It’s Humbug.His Harley would be suicide in this weather.And I hate how the fact he showed up makes me feel.Relieved but no less upset.
I stare a second too long, everything in me half-terrified he’ll always show up and half-terrified he won’t.My fingers stop listening to the cold as I climb in.The cab heat is a slap of heaven.I slam the door, shaking hard enough to rattle the coffee cups in the holder.
“You tryin’ to freeze to death?”he asks, pulling back onto the invisible road, eyes slitted against the blow.His voice is gentle anyway.
“Remember, I don’t drive,” I say, teeth clicking.“Bad plan.”
“Worst.”He reaches into the back, tosses a dark hoodie into my lap.“Put that on.”
It smells like him, leather and something that’s just manly man.I pull it over my head and the hem swallows my hips.The sleeves eat my hands.My shivering eases, slow as the truck chews snow.
“Roads are closing,” he says.“Cops asked us to keep the main drag clear.Garage is the nearest safe place.”
“The garage,” I echo.The word buzzes low in my chest.
He cuts me a look.“A storm’s a storm,” he says, and flashes a quick humorless smile.“And a sin’s a sin.One sin isn’t worse than another.”
“What are you talking about?We’ve just been talking.”
“Yeah, just talking.You tell Blake yet?”
“No…” I admit.“You said you’ve gotta be careful.”The words come out like I feel about it.Not great.
“Trina can take me for everything I own if I’m not careful.Or worse,” he says, like an excuse.
“Worse?”
“Trina’s the biggest troublemaker.”
Trying not to fight, I cross my arms.“You know that when you married her?”
“Yeah, loved that about her, then.Until her trouble came for me.”
Not wanting to talk about his wife, I look out the window.We crawl through a world that’s turned to static.Twice he has to muscle the steering wheel while the back end slides out like a dancer with a death wish.His forearms flex, ink shifting under the skin, black lines I’ve traced with my fingers, and I think about in the shower, getting off.
His garage becomes a dull, friendly glow in the dark.He pulls up, kills the engine.Wind takes back the silence and howls with it.When we run to the door, the snow hits sideways.He shields me with his body out of habit, or instinct, or the hard truth that I want him to.
Inside is a strike of heat and oil and the sound of the old space heater grumbling its way toward useful.One bay holds a stripped-down bike on a stand like a stag, ribs showing.Another has the tow rig’s shadow on the concrete.His office is a square of even warmer air, a coffee pot, a microwave and a battered leather couch that looks like it’s seen things it doesn’t talk about.
“Power’s spotty,” he says, locking us in.“We’ll ride it out here.”
The words are simple.The way my heart leaps isn’t.
He pours hot coffee.I wrap my hands around the mug, wishing it was hot cocoa.But I let the steam lie to my face.Snow pellets the thin windows like rice at a wedding no one RSVP’d to.
“Blizzard,” I say, to say something.
“Yeah.”He stands across from me, mug to his mouth, eyes to mine.Everything slow.Everything loud.“You called your boy?”
“Service is trash.”I look down.“I’ll text.”
He nods toward an outlet that looks like it’s survived more winters than me.“Charger.”
I plug in.
“He’s not worried about you walking home in this weather?"
I shrug.“I always walk home.I’m a big girl.I’m a strong and independent.Blake loves that about me.”
