Another blast rings out close and loud, and my hands fly to my mouth in time to clamp back my scream.
Terror courses through me, but the feet on the other side of the door are moving again, stepping closer to the bathroom—closer to me—and it’s like I’m in slow motion and fast-forward all at once. Beneath the surface, right under my skin, a scream is brewing, a version of me who wants to crumple to the floor in the corner, helpless. But deeper within is something harder, the version of me strong enough to walk out of the neurologist’s office last year without sobbing, strong enough to walk away from him last summer without breaking down. This version gets me to the wooden bathroom cabinet, tall and wide, where the custodian stores the extra toilet paper and disinfectant spray.
There’s only one shelf, toward the top. I’m short. I can fit. I will fit.
Within seconds I’m wedged inside, hunched underneath the shelf, huffing in shallow breaths of the potpourri-scented cleaner. It’s too stuffy, too cramped; it’s so hot in here, and I can’t do this. I can’t. But I suck in a longer breath, squeeze my eyes shut—and I pretend I’m back in the goddamned MRI machine. Pretend in a few minutes I’ll hear the irritatingly cheerful voice of the technician reminding me to hold still.
Pretend that this will all be over soon.
The bathroom door handle jiggles, and my heart stops. A sliver of light appears through the edge of the cabinet as the door opens. I bite down on my lip to hold in any sound threatening to escape.
Please God please God please God please. It’s the only prayer I can think of right now, the words playing on a loop in my mind.
The shooter must be less than a foot away from the cabinet, because I can hear breathing—so chillingly normal, almost familiar. There is just another human being standing in the bathroom right now.
Another human being with a gun.
Seconds tick by. My body shakes, but somehow I remain silent. Images swirl through my mind—not the sequential life-flashing-before-your-eyes you read about, but my mom and dad playing cards at the kitchen table, my brother, Emmett, riding next to me on the merry-go-round when he was little.
A footstep scrapes—the shooter takes a step closer to the cabinet.
My arms wrap around myself, the only protection I have.
All is lost; I’m sure of it. My mind races, swirling like the snowflakes in the wind outside, the snow globe tipped and jostled violently. From the depths of my chaotic mind, one thought forces its way out—perhaps my last.
Connor, I’m sorry. I love you.
CHAPTER ONE
Christmas Eve, one year before
The snow swirls in the air, down through the jet-black sky, onto my windshield. As a kid I always thought driving through the mesmerizing white flakes made it seem like we were traveling at light speed, blasting through space like the Millennium Falcon.
Tonight, though, the snow doesn’t fool me. Mostly because I’m not moving at all.
“Come on, baby,” I purr to my old Honda. “Please?”
I turn the key again, but I’m met with the relentless half roar of an engine that refuses to revive. She growls at me over and over, like it’s causing her pain.
I give up, slam my hand on the steering wheel. “Merry freaking Christmas to you, too.”
I sigh—it’s not my car’s fault this happened. None of this is her fault. Not the tingle in my legs. Not my uncertain future.
I give the steering wheel a loving pat, then take out my phone. After three rings, I hear laughter and holiday music burst from the other side—the warmth and security of being surrounded by loved ones, not stranded on the side of the road.
“Hello?” There’s a smile in my mom’s voice, and it makes my frown deepen.
“Hey, Mom, it’s me.” I pause, close my eyes so I don’t have to look at the swirling snowstorm against the black sky outside my window. “I’m, uh . . . my car broke down.”
“Simone, honey, where are you?” The smile is gone.
“I’m still about thirty miles out.”
“On the highway?”
“Yeah.” My chuckle is bitter. “Well, on the side of it, technically.”
“Did you have an accident? I didn’t think the snow was supposed to be this bad!”
“No. I mean, yeah, the roads aren’t great.” I’d been white-knuckling it for about forty miles now, but she doesn’t need to know that. “But that’s not the problem. I don’t really know what’s going on with my car.” The truth is, my check-engine light has been turning on and off for the past few weeks, but I’ve been too busy to find out why—she doesn’t need to know that, either.
