Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
POPPY
We hit turbulence just outside of Denver.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain again. We’re about to begin our descent into Denver, but significant weather activity is affecting the northeast corridor. Unfortunately, we’ve received confirmation that all flights to the region have been canceled.”
Groans issue from all over the plane. Including from my seatmate, Fletch. Ollie.
“If you were bound for Rochester, please see our ground team for rebooking and accommodations. And we ask you to please remain seated with your seatbelts securely fastened until we reach the gate in Denver. Thank you for choosing Blue Horizon.”
When we get off the plane, it’s chaos.
Everyone who was headed to Rochester is rushing to find a ground agent to speak to. The lines at the various desks stretch endlessly.
I head straight for the rental cars.
Flying to Rochester is a lot easier than driving—nothing like twenty-something hours of icy highways and caffeine jitters—but when flights to a region are canceled, your options dry up fast. I’ll be looking at waiting two days for a flight and may still have to rent a car.
And there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to get home in time.
Which wouldn’t be the worst thing …
Guilt nips at my gut. No. I need to make it home. I owe it to my dad to make it.
As I power-walk, a familiar dark red hoodie catches my eye—I’m not the only person who had this idea. My seatmate is heading for the rental cars, too.
Oh, heck no.
I speed up.
So does he.
I start running.
So does he.
Unfortunately for him, my size is an advantage.
Even with my rolling suitcase, I’m able to tuck and duck and weave easily through crowds that hold him up.
He’s big enough that he could probably bowl everyone over, but that doesn’t fly in an airport (pun intended). He’s just too big to get past people.
I’m well ahead of him when we reach the corridor that leads down to the airport’s Ground Transportation Center.
Shoot.
How did I forget that the rental car counters are off-site here? I’ll have to exit the terminal to get to the shuttle waiting area. The shuttles only run every few minutes, ferrying passengers to the rental car center a few minutes away.
And now, his size is the advantage. I glance behind me to see his long legs stretch out as he picks up speed. He’s like a gazelle as he passes me with his duffel bag slung across his back. My lungs and thighs are burning as I push myself to catch him. But I can’t.
He’s almost to the line for the shuttle when the strap on his bag snaps. Fletch’s feet stutter as he tries to grab it before it hits the ground.
And that slows him just enough for me to take the lead again. I’m able to slip past a few more crowds, and I make it to the shuttle line right before he does.
“Good run,” I say, panting as he gets in line a split second after me.
His chest expands and contracts rapidly, and his nostrils are flared.
I’d say it’s the exertion, but I can already tell he’s bugged I beat him.
I hold my winter coat in one hand, but even though it’s freezing out here, I’m too hot from the sprint to put it on.
“Yup.”
That’s all he says. Maybe he’s learning how to hold back the snark in his head, after all.
But I glance back and see that his phone is cradled against his ear.
“Hey, Evan, it’s Fletch. I’ve got bad news.
My flight was canceled. I’m gonna rent a car.
I’ll still get there in time for the wedding, but I’m going to miss the showcase and probably Granddad’s charity event tomorrow.
Sorry. Call me when you get this.” He sighs. “Bye.”
I face forward and nibble on the inside of my lip as I wait, not wanting him to know I was listening. But when the shuttle arrives and we’re waiting, I can’t help myself.
“I’m sorry you’re missing your Granddad’s party.”
“Showcase,” he corrects, annoyance practically spilling out of him. “I can’t believe I didn’t expect this. I know to assume the worst. How could I talk myself into thinking that everything would be fine?”
I force my expression to remain neutral. Switzerland. My eyeballs will be the Switzerland of the face, dang it.
The passengers in front of us get on, leaving Fletch and me to follow.
No, just me. What Ollie or Fletch or whatever his name is decides to do is up to him.
We’re waiting for the same shuttle bus, though, so it’s no surprise that he gets on behind me.
The surprise is that he passes an open seat and drops right next to me.
The shuttle bus rocks and rumbles, and a bump makes me lean against Fletch’s arm.
“Sorry,” I say.
“It’s not your fault,” he says. “I’m cursed. I should never have thought this trip would go differently.”
I was apologizing for bumping into him, not for … whatever this is. “Sorry, did you say you’re cursed?”
“Yup.”
I pause, studying his profile while the shuttle shifts us. “Is that part of your story that you’re not sharing?”
He takes his hat off and runs his hand through his hair, which sticks out all over. “Yup.”
A part of me aches for this rude, hurting man. “That sucks.”
I almost ask what happened to make him think he’s cursed, but I catch myself. We’re not friends. We’re barely even tolerating each other.
He makes a sniffing sound. “No comment about how a little Christmas Magic can break it?”
I look at him sideways. “Did you want me to make a comment like that?”
“No.”
“But you were expecting it?”
He shrugs.
“It’s December eighteenth, not Christmas Eve,” I say. “Besides, we’re strangers, and that’s beyond trivializing.”
He sighs, putting his elbows on his knees and massaging his temples. “You’re probably right.”
A shiver overtakes me, so I take the coat from my lap and put it on. I glare at Fletch’s head the whole time.
I’m a people person. I’ve bent over backward for so many people, it’s amazing I still have a spine at this point.
But I cannot get away from this Grinch fast enough.
The rental car lines are every bit as bad as the airport ticketing lines were. Mr. Grinch and I both bet on different lines. But as we each inch forward, one rental place after another announces that they’re out of cars, and the lines are forced to merge.
And somehow, we’re right back together again.
And he’s in front.
Oh, crap.
“Oliver Fletcher,” the man behind the counter says, starting on the paperwork.
“That’s funny. There was a big MLB debacle with a guy named Ollie Fletcher a few years ago.
