but she couldn’t bring herself to meet his gaze.

“I didn’t know it was that bad with Mark,” he said softly. It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of fact.

Emma finally looked up at him. The sympathy in his eyes made her throat tighten. “I didn’t want it to be,” she confessed. “I kept thinking if I just tried a little harder, was a little more of what he wanted, it would go back to how it was. But it never does.” She let out a humorless laugh. “The worst part is, I think I was more lonely in the last six months with him than I’ve been since he left.”

Conor didn’t offer platitudes or easy reassurances. He just listened, his presence a solid anchor in the storm of her remembered hurt. He shifted on the blanket, turning his body more fully toward hers. “He didn’t deserve you, Em. Not if he couldn’t see what was right in front of him.”

His sincerity was a balm. She gave him a small, watery smile. “And what about you? You never talk about Sarah anymore.”

He flinched, a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw. He ran a hand through his damp hair. “Not much to talk about,” he said, his voice clipped. But then he sighed, the resistance leaving his body as he looked into the fire. “That’s not true.” He picked up a small, smooth stone from the hearth, turning it over and over in his palm. “I thought she was it. The one. I had it all planned out in my head.” He paused. “I think… I think I loved the idea of her more than I loved the real person. And when it ended, I wasn’t just losing her. I was losing this whole future I’d built for us.” He looked at Emma, his expression unguarded. “It made me feel like a fool.”

The confession settled between them, a shared weight. She saw it then—the careful wall he kept around himself, the one he papered over with jokes and easy confidence. It wasn’t that he was shallow; he was protecting a place that had been deeply wounded. Without thinking, she reached out and rested her hand on his arm, her fingers curling gently over his bicep. The muscle was hard and warm beneath her touch. He didn’t pull away. He simply stopped moving, his gaze locked with hers as the fire crackled and the rain fell, washing the world away outside their small, warm shelter.