Chapter Ten
Luke
I flip on the hazard lights. “You’ve got this.”
Cassidy’s voice quivers. “I’m slowing down.” The car lurches, then smooths out, losing speed. “And when I get to about twenty, I’m going to ease into the grass…not going to jerk the wheel too much so I don’t overdo it and have to overcorrect…”
She twists the wheel just enough to get us off the road. We hit the uneven, grassy shoulder and slow to a very bumpy stop.
But a safe one.
She throws the car into park and moves her trembling hands to her face as the storm rages around us. The symphony of ice on glass and metal is so loud I can barely hear myself think. It’s like someone is holding a tin can of coins next to my ear and shaking the shit out of it.
I crane my neck to get a better look at her. She’s paler than usual. “You okay?”
“Mortified, actually,” she grumbles through her fingers. “I can’t believe I freaked out like that.”
“Anyone would’ve. Hail is no joke, and this is a major highway. But you handled it.”
She throws her arm toward the windshield. “The car is probably covered in dents. If the glass cracked, imagine what the hood looks like.”
“I’m doubly covered on this thing through my insurance and the rental company’s supplemental policy. Don’t worry.”
Her hands drop to her lap, and she blinks at me. “You’re good in a crisis. Calm, cool, collected. And I was none of those good C-words. Just dramatic.”
“I did nothing,” I argue. “Getting us off the road was all you. Ten out of ten for style and execution.”
She faces the window and lets out a sound somewhere between a grumble and a laugh. I’m hit with an unexpected urge to tilt her face my way to see if she’s smiling.
“I’m easily frazzled. Sometimes I feel like everyone else is a period and I’m an exclamation point. Can I tell you something else?” She twists in her seat, a tentativeness to her stare. “I went twenty-four years without driving in anything more than a drizzle.”
“Ah. Very Southern California of you.”
“You can take the girl out of L.A., but you can’t take L.A. out of the girl. Anyway, the first time I even drove in proper rain was after I moved to Asheville. And when I was driving yesterday to the airport, I white-knuckled it the whole way, because of the snow. That’s partly why I was so tense when you and I first met.”
“You hid it so well,” I say evenly. “All this time, I thought for sure you were a storm chaser.”
She shoves my arm. My body welcomes the pressure of the hit, like it was waiting for it. “Too soon.” A beat passes before she adds, “I do like it. The weather in Asheville, I mean. It’s more unpredictable than California, which makes life interesting. Which do you prefer? North Carolina or Los Angeles?”
I stroke my chin, contemplating the best way to maneuver a question that will undoubtedly breed more. “I live in Raleigh. Maybe a slightly different climate, but I see your point. North Carolina has its appeal.”
“But does it appeal to you?” she presses. “Which do you like better?”
“I like them equally for different reasons.”
She lifts her chin, flashing the delicate slope of her jaw. “I call bullcrap. Nobody likes two things the exact same amount. I prefer the mountains, but my dog is an ocean boy through and through.”
I stifle a laugh. “Oh yeah? Did he tell you that?”
“There you go evading the question.” Her head tips back and she groans at the ceiling. “You do not make this easy.”
“What?”
“The whole having-a-conversation thing. When someone shares something personal with you, it’s nice to get back something in return. A tidbit. An anecdote. A snippet.”
My first instinct is to laugh. Not because what she’s saying isn’t reasonable—I’m familiar with the social conventions of conversation, I’m not a cave dweller—but because the idea that any “tidbit” of mine would be even remotely interesting to the woman sitting beside me is so ridiculous I almost have to laugh.
Even Cassidy’s coffee order is interesting. What would I tell a girl like her?
Would I tell her about my office? The space is small and windowless, with beige walls and brown carpet. A tiny space heater hums in the corner all year round because Rogelio keeps the place colder than a morgue. Fascinating stuff.
Should I tell her about the tiny cactus-shaped cat gym I bought, even though I’m not sure Groot, the geriatric stray who sleeps on my porch, will even use it? Or how I won’t get a live-in pet because it wouldn’t be fair when I leave so much, often at random, to fly home?
Could I tell her about my family?
My jaw clenches. No. That never ends well.