Dude was a washout. Injured in his first game, after the Braves gave him a two-million-dollar signing bonus.
Suckers.” He chuckles and then looks up.
And then the color drains from his face.
“You’re not him, are you?”
“In the flesh,” Ollie Fletcher says, his tone more bitter than coffee.
The guy behind the counter doesn’t say another word until it’s time to get down to business.
I stand frozen behind Fletch, my face burning with secondhand embarrassment. Does that happen to him often? No wonder he’s so defensive.
“Do you want insurance?” the agent asks.
“No.”
“Rental period?”
“Two days,” he says, which is optimistic even without snow.
“Where will you be returning it?”
“Rochester, New York.”
“Will you return it with gas or—”
“With gas.”
The agent nods, takes Fletch’s credit card, and quickly gives him the papers and keys. “You’re in luck,” he says, hazarding a smile that is clearly not welcome. “This is the last car in the lot.”
Shock ripples through me.
The agent looks past Fletch at the other twenty people in line and calls out, “Sorry, people. That was the last car.”
Cries and curses issue from all around the room, but I stand there speechless.
I’m going to miss Dad’s party.
I can’t miss it.
Even if I want to.
I shake my head, like I’m trying to shake off the sinking nausea mingled with guilt and relief that threatens to spiral into something a lot worse. I look at the agent just past Fletch, who’s currently tucking the paperwork into a side pouch in his bag.
“Do you know where the nearest bus station is?” I ask him.
The man gives me a baffled look. “No clue. Sorry.”
“That’s okay! That’s what the internet was invented for.”
As the people around me grumble, I search for bus stations and bus routes.
I check every company and route I can find, trying to ignore the icy little bloom of dread in my chest. My best option leaves Denver at 6:15 a.m. tomorrow, connects through Chicago, then Cleveland, and doesn’t hit Rochester until mid-morning three days from now, the day of Dad’s party.
That’s assuming every connection makes it through the storm—which, judging by the giant red Cancellations Expected alert, is about as likely as my sprouting wings.
Then a voice cuts into my search.
“Listen, we’re both going the same way, anyway.”
My head flies up, and I blink, sure I misheard Fletch. “What?”
“It’s dumb to make you take a bus when we’re both going the same way.” He picks up his duffel bag, not even looking at me.
He says it like it’s no big deal—like he’s not offering me the only remaining lifeline in Denver.
Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe he just doesn’t want the bad karma of leaving a stranger stranded.
Maybe he’s more like the man he was with sweet old Mr. Parkinson from the airport.
And if he’s renting the car in his name and adding me to the agreement, there’ll be a full paper trail.
Cameras. Receipts. Witnesses. Plenty of evidence if he turns out to be a Dateline episode waiting to happen.
Regardless—irregardless, even—it’s not charity. It’s logistics.
And logistics beat waiting three days for a bus.
I glance at the bus schedule again. If all worked out perfectly, I could get there the morning of the party. But if a single thing goes wrong …
My stomach twists. It would be easy to blame the storm and call it fate, but I’d know I hadn’t done everything in my power to get home.
And disappointing one more family would probably kill me.
“Fine,” I say, the sharpness in my voice sounding foreign in my ears, especially when being stuck with this grump is so much less than the karma I deserve. “But this is strictly a transportation arrangement, not a road trip. And not a truce.”
His mouth tilts into a smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Then he turns back to the desk and looks at the agent. “I need to add a driver.”
We both take a bathroom break—rules of the road and all—and after I wash my hands, I get a message from Arrow.
GreenArrow11
Well, my flight was the worst. I forgot to download Monday’s episode and didn’t have service.
GracieLou
HAHA. I think this is the first time ever I’ve listened to it before you. I just caught up. You’re not going to like it.
GreenArrow11
You know the rules: no spoilers!
GracieLou
I’m not spoiling it. I’m preparing you.
GreenArrow11
Don’t prepare me. I don’t need to be prepared.
GracieLou
PFFT. Because you’re so easygoing.
GreenArrow11
Well, well. Look who woke up this morning and chose violence.
GracieLou
Ooh, look at you, pretending you’re one of the cool kids with the new slang.
But I notice you didn’t say I was lying.
GreenArrow11
You noticed nothing of the sort.
GracieLou
Whatever you have to tell yourself.
I leave the bathroom in the Ground Transportation Center and follow the directions for the rental cars.
The parking lot is empty, except for one vehicle: a tiny red compact car that looks like the Little Tikes Cozy Coupe my parents bought me for my third birthday.
Man, I loved that thing. My mom held on to it for ages …
and then sold it after the divorce when we had to downsize so dramatically.
I haven’t thought about that ride-on car in years.
The rest, I think about constantly.
Ollie Fletcher towers over this car in a way I never did even over that toy.
The physics don’t add up—the roof barely reaches his ribs, and that’s to say nothing of his long limbs and absurdly broad shoulders.
He’s the kind of tall, hot, and brooding I would have had an embarrassing crush on in high school.
Good thing his personality is about as attractive as a root canal.
He’s reading something on his phone and giving a smile that makes him so handsome, I’m ready to ignore his personality, after all. But when he hears the light echo of my shoes in the parking garage, the smile vanishes. He pockets his phone with a scowl.
“Finally,” he says. “You ready?”
Fantastic. This is the punishment I get for wanting to dodge Dad’s party—stuck in a toy car with the one person on earth who makes me wish I wasn’t a declawed kitten.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say with a fake smile. “As long as you promise not to pick up hitchhikers.”
He gives me an “are you crazy?” look before ducking into the car.
I stick out my tongue after him.
Two days with this guy? Maybe I’ll find those claws after all.
Or maybe I’ll throw myself from a moving vehicle.
Whichever comes first.