by Katy Evans
He slips into the car and closes the door, shaking the snow off his hair. A second later, I realize he’s holding a piece of Milky Way out to me. I take it and stick it in my mouth.
I have never tasted anything so delicious in my life. Sweet nectar of the gods.
“Better?”
I nod, licking the chocolate from my lips.
“More?”
“Oh, god no! I can’t. I have to fit in a dress tomorrow, remember?”
He snorts. “If you ate from now until the wedding, you’d still be fine. Live a little.”
I can still smell the chocolate. He’s lucky I don’t dive into his hands and lick the rest from his fingers. “Don’t tempt me. I’m good.”
He pops it between his own lips and I watch it longingly until it disappears.
“All right. Here’s what we’ll do. The rest stop isn’t far away. Turn off and lock up your car. We’ll wait it out up at the rest stop, and when a plow comes, we’ll see if they have a winch and can tow your car out. Okay?”
“Leave the car? But…”
“It’ll be fine here. Let’s go.”
I cut the engine and pocket my keys in my purse. Cold air starts to seep in. Miserably, I look down at my feet. “I’m wearing flip-flops.”
He chuckles. “You sure are. Come on. It’s not that far.”
“Hold on.” I reach into the back of the car and take inventory. I may not be the slob Aaron is, but I’m not the clean-freak Miles is, either. I have a little collection of things I threw in the backseat and never pulled out. I find a giant cardigan and wool hat that I’d thrown back there in October, when I’d gone pumpkin picking with Aaron and it’d been too hot. No boots, unfortunately.
I slip them on and nod at Miles, my hand on the door. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
Miles looks up at my hat and shakes his head.
I scowl at him. “You have something against pom-poms?”
“No. If you’re three.”
“When we get up to the rest stop, please go drown your head in a toilet. All right?”
He smirks, and there’s that tiny excuse of a smile, like the smile of a guy who’s too good to smile at all. But why is it so attractive? Even if it’s a smug smile, like he’s so proud he’s gotten me riled?
Sheez, I need to stop giving Miles that power over me. Any power over me. If I’m going to be stuck with him in this rest stop for the next few hours, I need to find my Zen and not let him get to me.
On the count of three, we push open our doors. The wind’s not bad down here, because we’re on the side of a hill. But the second my bare feet sink down into the icy snow, I yelp.
Oh, god. It’s so cold, and it’s nearly up to my knees.
I fight to close the door. Squeezing my bag to my chest, I lift my foot high to take a step toward the back of the car, heading up the steep incline.
I take one awkward step. Then another.
Then I freeze. I look behind me, at my footprints, already filling up with snow.
“Oh, no!” I shout as my face is pelted with snowflakes. “Oh, no!”
Miles is already far ahead of me, on the incline. I can’t really see where the slope ends and things start to flatten out, but it might as well be a million miles. Because…
Oh, god.
Miles pivots, his hands in his pockets. This is like a Sunday stroll to him. “You realize you’ve been out in the snow for fifteen seconds?”
“Yes, but…mayday. I lost my flip flop in the snow. Somewhere.”
He gives me a look like I’m pathetic. I’m going to cry now.
“And…” I moan miserably. “I can’t…my feet. They hurt.”
He snorts. “Suck it up, buttercup.”
“No, you don’t understand. That’s why I hate snow. I have Raynaud’s.” I grimace. Ouch. Ouch. Big, big ouch. The pain is too much. It’s like walking on needles. I might as well die. This is a big nope. Can’t do.
I twist my upper half around and reach for the door, prepared to dive in, create a little hobbit hole for myself and wait out the storm there. He can wait in the nice warm rest stop with the coffee and food and heat and television. Maybe I deserve this.
Before I know it, a hand slips behind my knees and under my armpits, and I’m hoisted up off the ground. I feel a flash of dizziness as my world is upended, and then I’m in the cocoon of his arms. “What are you—”
“I can’t listen to you bitch anymore, Shorty.” His voice isn’t strained in the least. His body is warm as hell, and I lean into the soft, damp flannel, feeling the heat of his body radiating through his shirt.
