Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  “Why don’t you?”

  She lifts a single shoulder, mouth bunched in one corner. “I don’t know. I’m sure I will. It’s just that if I get that job in California, teaching at that fine arts college . . .”

  “What teaching job?”

  “I was interviewing for a position at Seaview School of Fine Arts,” she says. “That’s why I was in California this week.”

  “Okay, so what about this job?”

  “If I get this job, I’ll be in California. They want to fill the position as soon as possible. I’d be starting spring semester. Apparently the drawing instructor they had decided to have a fling with a student – a high school student – and has been placed on unpaid leave pending the investigation.”

  “It wasn’t that same guy, was it? The one you . . .”

  “Oh, god, no. I don’t think so? Guess I didn’t ask his name. That’d be pretty meta though, wouldn’t it?”

  “Okay, so if you get the job in California, you can maybe go to Paris this summer, right? And if you don’t get the job, you can go whenever you want.”

  Daphne snorts through her nose. “Not everyone’s made of money, Jax Diesel. I can’t just pick up and fly to Paris because the mood strikes me.”

  “What if I took you?” I make an offer I’ve never made anyone ever before . . .

  . . . and I’m met with silence that sucks the air from both our lungs.

  “I couldn’t let you do that,” she says.

  “Why not? We obviously travel well enough together. We could go. As friends. It’d be a great time. I have friends in Paris, believe it or not. We could crash at their place. Or get a hotel. Whatever you want. I’ve been meaning to go back.”

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I slide it out. Fabrizio’s name flashes on the caller ID.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Just checking on you,” he says. “Everyone’s asking about you. Wedding’s tomorrow, so we’re all just getting kind of nervous. Joey especially.”

  “Tell Joey I won’t miss it for the world. I’ll be there soon. Another four hours and I’ll be in Pennsylvania. I’ll call you when I get close to Scranton. You’re going to have to pick me up. Bring some fresh clothes for me, will you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Fab says. “Just get your pretty boy ass home. And watch the roads. Eastern PA is still a frickin’ mess.”

  Snowflakes fall on the windshield, giant flakes that dance in the wind and melt the second they hit the glass. I glance at Daphne, intending to point them out, but she’s curled in a ball, her legs on the seat and her head resting on pillow wedged between her neck and the passenger door.

  She’s out cold.

  Chapter 14

  Daphne

  My body wakes with a snort, and I spring up in my seat. The remnants of dried drool stick to the corner of my mouth, and the reality that I woke myself up by snoring hits me square in the ego. Leaning forward, I squint toward the mid-day sun, searching for an interstate sign to orient me.

  Snow.

  Nothing but undriven, alabaster snow in the meadows we pass.

  But the roads are clear, thank God.

  “We’re in eastern Ohio,” he says.

  “Oh, shoot. We were supposed to switch in Toledo,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine. You needed the sleep.”

  “Pull off at the next rest stop, and I’ll get behind the wheel.” I grab my phone, checking to make sure I haven’t had any missed calls. The screen is empty, but I decide to call Delilah anyway. I’m sure she’d appreciate an update. Lifting my phone to my ear, I nibble on my thumbnail and silently count the rings.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Delilah’s voice is groggy, and she breathes hard into the phone, like she’s sitting up in bed. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine. You just get up?”

  “No, I’ve been up for hours,” she says. “I’m trying to make my way from the living room to the bathroom before my bladder explodes. Sure would be nice if someone could roll me there.”

  “Where’s Zane? Make him help you.”

  “He’s outside with Weston. They’re shoveling the driveway.”

  My heart lurches into my throat, depositing a hard lump I can’t seem to swallow away. “Weston’s there?”

  “Yep,” Delilah says. “He flew in last night. Zane wants him here for the birth, you know, since he’s the closest thing Zane has to family, really. They’re like brothers. I told him he has to wait in the waiting room though, and he was fine with it.” She chuckles. “Anyway, he was asking about you this morning.”

  “What? What did he say?” I chide myself for wanting to know, but alas, I’m the curious type. It’s my fatal flaw.

  “What you were up to . . . where you were living . . . if you were seeing anyone . . .”

  My heart rate kicks up a notch.

  “He still cares about you,” Delilah says. “I get the impression he wants to be with you again. Or he wants to try.”

  “What about Elle?”

  “They broke it off last year. You didn’t want me to tell you anything about Weston after you ended things, remember?”

  “Can we not have this conversation?” I glance at Cristiano through the corner of my eye. He’s steering us toward an exit ramp toward a rest stop, and it’ll be my turn to drive soon. I don’t want a heavy heart or a heavy mind when I’m supposed to be focusing on the road. Talk about impaired driving.

  “Of course,” Delilah says. “I just think maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to write him off. And I wanted you to know he’s here. Didn’t want you to be blindsided when you walk in tonight and he’s standing there looking like he’s two seconds from falling in love with you all over again.”

  “Anyway, I’ll see you soon. We just passed Canton, so I should be home in about seven hours. Maybe eight.” I’m anxious to wrap up the conversation as the car crawls to a stop in a narrow parking spot in front of a brick rest stop. “Call you when I get closer.”