Mom tsks. “Simone, you need to get yourself a more reliable vehicle, especially if you insist on driving from Sioux Falls after dark.”
I don’t bother responding—I don’t need her paranoia right now. Mom’s already moved on anyway, her voice muffled as she covers the phone to speak to Dad. “Bob, her car broke down. Get your boots on and start up the truck.”
“No, Mom, don’t worry about it.” I clench my shaking fist, clutch the phone tighter in my other hand. “You made me get AAA, remember? I should probably use it.”
“Oh, honey, I hate the idea of you sitting out in the cold by yourself.” There’s a pause, and I know what’s coming, as if I can feel the concern forming in her mind. Mom has her own form of anxiety about my recent medical issues, worrying when I do anything on my own. But it’s only because she doesn’t understand what’s happening to me. And I can’t blame her, because neither do I, really.
I sigh. “I’m fine—sitting here in the warm car.” Laughter bursts out behind her. “Everybody’s already there. I don’t want anyone to come out in this weather. Go get dinner ready. I’ll be there soon.”
Mom pauses; then I hear her whisper to my dad before turning her attention back to me on the phone. “Okay, well, if you’re sure. But keep us updated about how long you’ll have to wait. Dad has his boots on. Just text and he’ll be there, okay?”
A typical parental offering, but it makes me extra thankful in this moment. “Okay.”
I end the call and dial AAA like the competent adult I am. “I’m about to ruin somebody else’s Christmas Eve,” I whisper into my ringing phone.
There’s a click and a woman picks up. “How may I help you?”
“Um, hi, I’m wondering if there’s any chance I can get a tow? I mean, I know it’s Christmas Eve and everything, but, um, my car broke down and—”
The woman cuts me off—a little no-nonsense tactic to combat my flustered babbling. “What’s your location, ma’am?”
“Uh, Highway 12, about thirty miles east of Aberdeen, South Dakota.”
“Mile marker?”
I blink out my window, squint, but there’s only darkness beyond the swirling snow. “I don’t see one. I’m sorry.”
“No problem, ma’am.” She takes my license plate number instead. “I’m looking at your area, and there are not a lot of services available tonight.”
I swallow. “Um, okay. So what should I do?”
There’s a pause, and I can hear her fingers tap quickly on a keyboard. “You just might need to wait a little longer than usual, ma’am. We’ll get someone there as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.” I add a hasty “Merry Christmas,” but she’s already hung up.
I sit back and close my eyes, try to think about good things. Mom’s peppermint hot chocolate waiting for me at the house, Nikki opening the present I got her. She’ll be so excited about the tickets to our favorite musical, Rent, in Sioux Falls this spring. Maybe she’ll even think it’s better than our own “epic” production was, the one that solidified our friendship freshman year of college—or at least close, since she designed most of the set and costumes as well as playing one of the leads.
But even as the thought makes me smile, it’s there. The little flip in my chest, the knot of anxiety that never lets me forget: There’s something wrong with you. You could wake up tomorrow an
d not be able to walk or see, and you’ll never get to see another show or travel the world or do anything, really, because your future is over. And then the panic surges, roiling the acid in my stomach, threatening to send it up and out of me, along with tears and screams, and suddenly the fear has morphed into anger because it’s not fair.
It’s not fair.
Some people live long, healthy lives, and others face the possibility of an unpredictable, incurable illness.
Multiple sclerosis.
I didn’t even know what it was when my doctor first mentioned it. I still don’t, not entirely. Googling too much about this progressive neurological disease leaves me cursing WebMD for sleepless nights of spiraling anxiety.
God, my gut still clenches as I remember the fear and uncertainty when I’d feel it coming on—when the constant pins and needles in my legs would intensify to the point where my leg would lock up and I could barely walk. If it happened as I was leaving work, I’d stop and lean against a building—or a tree, bench, whatever was available—fighting back tears, wondering if this was the time it would never go away, if I would never walk again, but too embarrassed to call anyone for help.