He climbs the incline with even, measured steps, as if he’s been doing this all his life, never once getting out of breath. My feet are pale white, bordering on blue, but my cheeks are burning more when he pulls open the door of the rest stop.
He sets me down, and as I pull awkwardly away from his delicious, masculine smell, I inhale something awful. Acrid and vile, like Pine-Sol mixed with urine. My stomach turns.
“Um. Thanks.” As I shake the snow off my clothes, pull off my hat, and start to blink in the bright fluorescent light and bare surroundings, it hits.
The screaming, stabbing, worse-than-death pain in my feet. It’s like fire.
“Ow!” Still wearing one flip-flop, I hobble toward a bench in the center of the room and collapse on it.
My feet are bright crimson, redder than the worst sunburn. My toes are purple, almost the same color as my pedicure. But that’s nothing compared to the throbbing, burning pain.
Miles walks over to me and inspects them. “Seriously?”
“Look at my feet.” I hold them up so he can see them. “It’s a real medical condition! That’s why I hate the snow. I can’t go out in it, or…ow!”
Tears of agony spring to my eyes. I pull my feet up and grab them, trying to rub away the pain, but my hands are burning, too. I’d had gloves somewhere in the back of my car. Why didn’t I put those on?
“You’re a total mess, Cupcake,” he mutters, sitting down beside me. “Come on. Give ’em here.”
I straighten. He can’t mean that. I mean, he’s OCD. He doesn’t like to touch or be touched. “What?”
He lifts one of my feet, so I have to turn a little, and then he places both of them on his jean clad thighs. He strips off the flip-flop and tosses it on the ground.
He lowers his hands to cover them. His hands are big and so warm.
“What are you—”
“This okay?”
He’s…warming up my feet. Okay.
No, more than okay. Aaron’s never done anything like this. The last time I had a bout of Raynaud’s, it was during the honeymoon period of our relationship, when we were each pretending to like the things the other did, so we could show each other how chill and fun we were. We’d gone tubing up at Winter Park and I’d nearly died on the first ride down, when my glove came off. He’d just laughed at me, told me to go sit in front of the fire at the lodge, and went off to do some skiing.
“Oh. Yes. I just didn’t know you were okay with touching.”
He shrugs. “Seemed like a matter of life or death. Besides, I’ll do anything to stop you from bitching.” He gives me a little sideways eyebrow-raise.
“Anything? Hmm,” I tease.
His mouth quirks in a half-smile.
He slowly presses against my arch, working into the muscle. He isn’t just warming my feet. He’s massaging them, working in slow, rhythmic motions that make my heart speed up in my chest. Then he works deep into each little toe.
This goes on for the next five minutes. He’s extremely thorough and careful. I never thought I had a foot fetish until now. I can’t help feeling an odd buzz in my skin, my stomach, and flutters in my chest somewhere in the place where I should have a heart but suddenly have a flapping bird instead.
My feet are fine now. More than fine. They’re warm and buzzing, like parts of me that probably shouldn’t be. My breath hitches, and my thoughts th
reaten to return to that night, when he and I—
No. I can’t do that.
“That feels good. Are you a professional?” I ask, to lighten the mood.
He blinks, and whatever spell he was under breaks. He lifts my feet up and slides out from under them, dropping them unceremoniously to the floor. “I think they’re good now.”
“Yes. They’re much better. Thanks.”
I pull my legs up under me and sit crisscross applesauce on the bench as I look around. There isn’t much to look at besides the things Miles mentioned—the lobby is bare except for the bench, a rack of brochures for nearby attractions, a plastic dispenser of free real estate magazines, trash and recycling bins, and a television on a bracket hanging from the ceiling…and oh! A coffee station.
I guess I didn’t notice it first because the smell of urine and cleaning solution is so much stronger than the coffee aroma.
I nearly trip over my still-sore feet, trying to get to the little service. The lip of the pot is cracked and there isn’t much left, but I grab a Styrofoam cup and fill it. I take a sip. It’s awful and wonderful, all at once. I let the bitter taste settle on my tongue and feel the warmth seep into my bones.