  “Okay. Love you.” Delilah hangs up, and I slip my phone back into my bag, pushing a long, slow breath past my lips.

  “Everything okay?” Cristiano asks.

  I turn to him, studying the concern washing over his face.

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Everything’s fine.”

  Yanking on the door handle, I step out and stretch my legs. Swirling snowflakes dance around me, and my shoes crunch in a light dusting of snow on the pavement that can’t decide if it wants to stick or melt.

  Cristiano comes around the front of the car, stopping in front of me. “You sure you’re okay to drive? You seem . . . out of it.”

  I wave my hand in front of my face. “I’m fine.”

  Stepping around him, I make my way to the driver’s seat, slide in, shut the door, and adjust my backrest. Cristiano’s messing around in the trunk, pulling something small from his bag and tucking it under his arm before he takes his seat.

  Within a minute, we’re back on the interstate, heading east and music piping lightly through the speakers.

  “My ex,” I say, chest so tight I can hardly breathe. The rest of the words get caught.

  “What?”

  “My ex is back home,” I blurt. It feels good to get it out. I don’t think I could possibly contain this for the next however-many-hundreds-of-miles. “I haven’t seen him in over a year, and he’s going to be there, and I’m kind of freaking out.”

  Cristiano settles back in his seat, lifting his hand to his jaw and staring straight ahead. When he exhales, I can’t tell whether he’s deep in thought or annoyed that we’re about to have this conversation about some guy he knows nothing about.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “We don’t have to talk about him. I just . . . I just feel like I was blindsided by this. I mean, I knew Weston was going to be around in some capacity. He’s Zane’s best friend. I just didn’t know he was coming to Rixton Falls. I figured
he’d visit them in Chicago or something. I . . .”

  “You thought you could avoid him,” Cristiano finishes my thought. “Yeah, well, sounds like you can’t, so you better figure out a way to be okay seeing him.”

  “Honestly, seeing him is the least of my worries.”

  “Then what’s the issue?”

  “Delilah thinks he still has feelings for me.” I swallow the hard ball lodged in my throat. My mouth is dry. “And I’ve spent the better part of the last year trying to get over him.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “I think so. Everything happened so fast, but yeah. I think I did because it wouldn’t have hurt so bad if I didn’t, right?”

  “Do you still love him?”

  I let his question marinate, my hands gripped at ten and two as I forge ahead. Snowflakes dust the hood of the car, and the ones that land on the windshield thaw on impact. I flick on the wipers, but the liquefied flakes smear across the glass, temporarily blurring my vision.

  “Are you thinking about your answers or are you avoiding the question?” he asks.

  “Do you still love that girl? The one that broke your heart?”

  “Isn’t that how it works when someone you love breaks your heart? You always kind of love them? Maybe not as much as you once did.” He shifts in his seat and clears his throat. “I don’t think those feelings ever completely subside. At least not until you find someone else. Someone to love harder. Someone to love you better than they ever could.”

  Inhaling, I switch lanes. “I don’t know if I still love him. I just know I feel . . . something . . . and I have no idea what that something is. And that makes it really hard to want to see him right now.”

  “Maybe when you see him, you’ll know,” he says, retrieving a small leather-bound book. Cracking it to the middle, he scribbles something down with a pen that had been functioning as a bookmark.

  “What’s that?”

  “Travel journal. Had to write something down before I forgot.”

  “I didn’t know you had a journal.”

  Chuffing, he says, “You and the rest of the world.”

  “How long have you been doing that? Documenting your travels?”

  He shrugs. “A while. Few years maybe? I don’t know.”

  “Have you written about our road trip?”

  Turning to me, he smirks. “Yeah.”

  “Read what you’ve written.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Why, is there something bad?” I nudge him with my elbow.

  “No. It’s just not something I want to read. It’s private.”

  “Did you write about me?”

  “This isn’t some teenage girl’s diary,” he says with a smirk. “There are no juicy secrets in here.”

  “Then read it.”

  “These writings aren’t meant to be shared. Don’t take it personally.” He shuts the book and tosses it to the backseat before reaching for the radio knob, a subtle hint that he’s done with this conversation. I guess I respect that. I’d be annoyed if he were prying into my personal musings. A moment later he whips his phone out and thumbs across the screen. “We should be in Scranton in about five hours.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watch him tap out a text message and slide his phone back into his pocket a moment later.

  It’s weird . . . five hours from now, we’ll say goodbye. These last few days have flown by and now they’re coming to a screeching halt. Forever. In the span of four days, I went from loathing this complete stranger to feeling an unexpected pang in my stomach when I realize this is the end of the road – literally – for us.

  Squinting over the dash, I find myself struggling to see the taillights of the car ahead.

  “Is it just me or is it snowing harder now?” I ask.

  Cristiano leans forward, staring ahead, “Huh. Yeah.”

  Taking his phone out, he drags his thumb down the screen and mutters something under his breath.

  “What?” I ask, hands tight on the wheel.

  “There’s another snowstorm hitting eastern Pennsylvania.”

  “I thought the snowpocolypse was over?”

