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“I know,” he says as he stands up. “But this is too important. You are too important to me. I’m never not going to be careful with that.”
Seven
CHASE: Wait until you see this stocking I bought you.
Paige: What? I told you not to buy me anything else! You’ve already bought me way too much this trip.
Chase: Don’t matter. You’ve got to have this.
Paige: LOL. If you say so. Thanks. Can’t wait to see it.
Chase: I’m hanging outside. Take your time. Talking to this funny old guy.
Paige: Ok. Won’t be long. Have fun.
WE HAVE A LATE BREAKFAST and then drive west, back toward Raleigh. The plan for the day is to stop at a large Christmas store and then tonight go to an expansive botanical garden that’s all decked out with holiday lights.
The Christmas store is a good stop, and Chase buys me a silly stocking with an uptight elf with glasses clearly worried about keeping up with his agenda on a long printed list.
I love it—exactly as Chase predicted.
We don’t talk any more about our interrupted steamy session in the bed that morning. For the most part, we’re our typical companionable selves. He does hold my hand as we scope out the store and wander the gardens together in the evening. And he kisses me every time we separate and come back together, but just light, short kisses. Nothing to lead us back into sexy times.
We’ve got two separate beds for the night, and that’s safer and smarter. Sure, I’m acutely conscious of every breath Chase takes and every small move he makes in his own bed after we turn off the lights, but I don’t do anything about it.
He wants to be smart, so that’s what we’re going to do.
Surely he won’t want to be smart forever.
The following day we’re supposed to drive to Asheville. There are a number of local pottery and jewelry places I want to visit in the afternoon—and then the next day we’re planning to do Biltmore.
We sleep in until around nine and then go out for a big breakfast before we hit the road. The morning is chilly and gray, and the weather is calling for a cold drizzle. The day might not be bright and cheerful, but I’m in a good mood anyway, filled with jittery excitement whenever I see or talk to or get close to or think about Chase.
It’s my turn to drive today. Since we have a longer distance to go, we’ll take the interstate instead of back roads, and the trip will still be about three and a half hours. There’s a lot of traffic since it’s only a few days until Christmas, and when a light sleet begins to fall, I have to focus even more.
I hate driving in bad traffic. I hate driving in bad weather. And today the stress seems worse than normal because it’s distracting me from my happy Chase buzz.
Chase is a good passenger. He doesn’t fall asleep, and he doesn’t try to supervise my choices. He’s quiet and alert, and several times I feel him scanning my face and posture, as if he’s making sure I’m okay.
The sleet gets heavier, and the roads get slicker. I start to see a few cars pulled over and one that’s clearly slid into the guardrail. It wasn’t supposed to be coming down like this until later this afternoon—after we already arrived at our destination—but evidently the weather moved in more quickly than they expected.
My hands and shoulders are getting tired from tension about two hours into the drive when Chase says softly, “How ’bout we stop at this exit? I wouldn’t mind stretching my legs, and I can switch to driving if you want to take a break.”
“I think I’m okay.” I glance over at him to make sure he’s not annoyed with my driving. He looks relaxed, maybe slightly concerned but not impatient. “But we can definitely stop. I wouldn’t mind filling up with gas before we get into Asheville anyway.”
At the next exit, I take the off-ramp, driving slower than normal to make sure the wheels don’t slip. I get to the first convenient gas station and pull up next to a pump, putting the car into Park and then letting out a long breath.
Chase reaches over to slide his hand below my loose hair so he can rub the back of my neck.
“I’m fine,” I tell him. “I’m a grown-up. I can drive in sleet and freezing rain.”
“I know you can. But it makes most people kind of tense.”
“Yeah.”
I feel kind of silly. Needy. Like I should be stronger or less uptight or not so anxious about a normal winter occurrence. It took me longer than most people to be comfortable driving because I don’t like feeling like I’m not in control and not automatically an expert. I was so nervous as a sixteen-year-old that my driving instructor mentioned to my dad in a dry voice, “She could use some more practice,” and I was so ashamed I cried. The memory still bothers me today if it happens to cross my mind.
I know logically now—just as I knew then—that I wasn’t supposed to be perfect at driving when I was just starting out. And I also know that in Green Valley we almost never have snow or ice, so I have little practice at driving on slippery roads.
