I blinked against the blinding light, blinking away everything else too; the wine, the almost, the ache.
Tristan jumped out first, his movements careful, deliberate.He called out to the driver, a burly man in coveralls who looked like he’d been born inside a diesel engine but wore a snow-white beard that would make him a holiday favourite if the season was right.
I tidied up, capping what remained of the good wine and tucking it into my suitcase.
When I hopped down from the van, the ground shifted under me or maybe that was the wine catching up.My foot slipped on the gravel, and just as I was about to lose my footing, his hand was on my elbow, steadying me.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice soft enough to curl under my skin.
“Gravity’s fault, not mine,” I said, forcing a wobbly smile.
He didn’t let go right away.And I didn’t want him to either.
The driver hooked to the van in silence, chains clinking in the dark.The night air was cold, but my face still burned; from wine, from the moment that still hadn’t quite ended.
We climbed into the faint oil and cigarette smoke scented cabin of the tow truck, him by the window, me in the middle, the driver on the far side.
The engine roared, and we started to move.
No one spoke much.Mumbled moments surrounding the drop off at the dealership, and recommendations on car rental companies.The radio hummed low with some country song about roads and second chances, as the headlights carved tunnels through the darkness.
Outside, the mountains rose and fell like a slow heartbeat.
Tristan’s arm brushed mine every time the truck hit a bump.He didn’t pull away, and neither did I.
I kept sneaking glances at him, at the faint crease between his brows, the way his jaw tightened whenever the driver hit the brakes.He looked steady, calm, but the pulse of his question still sat between us, alive and unresolved.
My mind kept replaying his voice, the question, the way it sounded not like a line but a confession.Would it be wrong if I asked you out now?
I wanted him too, but he had a home and a business on the island.My home, my life with my kids and job, were at least sixteen-hours away from his place.We led different lives, and this was a complication I didn’t need.Or didn’t necessarily want.
I didn’t know what scared me more, the possibility that it was wrong...or that it wasn’t.
* * *
By the time the towtruck pulled into Merritt, the highway had emptied into a soft hush of headlights and diesel.
The driver dropped us off in the parking lot of the Copper Lantern Inn.It was a squat two-story building, leaning toward the highway as if it had been standing there for decades and only recently decided to get its act together.Fresh cedar siding met old stone steps.A few windows were cracked open, letting out the faint smell of lemon cleaner and new paint.A mismatched pair of rocking chairs waited on the porch.The right one was missing a slat, but someone had tucked a cushion there anyway.
Tristan and I unloaded the van of his next two deliveries, his dolly, and a duffel bag with what I could only imagine were emergency night supplies.He thanked the driver, signed the papers for the van’s drop-off, and stood beside me on the gravel.
The air was cool enough to see our breath.Above us, the stars were dimmed by town lights but still visible if you looked long enough.
“CAA said they’ll check it first thing in the morning,” he said, raking a hand through his hair.“I’ll get us a rental if they can’t fix it quick.”
His voice carried fatigue now.Not just from the road, but from holding everything together.
“Hey.”I nudged his arm.“We made it to Merritt, your planned overnight stop.That’s something.”
He huffed a laugh, quiet.“Low bar, but I’ll take it.”
Inside the motel, the night clerk handed him two key cards with a bored expression.“Rooms are side by side.Breakfast from seven to nine.The coffee’s...skippable.”
We exchanged a look, biting back smiles.
After hauling in the remaining wine cases and stashing them in Tristan’s room, we stood among the stacks, the faint welcoming scent of oak and fruit cutting through the motel’s lemony cleaner.
I brushed my palms on my jeans, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the space was.