Because if they asked me what was wrong, what would I tell them? I had no idea.
It’s taken months for the puzzle to come together—a gauntlet of tests and appointments aimed at ruling things out, an MRI that revealed a lesion on my spine. The final piece is an appointment with a neurologist two days from now in Minneapolis, since my parents insisted I not “mess around with small-town doctors” for something like this.
Happy holidays to me. Potentially life-altering diagnosis the day after Christmas. The day before Christmas, stranded on the side of the road with nothing but existential dread to keep me company.
My eyes drop to my phone. I’m tempted to call Dad, but instead I turn on the radio. A tow truck is already on its way, so I don’t worry about draining the battery.
I’ve just cranked up the Christmas tunes—and I’m steaming up the windows singing along to “Jingle Bell Rock”—when a pair of headlights shines in the rearview mirror. A truck pulls to a stop behind me. A man gets out, a shadowy figure illuminated by the headlights. Wow, that was fast! But I’m also pretty sure there’s an urban legend about a serial killer posing as a tow truck driver.
He walks toward my door.
Wouldn’t that be a fitting end to this year—November, devastating medical issue, December, hacked to death on a dark highway. Just my freaking luck.
I shake my head, tap my fingers against the plush seat, think. Okay, maybe a serial killer is unlikely—but he’ll probably, definitely, still be creepy.
The man reaches my door, now looming on the other side of my fogged-up window. He raises his hand and raps on the glass. I take a deep breath—this is fine, stop freaking out, Simone—and press the button. A burst of snowflakes flutters into the car on a gust of wind as the window rolls down.
He leans his head in, smiles widely. “Hi there. Did your car break down?”
Oh God. My heart pounds even harder. He’s not scary at all. He’s young and surprisingly attractive.
Somehow, this is way worse than creepy.
“Uh, yeah . . . sure did,” I stammer, forcing a laugh. I squeeze my eyes shut. Come on, he’s not that good looking. But when I open them, his smile is even wider, disarming, and snowflakes are accumulating on his light-brown hair.
Oh crap, yes, he is.
“Do you need some help?”
My eyes widen. “Aren’t you the tow truck driver?”
He furrows his eyebrows, and his eyes flick back to his vehicle. I crane my neck—it’s definitely a truck, but beyond that I can’t make out more in the darkness. “No,” he says. “I just saw you here and thought you might need help.”
My heart can’t decide what to do—flutter at this sweet gesture or race as the serial killer possibility resurfaces.
“Um, thanks,” I squeak-say, even as I’m internally memorizing his appearance for any potential police questioning. White male, about six feet tall, obscenely handsome. I clear my throat. “I’m fine, just waiting for my tow truck.”
His eyes flick back again before settling on me, concerned. “You might be waiting a long time on Christmas Eve. I could give you a ride somewhere, if you want.”
Hell no. As much as I don’t want to sit here waiting all night, there is no way I am getting in this strange man’s vehicle, no matter how handsome he is. I force a smile, wishing I didn’t feel the compulsion to always be polite. If Nikki were here, she’d have no problem telling this guy to get lost. “Um, no, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” He glances back again. “We’ve got room.”
We? Before I can say it out loud, another voice pipes up.
“Can we go? I wanna open a present tonight!”
I blink, searching for the source of this high-pitched demand. Finally a small head also covered in snowflakes appears next to him in the darkness.
“Hey, I told you to stay in the truck.” He’s more worried than angry, which pushes him a notch toward endearing instead of threatening. “And where’s your hat?”
He scoops up the youngster, and suddenly I’m face-to-face with a smiling little girl. “Hi. I’m Ella.”
I smile back. “Hi, Ella. I’m Simone.”
“I like your green dress. You look like a Christmas tree.”
My face flushes, but I laugh. “Well, that’s good because I was on my way to a Christmas party.”
Ella nudges the man with a stage whisper. “Mom says we should always introduce ourselves.”
He flashes an apologetic smile. “I’m Connor, and I’m sorry, but I really need to get this little one home. She lives in Aberdeen, but my offer for a ride still stands, wherever you need to go.”