  “Nah,” he says, gaze narrowed on his screen. “It was supposed to start again on Sunday, but I guess it’s moving faster than they thought. It’s here two days early.”

  My heart rate quickens. “We’re still going to make it, right?”

  We pass a car in the ditch, its tail lights cherry red and lit. It hasn’t been there very long.

  “I’m not one-hundred percent certain, but I could’ve sworn that car passed me a few miles back,” he says slowly.

  “I think you’re-”

  Thump. Pop. Whoosh.

  My foot is pressing the gas pedal, but it feels as though we’re slowing down. Gripping the steering wheel within an inch of its life, I glance at Cristiano with pleading eyes though every cell in my body is trying not to freak out.

  “We blew a tire,” he says, remaining calm as he reaches for the hazard lights button. “Hold the wheel steady, foot off the gas.” Checking the mirrors and our perimeter, he adds, “Get over here on the shoulder, come to a gradual stop. Let it coast until you’re off the road.”

  Shaking, I follow his orders, appreciative of the calm he brings to this literal storm. It’s snowing faster now, the flakes dense and heavy, hard enough to quickly cover the glass if the wipers aren’t moving fast enough.

  Without saying another word, he flies out of the passenger side and heads around back, knocking on the trunk. I hit the trunk release button and feel the car rock as he digs around in the back. A minute later, he climbs back in, face red and wind-kissed.

  “Fuck,” he says, slicking his hands together and blowing his warm breath between them. His dark hair is sprinkled in snowflakes and there’s a clean crispness in the air that might feel refreshing if we were anything other than stranded.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Spare’s flat.”

  Gripping the wheel, I bang my forehead against it and groan. “Okay. What do we do now?”

  “I’m calling a tow.” When I look up, his phone is already pressed against his ear.

  I refuse to believe this is happening.

  We’re. So. Close.

  Hours from home.

  Literally. Hours.

  “Yes, I’m needing a tow as soon as possible,” he says. “We’re on I-80, just past the Coalfield exit.”

  His face says it all, from the clench of his jaw to the flattening of his lips.

  “Are you sure? . . . There isn’t anything . . . all right,” he hangs up, exhaling loudly.

  “When are they coming?”

  “They’re not.” He performs a search on his phone, pushing a hard breath through his nose. “Apparently the storm’s worse about ten, twenty miles from here. All the trucks have been called out already, and they’re thinking the DOT’s going to enforce a tow ban in the next couple of hours. I’m checking somewhere else.”

  Sinking back in my seat, I close my eyes and listen to him make phone call after phone call after phone call.

  They all say the same thing.

  They’re busy. The trucks are all in service. It’s going to be several hours before they can get to us and even then they might not be able to.

  Chapter 15

  Cristiano

  I throw our luggage on the bed of yet another hotel room and watch Daphne collapse in the middle of one of the beds. She buries her face in a pillow, though I don’t think she’s crying. She’s too disappointed to cry.

  I am too.

  We were supposed to be in Scranton by now. Instead we waited for three hours for a tow truck and a lift to the nearest town. The tire shops in this area were closing by the time the tow truck showed up.

  The driver dropped the Toyota off at a nearby shop and gave us a lift to this chlorine-scented Superior Inn Express.

  “We’ll be on the road by eight o’clock tomorrow,” I say, sinking back into the seco
nd queen bed. Eyes closed, I slip my hands behind my head. “We’ll be in Scranton by noon. You’ll be home by two.”

  “Just stop.” Daphne huffs.

  “What?”

  “Stop being so positive about everything. We’re stranded. It fucking sucks. And knowing my luck, my sister’s going to have the baby before I get home. And how do you know the roads won’t still be closed tomorrow? We might get halfway to Scranton and have to call it a day. Again. And why aren’t you worried about missing your friend’s wedding? How can you just sit there and act like we’re going to get home when you don’t know if we’re going to get home?”

  “We’re going to get home.” I place as much conviction in my tone as I can.

  “When, huh? When?”

  Standing next to the dresser and unfastening my watch, I glance over at her bed. She’s sitting up now, her blue eyes stormy and slightly bloodshot as they bore into me.

  “I’ll get us home,” I say. “I promise.”

  “Don’t,” she says, face twisted as she slides one foot off her bed. In a blurred rush of seconds, eyes bleary and squinting, she storms to my side, finger pointed in my face. “Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.”

  “I’m going to try,” I add. “I promise I’ll try to get us home. Better?”

  “Now you’re just telling me what I want to hear.”

  Chuffing, I drop my watch on the dresser top and tug my t-shirt over my head. I can’t win with her. Not tonight. Not when she’s in this . . . mood. Stepping around her, I unfasten my jeans.

  “What are you doing?” she asks. “Shouldn’t we make more phone calls? Try to line up a new rental or something?”

  “I’m hitting the shower.” I lift my brows, my hands paused at my zipper. “That okay with you?”

  “You don’t have to ask permission.”

  “Really?” I spit sarcastically.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re fucking priceless, you know that?” I smirk, scraping my hand along the underside of my jaw as I stare past her and focus on a mass-produced portrait of a lighthouse hanging on the wall behind her.