Snow Plowed

by Abby Knox

  The spotted cat in my arms chirrups at me in protest but blinks her eyes. She doesn’t like new people or even familiar neighbors who check in on her during my twice-yearly vacations.

  The pot boils, and I carefully pour the hot water over the waiting mesh filter full of coffee grounds. The aroma alone is almost worth tossing out my automatic coffee maker.

  Scraps mews with her head on my sternum as I try to balance her while I pour the boiling water. When the water hits the grounds in the odd-shaped glass funnel of a glass pot that looks like a beaker, I get excited about my first cup of the day.

  Caffeine is super necessary at the moment to keep me focused and alert, especially today, since I didn’t sleep so well last night.

  Scraps mews again and looks at me with her slightly judgy blue eyes.

  “No, Scraps, that pushy photographer did not keep me awake. I know what you’re thinking.”

  I pour my coffee and have to set Scraps down on the floor so I can safely take that first, energizing sip. The one that I need before pulling on my snow boots, hat, gloves, coat—my day-in, day-out uniform that gets a little old sometimes.

  “Come on, perk up, Dees.” Someone has to cajole me out of the winter blues. I mean, I love Christmas, I love cold weather, but sometimes my attitude needs the extra goose when all I see are gray skies and endless piles of snow, gradually turning more and more dull and gray until the next round of snowfall. I pour my coffee into my travel mug and trudge over to my coat that hangs on the wall, where I begin the daily ritual of donning my snow gear with a sigh.

  There’s already been so much snow and ice this season, which is good for my pocketbook. I help out the city when the trucks have to scramble to get everything cleared for the tourists. Those extra paychecks help make those beach destinations with Anna extra fun. Sometimes we spring for all-inclusive deals with snorkeling and fishing. Sometimes all we do is let our bare skin absorb the vitamin D. Those vacations are the only time I will be caught outside in a bikini.

  Last March, when the winter seemed to drag on forever, Anna dragged me to a resort in the Bahamas that included a nude beach. I never thought I’d be down for such a thing, but it didn’t feel all that weird. Pretty exciting and fun, to be honest.

  “I’ll bet that Aidan Whoever would be shocked to see me nude on a beach, huh, Scraps? He probably thinks I don’t want my picture taken because I don’t like the way I look or something.”

  The calico, clearly tired of me talking about Aidan, jumps down from the bench where she’s been watching me pull on my boots. “That’s fine,” I say with a snort while straining to shove my boots on. “You’re not all that helpful anyway, with your complete lack of opposable thumbs.”

  The truth is, I’m OK with my body. What I’m not OK with are photographers in general. I feel uneasy around them ever since a bad experience in high school, when a boy I thought liked me, tricked me into letting him snap photos of me on the beach in my swimsuit. He’d said it was for art class, but really it was part of a plot among his friends from school. The plot involved coercing all the girls in school to pose in their swimsuits so the boys could ogle all the girls in one place and create a ranking system. Yeah, it was quite hideous, a huge scandal, and three dudes got expelled. I consider myself very lucky that the school took the action that it did in response to their shenanigans.

  Although they couldn’t hurt my self-esteem, the whole experience did make me swear off men. Yep. I’m 25, own my own business, and still a virgin. I don’t necessarily need a man in my life, anyway. I have Anna for deep conversations, laughs, and company when I go out for wild nights on the town to the second-run movie theater. I have Anna and half the town for hugs whenever I need one. I can always ask Anna’s husband, Mack, for help when I get stuck on a household project. And for the other stuff? Well, there’s always filthy audiobooks and my vibrator, Ken, Jr. Named, of course, in homage to my childhood Malibu Ken doll’s missing appendage.

  I yank on my mittens and hat, remembering that photographer’s remark about my ensemble last night. Huh. Maybe I’ll just knit him a pair of mittens and a pom-pom hat out of spite.

  “Wow, you’re making a ton of sense right now, Dees,” I mutter to myself.

