Crash With Me (Ashtone Ridge)

Chapter 1

CLOVER

Like my mom always said, don’t cry over burst pipes and your landlord being a piece of shit.

Or . . . something like that, I’m sure.

It’s what's going through my mind as I stand on my best friend’s cute little porch attached to her cute little house with her cute little country ass decor.

Okay, it actually is very cute and very Brynn, I just feel super cynical right now.

She’s off jet-setting across the globe, trying new foods, snapping aesthetic photos for her Instagram, and fully living her life, while I’ve just finished crawling back to our hometown of Ashstone Ridge, Montana.

As it turns out, the job you moved to the other side of the country for can suddenly evaporate when the owner of said job is arrested for millions of dollars in tax evasion and all of his assets are seized.

The best part? He still owes you for multiple projects you’ve done, even though he kept swearing you’d get paid for them soon.

He’s just waiting on one more thing. Or another.

Or another. Or several thousand dollars, but it’s fine.

Oh, and on top of that— for teaching purposes, obviously— your entire savings account can miraculously shape shift into the form of your lazy, mooching, cheating ass live-in boyfriend and fuck off to Greece with a barista named “Sophers” he met who “wears tee shirts of all the bands I like, isn’t that crazy, babe? ”

“But Brynn still lives there, too,” you might be saying. Does she really, though? She started as a flight attendant at our tiny three-gate airport and worked her way up. Pilots and the people who ride on planes . . . plane takers? Plane flyers? Passengers. Passengers!

Jesus, the day is getting better—Bye-bye vocabulary.

Note to self: get better at Pictionary. Caveman style, baby.

Anyways, pilots and passengers both love her, so she gets a preferential rotation and choice of destinations. She also gets first choice when another flight attendant has to pull their trip.

“Lovey!” Brynn’s bubbly voice vibrates my eardrum when the call doesn’t even get fully through the first ring. “Are you ready to come back? Your first weekend home, we totally have to go to Reggie’s for pizza. I need grease in my life!” Her excitement is palpable.

But her schedule is off.

“Brynnbun,” I start calmly. “It is, in fact, my first weekend home as we speak.”

Brynn goes silent, and I hear all the hustle and bustle in the background.

“Brynnbun,” I drawl out, voice filled with fake sweetness. “Did someone forget their best friend was moving back this weekend? Where are you, Brynn?”

Brynn’s voice is meek. “Melbourne?”

“I’m standing on your porch, soaking wet; which, by the way, I had to pay extra money to do because I got the seats of the ride share wet, with only a backpack full of everything that survived, and you’re in Florida?”

“Wait, why are you wet? What do you mean by ‘survived’? Clover, where is your car? And—” She clears her throat. “Melbourne, Australia.”

“Of course, it’s Australia. Why wouldn’t you be as far away as you could possibly be?”

“I could be farther,” she argues. “Answer my questions, ma’am.”

I take a deep breath and start my long-winded explanation.

“Well, Brynn, when I was carrying the last of the shit from my car, I apparently locked the keys in it. Then, when I went back inside and started searching online for a locksmith, I heard the weirdest popping noise, then the weirdest groaning noise, and unfortunately, it wasn’t caused by ghosts.

Unless the ghost broke the water main that birthed the direct descendant of fucking Niagara Falls from my bedroom ceiling. Then yes, it could be ghosts.”

“Oh, no,” she gasped.

“Oh, yes,” I deadpan. “I thought ‘Wow, this sucks, but I can just go over to Brynn’s house and figure out my shit from there’ and got a ride share over.

Which reminds me: when did Ashstone get a ride share?

And why was it Mrs. Marge? I go through all that and come over for our movie night.

Now, how do we do that when you’re in Australia?

” I ask the last question with as much dramatic whine in my voice as I can muster to let her know I’m not actually angry.

“Mrs. Marge is the only driver. I think she does it for the gossip. She calls her van ‘the grapevine’ now, and she goes and tells your folks if she has to pick you up when you’re drunk. Needless to say, she’s only ever called when someone’s in dire straits.”

I laugh, despite my situation. “Look at me, already only calling when the world is crumbling. Sixth sense for old lady shenanigans.”

“It’s gonna be okay, Lovey. I’m sorry, I forgot it was this weekend, and I picked up a rotation.

I definitely owe you big time. The good news is, you can totally stay at my place.

There’s a fake rock in the front— trust me, you’ll know which one— and the spare is under there.

No big. Make yourself at home, go through all of my clothes, and wear whatever you want.

I’ll be home Tuesday, and we will go from there. ”

I exhale and walk over the porch steps. “Thanks, Brynn. I see the rock.”

“Great! Like I said, help yourself to whatever! I gotta go, babe, the passengers are boarding. Love love Lovey!”

I hang up as she finishes the goodbye she’s always given me, lean over, and grab the fake rock. This thing is literally the most obvious hide-a-key I’ve seen. I swear, she’s gonna get murdered one day. I shake my head and go back to the door, sliding the key in.

Score.

Wait.

I pull the key out, slide it back in, and turn it.

It doesn’t budge.

“Oookay,” I say, pulling it out for a third time and examining it, even trying it upside down.

No luck.

“Fucking hell, Brynn,” I curse. I pull out my phone and aggressively text her, hoping to catch her before she turns hers off for the flight.

Key doesn’t work????

Oh shit. I changed the locks after I broke up with the Great Gaslighting Grayson.

Sigh. I’ll head to town and get a hotel.

Absolutely not. I’ll call Beckett. He will come and open it for you.

DO NOT.

It’s done.

DO NOT SEND YOUR GRUMPY ASS brOTHER TO SAVE ME!

Too late. Said he will be there in 15. Gotta go, babes. The stage is calling, and these oxygen masks aren’t gonna show themselves. LLL.

The horrors persist.

Great. Now, Beckett Hollis, the guy who’s hated me since we were kids and also holds the title of grumpiest man I’ve ever known, is being inconvenienced at 9 at night because of a series of no-good, very bad events that have happened to me.

I plop down on Brynn’s sidewalk and accept the hand that the fates have dealt me.

I don’t even like gambling. I don’t wanna play anymore.

I’m laughing uncontrollably when the big charcoal-colored truck pulls in the driveway.

Because, of course, it started raining.