Oliver doesn’t.
Wind howls down the alley, cutting through my coat, whipping the powder into little ghosts that swirl around our feet as we turn onto the street. I can hear Oliver’s footsteps crunching beside me, steady and close.
The town is small and charming, especially blanketed with snow as it is. Little shops have wreaths and Christmas lights up,reminding me that it is, in fact, the Christmas season. With all the drama of family and work, it’s been hard to remember all the beauty and hope this season represents.
I stomp out my feet on the sidewalk, smiling with each exhilarating breath.
“How can you stay in a good mood when none of this is going to plan?” he asks. His phone buzzes, and he silences it. He silences a lot of calls.
We turn down the next road, and after only a few dozen yards, we’re standing in front of a towering painted egg in a small gazebo. “I’m looking at the World’s Largest Czech Egg,” I tell him. “Who’s to say this isn’t a better plan?”
“We’re burning daylight. How is this a better plan?”
“It’s early still, and this is a delay, not a disaster. We’re alive and healthy.” I smile. “And this is all out of our control.” I take out my phone, my fingers clumsy in the cold. I spin around and take a selfie with the big, colorful, beautifully intricate egg. Oliver’s in the background, hands shoved in his pockets, watching me with an unreadable expression. “I get how important it is to be there for Evan, and as soon as we can leave, we will. But why suffer twice for it? Why not make the most of Wilson, Kansas? When will we ever be here again?”
“Never, I hope,” he says.
I smack his shoulder—solid muscle beneath his coat—and I’m relieved when he snorts instead of scowling again. Although if a guy has to scowl, he should make it look as handsome as Oliver does.
He exhales, breath swirling visibly in the cold. “Why are you so determined to turn the real world into a world of rainbows and gumdrops?”
I grin. “The alternative’s too awful to think of.”
“That’s a little dramatic.I’mthe alternative.”
I hold his gaze. “Like I said.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes crinkle with a hint of a laugh.
A whim fills me, and I snap a picture of him before he can stop me. But I already know I’m going to look at that picture again and again, studying the set of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the tensing around his eyes. It’s like he’s tryingnotto enjoy himself.
Does he feel like he’s betraying Evan if he enjoys the journey?
Has his life been so driven by one goal that he doesn’t know how to live without it?
“Where are we going?” he asks.
“Wherever Wilson, Kansas can take us,” I say. “Or were you hoping to watch for the snowplow like a kid watches for Santa? You’d look cute with your nose pressed against the window.” I flap the bill of his cap. He grabs my hand for a second—the warm pressure spreading from my hand through my body—and then drops it.
“My family didn’t do the Santa thing.”
“Whoa. My dad was incarcerated, and even he did the Santa thing.”
His brows lift, and suddenly my joke doesn’t feel so funny.
“He was already in prison when he found out I didn’t believe in Santa anymore, and I think it broke his heart.” I frown. “The only thing I wrote on my list to Santa that year was for my dad to come back home. My mom said Santa wouldn’t fix my dad’s mistakes, and I told her that if he wouldn’t, then he was a joke and I didn’t believe in him anymore. She told me maybe that was for the best.” I drop my gaze. “I lost my childhood when my dad was sent away, and my mom didn’t even try to help me hold on to it.”
My throat feels tight. I focus on the crunch of our footsteps, the way the snow squeaks under my shoes. The wind drift the clerk told us about is exactly as wild and unpredictable as shesaid. Some streets look clear, but then you see a snow drift covering a truck or spilling over a fence.
“Maybe your mom didn’t have a choice,” Oliver says. “Maybe being married to your dad forced her to be the rigid, structured one because he was too busy taking an elementary schooler to restaurants late at night so he could see if he was going to win big or lose it all.”
Oliver’s words stop me.
I stare at the ground, but my head is 1300 miles and twenty years away. The cold seeps through my coat, my wet socks, but I barely feel it.
My brain goes through dozens of memories—the times Dad would take me to school late because it was “Kids Eat Free” day at his favorite breakfast spot; how he’d always let me steer the car in parking lots. The way he’d let me fall asleep on the couch when I was afraid instead of giving me a pep talk about bravery and sending me back to my room.
I loved him so much.