  My keys are still rattling around in my coat pocket and I fumble with them while trying to lock my back door at the same time. That guy, I think. He probably has been to dozens of nude beaches, taken photos of hundreds of naked women in tropical locations. He’d probably be very surprised to know that I, a virgin from Michigan, go to nude beaches. Who am I kidding? Nothing could shake that guy, I’m sure. Not a single thing about me could make the perfect skin of his cheeks turn pink, or send a flush of blood to those pillowy lips of his, or make his golden-brown eyes flash at me in anything that doesn’t resemble total professionalism when he’s behind the camera.

  A hot flash rolls through me, starting at my forehead and landing between my legs.

  God, what was that? I trudge through the ice and crunchy snow down the driveway and make my way to work before I remember that I forgot my coffee.

  Dammit, now he’s got me forgetting the most important meal of the day.

  The cat chirps at me loudly when I open the door again to run in and get my travel mug.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Scraps. I’m not stayin’. Bye, baby. Be good.”

  I sip my coffee and enjoy the warmth as I make my way up Evergreen Place toward work, trying to put thoughts of Aidan out of my head. Of course, I felt heat through my body when I thought of that charming smile. He’s incredibly good looking. In a very cool, well-dressed, west coast kind of way.

  “I hope he doesn’t think Doc Martens and torn skinny jeans are going to get him through the winter in Michigan because they absolutely will not.”

  “Whose Doc Martens?”

  I turn and see Anne shuffling up her icy walk.

  Oh geez. I’ve been talking to myself out loud again. Gotta remember to stop doing that once I leave the house.

  We give each other a friendly, quick hug and make our way up the block together, her all-seeing eyes studying me, the only thing visible between the stocking cap and her voluminous scarf I knitted for her last year. “Oh nobody. I mean, that photographer, artist-in-residence, or whatever, from LA. You know, as expected, totally unprepared for winter here.”

  I stop describing him at that moment before I blurt out something else. Like, how he really does need to cover that lovely head of dark hair, protect those massive, muscly shoulders, cover those thick thighs with snow pants, hide that adorable, naughty-little-boy smile with a very thick woolen scarf. Muffle the sound of his smart mouth with a second scarf, perhaps.

  Looking down, I notice Anna carries not just a large coffee in one hand, but a bottle of antifreeze in the other. I remark on the bottle. “Gonna clean the sidewalk in front of your shop with that?”

  She shakes her head. “You’re not gonna believe this but Clyde finished off all of the leftover cider last night—again!—and wandered away drunk, then decided to whip it out and piss on my storefront window. And it froze.”

  “His dick froze to your window?”

  Anna does a spit take of coffee, then we have to pause on the sidewalk so she can recover, spluttering and coughing until the liquid makes its way out or back down the correct pipe. “No, you freak! The piss froze on the window! Same as last year’s parade. Do you not remember?”

  I have to giggle. “I do remember, I guess I’m just hoping one of these years his dick freezes to a lamp post. It’ll teach him not to get drunk and piss outside in front of people.”

  Anna shakes her head. “Well, I woke up his hungover ass this morning with a phone call at 6 a.m. to come and help me clean off my window and he’d better show.”

  Without thinking better of it, I let my mouth get away from me. “Now that’s something for that Aidan guy to photograph. True representation of life in Christmas.”

  I keep my eyes trained on the sidewalk while the two of
us walk, hoping Anna will let that comment slide on by.

  “So, his name is Aidan, huh?” Anna asks.

  I reply, a little too hastily. “Yes, everyone knows that; his name was in the paper and he’s like super famous. His Instagram has like a couple hundred thousand followers.”

  Anna snickers. “Someone’s been creeping.”

  We shuffle along, nearing the corner of Evergreen Place and Sleigh Way, as I feebly defend myself. “I haven’t been creeping. It’s not creeping if I’m just curious about who it is that’s taking all of our pictures for a month. I’m…very protective…of this town. Of you. And…everyone.” I had, in fact, been creeping on his Instagram, looking to see if he had any photos of himself with women. Or men. Just out of curiosity. I didn’t see any, though.

  Anna laughs. “Oh! Then I guess you have no comment on that shirtless, bare-ass photo of him in the shower?”

  I stop dead in my tracks and look up at Anna. “There’s no bare-ass photo…”

  Oh, the cackling coming from her now. “Gotcha!”

