Chapter 30
When crisis strikes…
Viktor
After last night, I didn’t think things could get any better. But, here I am, driving back to Canter Creek Ranch for the last day of our writer’s retreat with Crisis. And she is glowing .
“ If I get published, do you think I should go indie or trad? I’m pretty sure the trad validation appeals to fragmented pieces inside me, but—” She pauses to take a bite of her sausage, egg, and cheese bagel from Honeycomb. “—indie has more control. I like control.”
I rub her thigh while the vehicle eases around a curve. “It’s up to you. We have enough pull in the industry to access top of the stack for reliable agents, so trad production times might not be as long once you match with representation. We also have enough resources to foot the upfront costs associated with indie.”
“I don’t know if it’s wise for me to become a millionaire through marriage,” she muses. “Who knows what I’ll do with that kind of power?”
She’d buy every last thing she seeks to own from small businesses and donate to charities for fish, probably. “I’m not concerned. ”
“When are you ever?”
Smiling, I glide my fingers up, and down, circle her kneecap, reminisce. “I was concerned last night.”
Heat blazes in her face. “What part of last night concerned you?”
“I wasn’t sure I’d survive leaving you alone in your bedroom.”
“Big baby.”
She really can’t get a handle on my age, can she?
Lifting her chocolate milk, she sips. “You can maintain your celibacy until the wedding. Promise. I believe in you.”
The wedding.
I have never smiled so wide before in my life. “Speaking of, when is the wedding, sweet pea?”
“We’ll find out once I get my hands on my laptop again and open a fresh Canva Whiteboard, now won’t we?”
A murderboard. Just for us. And our wedding .
My cheeks start to hurt. “Yes, I believe we will. Are you going to skip out on horseback riding, the last motivational meeting, or both in order to start on your Canva murderboard?”
“First of all, sir, it’s a wedding board . And, second of all, I’m not interested in being part of what keeps a poor horse walking through trails all day today, but I wouldn’t mind supporting Odessa. I need to let her know if she ever needs a PA in the future she shouldn’t call me, because I’ll be too busy taking care of my geriatric husband.”
I squeeze her leg, silently hoping she will actually be too busy making excellent use of her childbearing hips . The very idea of starting a family with her…introducing a little one to my brothers, to Sunset…it does things to me.
Marvelous things.
I open my mouth to ask if she’ll be adding a five- or ten-year plan to her wedding board , and where exactly babies might fall on it, but an explosion stops me.
The car veers, thumping, as the popped tire makes itself known.
Letting go of Crisis, I grip the wheel and ease off the gas. Taking a chance on the vacant nature of these backroads, I ride down the middle of the lanes in order to stay straight while we slow. Pressing the brake, I manage to get us safely stopped in a dirt patch beside a rail, overlooking a sheer drop scattered with trees.
My breath releases.
I turn to Crisis.
Eyes closed, she cringes.
“Sweet pea,” I whisper, “are you all right?”
“Twenty-seven,” she says, softly.
“Twenty-seven?”
“I have experienced twenty-seven flat tires in my life. I am officially averaging one per year I have been alive.” Her eyes open, pained. “Did you know? The average in a lifetime is five ?”
I…didn’t.
But I do know how to divert her thoughts before they can spiral, so I lean across the console and kiss her. Hard. “A tire doesn’t cost more than two hundred dollars. That’s petty cash for us.”
“Viktor,” she warns. “Remember? You’re not supposed to just say we can buy a new one when stuff like this happens.”
I kiss her again. “I know. I know that, but that is the first reassurance I have. I’m gonna see if what we hit is in our tire or still on the road, okay? Then.” I peck her nose. “You’re gonna put the spare on for me. All by yourself.” I frame her face in my hand. “Does that work?”
“Are you going to lord over me while I, petite lass that I am, jump on the lug wrench? ”
“Yes.”
A frail smile touches her lips. “Thank you.”
We need therapy.
But I smile, too.
“I’ll be right back.” I pop my door and step out.
She calls, “You’re lucky I’m young and spry, and know how to change a tire! Otherwise, we could be stuck here for hours . You’d miss all your final motivational thoughts, and then how would you stay motivated once you’re not at camp anymore?”
“I’m lucky for so many more reasons, Crisis. One day, maybe I’ll be brave enough to show you my list of them.” Chuckling, I shake my head. “It’s two hundred thousand words long, and counting .”
Satisfied when she blushes, I close the door, check the back left tire to find it’s been thoroughly shredded, no cause in sight, then march down the side of the road looking for stray debris.
Once I spot something that looks like it might be the culprit, wood cracks behind me.
The sound fills my ears moments before metal…
Crunches .