Miles has been conducting what looks like a detailed surveillance of the place. He’s tried all the doors and is now peering in the windows of a gift shop, the door of which is locked behind a roll-down security shutter. He looks a little on-edge.
“What, you wanted to buy an I Love Colorado magnet?” I ask, making myself as comfortable as possible on the wooden bench.
He points at the television.
That’s when I see what’s got him upset. The news anchor is talking about a jackknifed tractor trailer, in Dunn’s Landing. Which is, incidentally, between us and the Midnight Lodge.
I bring a finger up to my mouth to gnaw on the nail, then yank it away quickly. “Well, they’ll probably clear it up overnight.”
“Maybe.”
Or, maybe not. I know what he’s thinking. This has already been the trip from hell. With our luck, they’re not going to clear that mess up anytime soon.
And I’ll miss the wedding.
No, I refuse to think about that.
Everything’s going to be fine.
The hallway leading off the lobby has two doors for the restrooms, one on each side, and two vending machines for soda and candy. The floor is cold concrete, which feels awful against my bare feet. I pad to the closest machine and the first thing I see is popcorn. I lift my purse—and that’s when I remember that I rarely carry money. I use my debit card for just about everything.
“You have a dollar?” I call out.
No answer.
I go back into the lobby and look around. Miles is gone.
A second later, he appears from the back door, holding his phone in front of him. “I got a bar out there.”
“You did?” I drop everything, reaching for my phone as I rush to the back door. “Where?”
“About ten feet outside the door. To your left.”
I go to the door and nearly press my nose against it, trying to make out what’s out there. There’s a little porch, but other than that, heaps and heaps of snow. I don’t want to get my toes frozen again, so I sigh and hold my phone up, moving it in an arc above my head. Maybe I can find some reception inside.
“Did you at least text Aaron?” I call to him as I walk around like a confused Statue of Liberty, trying to find reception.
“Yep.”
I wait for him to say more, but I guess I have to pry it out of him. “And?”
“And? He said he’ll see you when we get there.”
My nose wrinkles. That’s it? “What about telling them where we are and that our car’s in a ditch? Maybe they can call the state police so they know to come out and help us when the snow stops?”
He nods slowly. Then he says, “No. I didn’t do that.”
Great. Why am I the only person who seems to think this is a big deal? Maybe if Miles actually had a heart? Or if Aaron had been the one socking all of his money into the day? Or if any of them had seen all the sleepless nights and chewed fingernails I’ve gone through over this? Maybe then, they’d care?
Ugh. Men. Entirely too blasé about the important things.
I climb on the bench and hold the phone up, almost to the water-stained ceiling. No signal. Of course.
Hopping off the bench, I trudge to the back door. I’ll just run out there, quickly send Eva a little bit more detailed text, since it’s clear the men in my life have no communication skills.
I push open the door, into a whipping wind that goes right through all the layers of clothes I have on. The concrete floor is coated in a thin layer of wind-blown snow. The building is doing nothing to ward off the rushing wind. Hunching over, I inch to the edge of the concrete porch until I find the bar on my phone and quickly type in: We’re at the Overlook Pines Rest Stop. Car slid into a ditch. Can you call the state police and see if they can send a tow out asap? Spotty reception here.
A second later: Oh, honey! Of course. But I hear there is a jackknifed tractor trailer.
I sigh. I know. Maybe the tow can come early tomorrow morning. I can still make the wedding then.
I shiver as another cold wind blows my hair out of the disaster of a bun. Miles is right; I am a wreck, with my crap mani-pedi, my Cro-Magnon eyebrows, my hair all over the place, my one flip-flop.
And it’s all my fault.
All because I couldn’t settle for chicken wire and wanted to make everything perfect.
No.