In high school, I made the mistake of being honest with people I thought were my friends. I opened up about my mom, her addictions, and her health conditions. I was honest about my dad abandoning his family and running off with his twenty-one-year-old coworker, and the real reason why I didn’t party. It was as simple then as it is now: my sister and Mom needed me to have my wits about me. My mom was always one drink away from a diabetic disaster, and Sophie was lost and needed someone to hold her accountable so she stayed focused on school. I couldn’t be responsible for them and be a mess, too. It was one or the other, and I made my choice.
Those friends didn’t just use the information against me when they spread rumors even more vicious than the already rough truth—they used it against my sister, teasing her, icing her out of every clique. Every event.
Keeping my personal life personal would’ve spared Sophie a lot of heartache back then. That guilt has poisoned me for years.
And now, private is just the way I live. Apart from my very small circle, I tell people as much as they need to know, and nothing more.
Cassidy’s face falls. “Sorry. I know not everyone is an oversharer like me.” She taps a gentle rhythm on the center console, then turns her gaze to the waning storm. The hail has moved on, leaving the faintest drizzle behind.
This one is clearly a social creature. I’ve got to tell her something. It’s not like I’m giving her a kidney.
“Anyway, thanks for talking me through—”
“If the question is mountains versus beach, mountains win. Hands down. Ocean water is loaded with God knows what. Sand is trash. Last time I voluntarily went to the beach for fun, I got sand in my cornea and was busy flushing my eye with no less than seven bottles of drinking water while Will and the rest of the group played beach volleyball. When I finally regained my sight, I got smashed in the face with a rogue serve and my glasses broke. There. That’s my tidbit. Satisfied?”
A beat of silence follows this.
And then, she giggles. The lively sound floats through the car. “Kind of, yeah.”
“It’s not that funny.”
“It’s hilarious.”
“Jesus,” I grumble, running my hand down my face.
“Aw, don’t beat yourself up.” Her eyes shine with playfulness as she tilts her head to the side, leaning it against her headrest. “I’d probably rub sand in my cornea to get out of beach volleyball, too.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s not at all what happened. The point is, I prefer mountains.”
“Your secret’s safe with me. I’ll never ask you to play a sand-based sport.” Her teasing tone fades away as her lips lift into a soft smile. “We’ll get to see the Rockies. Guess this trip won’t be a total bust, right?”
I rack my brain for the rebuttal, but her gaze pins me, and I suddenly forget the impulse to fight. Something in her eyes renders me completely useless.
The moment stretches like taffy, on and on without breaking, until her smile fades and we’re both just staring. Has it been one second or three? More? Something plucks a stiff string in my chest, and the vibrations move through me, leaving a wake.
I grasp for the handle before the quiet can sink its claws in any deeper. “I’ll be back.”
My feet touch down on the soft, damp earth. The smell of wet grass, the mist hanging in the air, and the whoosh of passing cars is as effective as huffing smelling salts for bringing me back from the brink of whatever that was.
A lot of eye contact is what that was.
Too fucking much.
I’m halfway to the tree line when the crunch of grass sounds behind me. I glance over my shoulder.
Cassidy is now draped in my hoodie, jogging to catch up. She trots past, and my attention falls to the exact spot the hoodie ends, just beneath her ass. Some primal part of me stirs from a dead sleep, seeing her in my clothes.
I snuff out the feeling before it can take hold.
“Grabbed this off your suitcase since it could pour again and you aren’t using it.” She lifts her arms so her hands can poke out of the long sleeves.
“What are you doing?” I force myself to look away, because the way the hoodie swallows her just right is none of my business. “I’m using these trees.”
“I need to use these trees, too. I drank enough water and coffee to power a choir. Can’t you do your business…I don’t know…by the car? And let me go in there, for privacy?”
I throw up my arms. “Let you go into the forest alone? Where there could be wild animals?”
She cackles. “Forest is a stretch. It’s just a bunch of trees.”
“Shall we google forest when we return to the car? Guarantee you it’ll mention trees.”
“What do you think lives off this highway, Luke? Big cats? Bears?”
I shrug. “It’s possible.”
“And what exactly are you going to do if you see a jungle cat in these woods? Sell it insurance?”
“I don’t sell insurance. But I do have business to attend to. So I’ll be over here.” I thrust an arm toward a random entry point to the woods. “You stay over there”—I nod at nowhere in particular—“and everyone wins.”
“I don’t know about winning. Have you ever tried to shimmy down tight jeans in the woods? While wearing boots?”
I turn my back and continue my march. “No.”
And I could do without the visual.