  “I’m going to push you into a snowbank,” I mutter as I resume the walk. “I should have driven my car the two blocks to work.”

  Anna catches up and apologizes for teasing me. “But honestly, Ruby, half the town was at the diner last night and overheard your conversation. Ms. Polly messaged me about it. She said the two of you looked like a Christmas version of When Harry Met Sally.”

  I smirk. “Funny, that’s what he calls his camera.”

  Anna gets an excited look on her face and nudges me. “Look at you, getting cozy at the diner with the hot photographer, getting to know each other.”

  “Ugh, stop,” I say, unable to hide my smile. “He’s incredibly annoying. Mayor Johnson wants a picture of me in the collection, but I told him no.”

  “OK, what did he say?” Anna asks.

  I shrug. “He says he’ll respect my wishes but also said he thinks he can change my mind.”

  “OK, well, I understand where you’re coming from, now,” Anna says, her demeanor shifting from teasing to complete empathy. She knows exactly what’s going on in my brain. Stupid high school hijinks.

  “But listen. He’s a pro. I doubt very much he’s going to ask you to pose for tasteful shots in your swimsuit. But if he does, just let me know and I’ll send in the cavalry. And then I’ll help you bury the body.”

  “Yeah, he’s probably harmless,” I say, shaking my head to clear away the bad memories.

  We’ve reached the corner of Sleigh Way and share a quick hug before Anna heads farther up to her gift shop, and I hang a left toward Scrooge’s Alley, to the big metal garage marked Sugar Plum Snow Removal.

  I say hi to Wes, my dispatcher, when I arrive and check over the messages this morning.

  I’ve got my usual schedule for a Wednesday—salting and scraping the parking lots at the business park on the edge of town, then doing the same for the schools, the hospital, and the nursing homes.

  It’s a big job, and sometimes seems a little pointless, but we have to at least try to keep the streets somewhat drivable rather than packed down with inches of slick snow over top of ice all winter as many northern towns do. Christmas gets a lot of tourists and visitors in December who aren’t used to driving typical snow-packed streets.

  “If we get another snowstorm this year,” I say to Wes, who’s watching the weather forecast on the little TV on his desk, “I might end up with enough money for a second truck in time for next winter.”

  Wes lights up. “I’ve already got my CDL, so you can hire someone else to man the phones if that happens.”

  Just then, the morning news show switches over to a brief pre-recorded segment about Aidan McMaster.

  Oh shit.

  “Hey, isn’t that the guy…?”

  “Yep,” I say, sipping my coffee. “That’s the artist.”

  The fluff piece has footage from our parade last night, with an interview with Mayor Johnson, and with Anna, who is also our tourism director, and then a chat with somebody in charge of whatever national program that brings artists to small towns. And then there’s a shot of Aidan, shooting candids of local citizens.

  He invaded my thoughts quite enough all night long. I’m not prepared to see that tall figure, with its wide and probably hard shoulders on TV first thing in the morning, not when I’m supposed to be thinking about work.

  The way he’s turning the lens, it tweaks something between my legs. All these layers to protect my body against the weather, and not a dang one to help keep my body from reacting to the first hot out-of-towner to ever-present me with a challenge.

  I joke, “Wow, pictures of a guy taking pictures. That’s truly hard-hitting journalism.”

  Wes snorts. “Really.”

  I’m not prepared for Aidan’s close-up interview. “It’s a good cause and I’m incredibly lucky to do the work that I do. The people here are wonderful. I just hope I don’t get in the way, I try to make them feel like I’m not even here.”

  His pink nose, red cheeks, chafed lips are working for me. “As if anyone could forget you’re there,” I say, sipping my coffee.

  Wes jerks his head around to face me. “What?”

  I curse at the red that hits my cheeks even harder than the biting cold outside has already reddened them.

  “I just mean, how could you not notice someone so…you know…overbuilt…around here…it’s not like we have a gym…he sticks out like a sore thumb.”

  Wes shrugs and turns back to the TV. I’m thankful he has no follow-up questions for me when the gibberish stops. No doubt, Aidan would be very pleased with himself if he knew how flustered he makes me.