Aberdeen is where I need to go, and who knows how much longer the tow truck will be? I could call my dad, but it’s clear now this man is harmless.
Unless he somehow has an elaborate scheme where he uses his child to lure women into his vehicle.
Where do I even come up with these things?
I smile as I grab my purse and shrug into my coat. “I’d love one.”
CHAPTER TWO
“‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’!” Ella hollers from the back seat of the truck.
“What do you say, Ella?” But her response of “please” is muffled by the music because Connor has already turned on the song. I chuckle as her little-girl voice turns “Rudolph” into “Woodolf” as she sings along.
“How old is she?” My purse is clutched on my lap like a protective barrier, giving me the courage to initiate small talk.
“Five.”
Ella interrupts her singing to correct him: “Five and a half!”
“Sorry, El.” Connor winks at me and my neck warms. “She’s five and a half.”
“She’s adorable,” I say. “She looks just like you.”
He gives me a strange look. Oh God. Does he think I’m hitting on him or something? Am I hitting on him? “Um, I mean, she has your eyes.” I stare at the floor, wishing I could melt into it.
“Well, thanks, I guess. Ella’s my niece, so no one’s ever said that before.”
I look up in surprise and he’s smiling. I smile back, but it’s shyer now. Up close there is no doubt how handsome he is.
We stare ahead and an awkward silence sets in. Or maybe it’s only awkward to me. When I first got in, there was such a flurry of activity and the talking point was so obvious—Where do you live and how do we get there?—that I didn’t have to feel nervous. Then I called AAA again to let them know I’d gotten a ride and to give them the address to deliver my car.
Then I texted my mom and told her a family had stopped and offered to give me a ride—“family” was both true and safer than saying “strange man.” Because my fretful apple didn’t fall far from my mom’s anxious tree.
When I first got in, I thought I was sitting next to a married father, not
a handsome, potentially single man who is super sweet to his niece. As the vehicle crawls along the snow-covered road, social anxiety rears its ugly head. I rack my brain for something to say.
“So you’re going to a party, huh?” Connor’s voice is pleasant; his eyes don’t leave the road.
I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Yes. Well, I mean, it’s at my parents’ house. So it’s the three of us and my brother, but they always invite the neighbors over for Christmas Eve. And it’s our year to have my grandma, too.” His eyes dart to mine, a question in them, and I look down. “My grandma’s . . . health has declined. She doesn’t really remember us anymore. She mainly lives with my mom and dad, but sometimes she goes to my aunt’s or uncle’s house for holidays. They kind of rotate.”
I pause to catch my breath, and there’s a beat of silence. Dammit, why do I always do that? I’m either awkwardly quiet or I spill out way too much information.
Connor clears his throat. “Well, that sounds like a great party to me.”
“I want to go to a party!” Ella yells from the back, and it gives me a fresh topic.
“Where are you guys headed?”
“I’m bringing her home. We got to spend three fun-filled days together, just us and Grandma and Grandpa, didn’t we, El?”
“Yup. But I have to go home because Mommy misses me, and I get to open a present from her tonight. And I have to be at home so Santa can bring me his presents, of course.”
“Of course.” I glance over, and Connor is staring ahead. I’m confused by the family dynamics they’ve described, but even my purse barrier isn’t giving me enough courage to ask. “Well, that sounds fun.”
Connor turns up the radio, and Ella starts singing again. His eyes dart to mine. “She’s my brother’s daughter. He died. Six months ago.”
Perspective hits me like a brick. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“Thanks. Just trying to make her Christmas as normal as possible.”
We stare ahead again, but a wave of melancholy has fallen over the truck, a dull ache settling in my gut. We reach Aberdeen and pass through streets I grew up around—my old elementary school, the local ice cream shop I worked in every summer—all coated with a fresh layer of white. I find myself mesmerized by the falling flakes again. A snowfall is like a fresh start, or a cover for past problems. Sometimes both.
The Speed of Light Page 2
