Instead, I try to focus on the road, even as my eyes are burning. The wind is coming sideways, rocking the tiny car and making the snow hit the windshield at an angle. Every time I pass a big truck, I grip the steering wheel extra tight, bracing against the sudden gust of wind that threatens to blow us toward the shoulder.
But soon, I’ve passed all the trucks, and there are no other vehicles in sight. The weather’s been so bad, I’ve had to go much slower than I normally would, which means we’re still an hour and a half away from our stop for the night.
I tune out the droning voices of the hosts until it’s just me, Ollie’s breathing, and the storm.
The snow is pretty, though. Dazzling, even, as it hits the windshield, leaving dozens of small streaks that get erased by the wipers every other second. I find myself fixating on a single speck just to watch it vanish. And I wonder if each snowflake runs together or if they retain any of their structure. If each snowflake is different, then what happens when it melts?—
“Watch it!”
Ollie yells at the same time the car hits the rumble strip. My pulse jackhammers in my chest, and I’m too confused to know which way to turn. His hands shoot out to the steering wheel just in time, caging my own, strong and sure. He jerks the car off theshoulder and guides us back onto the road. His forearms flex, and I can feel the steadiness in his grip even through my panic.
I’m back in control, but he doesn’t let go. His hands are still covering mine, and I’m so grateful for the feeling—the touch, the safety, the understanding—I’m on the verge of collapsing.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is firm. Concerned.
But not angry.
“Fine. I’m sorry, Ollie,” I say, jittery from emotion and adrenaline. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t,” he says. “It happens to the best of us.”
Leaning across the car as he is, his stubble brushes the side of my face, both scratchy and soft at the same time. The sensation sends a shiver down my neck that has nothing to do with the cold. His hands are warm and steady over mine, and I’m hyperaware of everywhere we’re touching—hands and arms, his chest against my shoulder, his breath near my ear, his simple, solid presence.
It feels like safety. But also like something else I’m not ready (or desperate enough) to name.
The truth is, it’s been so long since someone just ... helped. Without me asking first. Without me giving something in return.
Don’t read into this,I tell myself firmly.He’s keeping you from crashing, not making a move. Don’t mistake basic decency for connection just because you’ve had a rough couple of weeks.
But when his thumb brushes over my knuckle—accidental, it has to be—my heart does something complicated in my chest.
Stop it,I tell myself.
“I’m good now,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
“You’re sure?” He keeps his hands on mine, and I can feel the pulse in his wrist. Or is that mine? Ollie’s deep blue eyes are fixed on the road, and his face is close enough that I catch a hintof his scent again—that woodsy, masculine smell that I want to inhale and hold in my lungs.
I nod. “Yup.”
He removes his hands from mine and sits back in his seat, and I’m instantly cold. The steering wheel feels too big with his hands gone.
He turns off the podcast and fixes his eyes on me.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“About what?” My heart hasn’t slowed yet, and his attention isn’t helping.
“Rochester. What’s your favorite place to eat?”
I scoff, willing my breathing to return to normal. “We didn’t eat out.”
“We ate out all the time. I was on the road with some club team or another constantly.”
“What was your favorite?”
“Mom got AJ’s a lot. Sandwiches, salads. It was as close to homemade as we could get half the time. Their pulled pork sliders were awesome.”
A memory hits, one I haven’t thought of in years. “My dad took me to AJ’s once. I was probably eight. My mom went on an overnight trip with friends, and he was supposed to heat the casserole Mom had left for us, but he said he thought we should ‘live it up’ while Mom was away.”