  Not flustered in that way. Just flustered because he’s new. And good looking. And flirtatious. And cocky. And pushy. And troublesome. I’m not used to all of that energy directed at me. I’m not used to my best friend encouraging me to respond positively to a strange man’s attention. Maybe it’s because she’s married to a great guy, she wants the same thing for me.

  When I close my eyes for a moment sipping my hot coffee, a vision invades my thoughts of Aidan and me together. I’m sharing my chapstick with him, directly from my mouth. That pink tongue darts out, and in my mind, I feel it tasting my lips.

  Hidden, small muscles between my thighs flutter with anticipatory pleasure. The last time I felt that kind of light spasm, I was watching Henry Cavill play Sherlock Holmes. Or, rather, Henry Cavill’s hair. No real-life dude ever made my body do that.

  It’s because he’s on TV, I tell myself. You’re triggered by gorgeous men on a screen because, hello, 25 and never had a real flesh-and-blood dick in your hands. A large percentage of your orgasms have been preceded by Jason Momoa interviews and Lenny Kravitz videos.

  Wes and I chat briefly about the day’s schedule before I take off on my route, and he says, as always, he’ll radio me if anything comes up.

  Despite a certain someone taking up too much real estate in my head that morning, the salting goes fairly smoothly over the next few hours.

  “Why anyone would want to take pictures of this, I’ll never know,” I say to no one. Idling at the town’s one stoplight, I fiddle with my phone so I can burn through some of my podcasts that I’m behind on.

  Of course, the first one is my favorite sex advice show. Doctor Dave and his wife, Millie, are by far my favorite people to listen to while I work. I steer my snowplow around and through all of the town’s church parking lots while dropping salt and listening to the way the sexy doctor and his wife navigate sex while she’s extremely pregnant. Their favorite position is doggy style, and they’ve recently started spicing things up with some light butt stuff.

  Usually, they make me laugh. But today? Today is different. Off-kilter is the only way to describe it. There’s nothing wrong with their show today, it’s all me. I’m overthinking everything I hear them say.

  What would it be like to be married, I wonder. What would it be like to have sex with a real man, finally? To
have someone so caring and protective of me while I’m pregnant. To rub my feet, talk to my belly, make love to me sweetly when I want that, or to give me a fast, deep, hard thrust when I come home for a quick lunch break.

  I have to turn down the heat in my truck and unzip my coat. Fuck.

  Finished with the church lots, I head over to the elementary school. When that’s done, I find that I’m ahead of schedule, which means I can go home super quick and take care of this…oh shit…this wetness that’s creeping into my undies as a result of all the sex talk, combined with all the sexy thoughts.

  Then, after lunch, that’ll just leave the hospital parking lots and the associated clinics, all of which pay well due to their sprawling campuses. After that, I’ll hit the subsidized nursing homes, which I do for free. Then I’ll head home early, watch a movie, and eat a shit ton of salt and vinegar chips while watching non-romantic movies. Preferably something with lots of explosions.

  The radio crackles again at about 11 am, and I expect it’s Wes, asking if I want anything from the diner for lunch.

  “Thanks, Wes, I’ll probably go home for lunch.”

  “It’s not that. That photographer called, he needs his driveway plowed real quick.”

  My brows knit together. “Excuse me? What’s he been doing over there since he arrived? Just not de-iced or shoveled anything at all?”

  Wes replies, “Probably hasn’t shoveled snow a day in his life.”

  Well, that’s true, and it’s not a fault of Aidan’s.

  Wes gives me the address and I know exactly where it is. Holly Circle. Around the corner from my house, in fact. Because of course it is; nobody lives all that far away from each other in this town.

  “All right. I’ll stop over there on my way home for lunch. I suspect it’s a ploy to get me in front of his camera, but we’ll find out.”

  I slowly stop my truck at the end of the driveway at the blue bungalow on Holly Circle. I know this house. I’ve always thought this house was full of charm and just needed someone to give it some love. I’d envisioned myself buying it one day, planting rosebushes along the front and adding a porch swing.