Adorable.
The front desk clerk gives me a strained look when I set the key down. “Uh, you checking out?”
“Yes,” I say. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it’s okay,” Oliver mutters next to me. “Stop apologizing.”
“I’m not apologizing; I’m being polite,” I hiss. Then I give the clerk a smile. “Are we able to check out?”
“Yes, but,” she says, gesturing vaguely outside, “the wind has the drifts stacked halfway up the doors on this side. Our plow guy’s going through town, but it could still be an hour or two?—”
“What?” Oliver blurts. “Where’s the snow shovel? I’ll clear it myself.”
The clerk titters. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to do that.”
Oliver strides to the front door and pushes it open.
Tries to push it open, that is.
He throws his shoulder against it with a grunt, and I watch his entire body strain against the packed snow. His shoes slide slightly on the tile. Nothing moves except him—backwards an inch.
“Oliver, look,” I say, pointing at the wall of snow pressed tight against the glass, higher than my waist. It’s like Jack Frost bricked us in. “It wasn’t snowing enough last night for this. Is it all snowdrift?”
The clerk nods. “That’s Kansas snow for you. The storm drops a few handfuls, and the wind does the rest. You can have bare pavement in one spot and a six-foot wall right next to it.”
Oliver gives the door one more fruitless shove and then curses under his breath. “Can we go around back?” he asks.
“Sure, but the car’s buried up to the windows, and the city won’t touch these side streets until the highway’s clear. You’re not going anywhere until the plow makes it through.”
“So we’re stuck here,” Oliver says, looking less angry than … despairing. His shoulders slump, and something about the way he’s standing—defeated, lost—squeezes the air out of my lungs.
Oh no. I can’t let him stand there in despair.
Must fix.
Stop it! You are not fixing him.
You can, however, try to distract him.
“When do we have to check out?” I ask.
“Eleven.”
“Is there anything we could do around here until the snow is cleared?”
“If you two go out the back, swing over to Ave E and try to head south to 27th. You’ll find the landmark that put us on the map.”
“You’re on the map?” Oliver mumbles, but it’s too quiet for the clerk to hear. I bite back a smile and elbow him.
“Well, what do you say, Oliver?” I ask.
He blows air up his face, making his messy blond hair flutter. Then he grabs his ball cap from his back pocket and stuffs it over his head.
“Lead the way, Elf.”
Out back, we cross through a snow-filled alley and head over to the road the clerk directed us to. The streets are bare, except for one older couple, who are trudging along in their snow gear in a way that tells me they have a step count to meet. The air is so dry and sharp, it feels hollow when I breathe.
I’m already squelching as snow seeps between my Mary Janes and socks, making my toes feel like they’re shrinking. The cold creeps up my ankles, but I’m from Rochester. I can handle snow. And after stepping through a huge drift up to my knees, I laugh.