It will still be perfect. What had Mimi said? It’s not so much the event as it is the man. She had a kick-ass time on the boardwalk at Santa Monica, sharing funnel cake with my great-grandfather. I can have a kick-ass time with Aaron, even if I look like a bushwoman. That’s what marriage is all about, after all. For better or worse? Plus, even if I get there a little late, I can just have the makeup and hair people do something simple, not the elaborate up-do I had in mind. It’ll be fine.
See, Miles? I’m not Bridezilla. I can totally go with the flow.
Another harsh wind blows in. I shudder and type, Sorry I’m missing the rehearsal. Is everyone bummed?
A few moments later, she responds with: It’s ok. Everyone’s having fun. Aaron brought out the karaoke.
I smile. Well, that’s good. I’d hate them to be sitting around, bored, wondering why they’re there. But I shouldn’t worry about that. Aaron is the life of the party. Where he goes, everyone’s entertained.
My smile fades.
I want to be there. I’m supposed to be there.
With my family. My friends. My fiancé.
This is my pre-wedding extravaganza, something I’ve been waiting for almost all my life. And I’m not even there to enjoy it.
Sucking back the whirlwind of emotions inside me, I go in. Miles is sprawled out on the bench, legs crossed at the ankle, watching the television as if he’s hanging out in his own man-cave. There’s some cheesy old television sitcom starting, with a too-cheery jingle. The words The Facts of Life show on the screen in big bubble font.
Miles is staring at it, rapt, nursing his own cup of coffee, which is sitting on his chest. The Boy Scout has made a new pot.
My feet are burning again, but I have other things on my mind. I go to the front door and peer out. There’s got to be at least a foot of snow out there. I hug my big cardigan over my body and turn back to him. “You think we should do something to let the police know we’re here?” I ask. “I mean, the car isn’t visible from the road.”
“What?” he mumbles, eyes glued to the television. “Smoke signals?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. You have any ideas?”
“Yeah. We wait. This is a public rest stop. Someone’ll be around eventually.”
“But I don’t have the time.” I reach up and vise my head in my hands. “I feel like this situation calls for some out-of-the-box thinking. There’s got to be a way to get there.
Work with me, here. You think my dad would pay to have a helicopter airlift us there? Or…I don’t know. Maybe we could get a police escort. A police officer could take us there. That one back down the road was kind of sympathetic. What do you think?”
No answer. Not even a blink.
I snap my fingers at him, releasing him from his trance. “So hello? Any words of wisdom, oh brilliant one?”
“Yeah.” He nods, then looks out the window, and at first I think he’s coming up with this great plan to get us off the mountain as quickly as possible. Then he says, “You take the good. You take the bad. You take them both. And there you have…The Facts of Life.”
I stare at him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. That about sums it up.” He gives me that smirk that gets to me.
And that’s it. I can’t take it anymore.
“I. Hate. You!” I say, lunging at him, ready to shove him until I remember he hates touching.
Oh, fuck it. I don’t care. I’ll touch him anyway.
I punch him square in the chest, which doesn’t even make a dent in his relaxed façade.
That only makes me angrier.
I scream, “I really, really fucking hate you!”
He sits up and crosses his arms casually, watching me stalk back and forth, flipping out. He’s eaten at my last nerve and I swear I’m going to kill him.
“You’re such an asshole, Miles. You know that? You sit there, all smug, acting like you’re better than everyone.”
“You want wisdom? Why should I give you any? You’ll just go and do your own thing, anyway.”
“That’s not true! If I—”
“Yeah, it is. I told you we should take Aaron’s Jeep. I told you it was going to snow. I told you we needed to stop at the rest stop. And did you listen?”
I press my lips together, fisting my hands on my hips. I want to yell at him harder. For pushing my buttons. For being here instead of Aaron. For making me feel furious in ways I don’t even understand. And for speaking the truth because he’s right. It’s my fault. All of it. And I hate that he knows it too.
He laughs, noticing my disdain. “Okay. Wisdom. How about this? Get real, Princess. There’s no knight in shining armor who’s going to come and take you down this mountain for your quote-unquote special day. You fucked up, despite being warned, and now you’re finding out that you’re actually not that special, even on your special day. So deal with it.”
