Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
POPPY
Okay, the math there might be off, what with the destination being the actual point and all.
But the snacks make it more fun, and I’m stocking up.
I would have done it hours ago, but Ollie so clearly didn’t want stops of any kind.
Honestly, I’m surprised he’s okay with even stopping for gas, especially when the tank wasn’t that low.
I walk the aisles, grabbing everything that catches my fancy.
Extra Hot Habanero jerky, check.
Flaming Hot Cheetos, check.
Hot Tamales, check.
Wintergreen gum, check.
Gallon of water plus a chocolate milk, check.
Lemonade for Ollie, check. (Also, gross.)
Mars bars? Hello, handsome, where have you been all my life? Double check.
I can barely carry it all up to the register, and I have to do that thing where you dump the soft parts from the top before you set down the breakable things.
“Will that be all?” the clerk asks.
I give him a grin. “Is there anything left?”
He snorts and rings me up.
I dart outside into the blistering cold.
Heavy snow tumbles through the darkness, visible only where the store’s glow and a single flickering parking lot light cut through the night.
I rush to our little red car, keeping my face tucked into my coat as deep as I can.
When I get to my side, Ollie leans over the driver’s seat and throws the door open for me.
“What took you so long?” he asks when I sit down.
I shake out the snow from my hair. “I went to the bathroom and grabbed snacks. Did you not use the bathroom?”
“No. I didn’t need to.”
“Is this your first road trip? You should have tried anyway.”
“But I don’t need to go.”
“Famous last words,” I say. I grab my chocolate milk and put it in the cupholder and then hand him his lemonade, “Sorry, I didn’t know what to get you. I assumed you’d come in, so when you didn’t, I just grabbed something I knew you liked.”
He looks at his drink quizzically. “How did you know I like lemonade?”
“You ordered it at the diner.” I back out, and soon we’re on the road again, listening to the familiar soundtrack of passing cars and the whine of the heater fan. “There are plenty of snacks, so help yourself.”
He tears the beef jerky open and offers me the bag. I take a piece and throw it in my mouth, and then he follows.
The spice hits my tongue with a light burn. “Oh, I should probably warn you, that’s a little—”
“HOT!” he says, coughing.
“Spit it out!” I tell him, risking a glance at his face. Even in the dark, I can see he’s bright red.
He shakes his head, chewing with his mouth open, as if it’ll let off heat. His hand flies up to fan his mouth, and his elbow smacks into the window with a solid thunk.
“Ow!” he yelps, jerking forward, his knees cracking against the glove compartment. The car is so small, his thrashing makes the whole thing rock.
He makes a big, pained swallow.
“Why?” he cries, his eyes big like he’s been betrayed. He’s rubbing his elbow and breathing like he just ran a marathon.
I crack open my chocolate milk and thrust it into his hand. “Here, the dairy will help neutralize it,” I say. “And stop writhing! You’re going to roll the car.”
He ignores me and starts guzzling.
“No, keep it in your mouth longer!” I say, my attention torn between the road and Ollie folded up like a flaming accordion in the passenger seat.
But the chocolate milk is gone in seconds, and he’s still panting and fanning his mouth—elbows tucked in this time.
“How can you live like this?” he asks.
I bite back a laugh. “I love spicy stuff. My mom’s half Thai, and she started mixing chili paste with my cheese and crackers when I was young.”
“That’s child endangerment,” he says, coughing. “Torture.”
“You are so soft,” I say. I set the jerky in my lap and take another piece. “This is barely spicy.”
“It burned my tastebuds off.” He shifts in his seat, trying and failing to find a better fit.
“Soft,” I say, taking another bite. “Can you at least handle Flaming Hots?”
“I don’t know. Are they hotter than mild salsa?”
I laugh. “What? Mild salsa doesn’t have any spice.”
“It does to me.” He riffles through the bag. “What is this? Did you get anything that isn’t punishment for your mouth?”
“Oh stop, you big baby. Eat a Mars bar.”
“I don’t like chocolate.”
My eyes fly to his. “You drank chocolate milk!”
He opens the wrapper and takes a bite with a wolfish grin that makes my stomach flip. “I’m messing with you. I like chocolate.”
I force myself to look back at the road, but that smile is burned into my retinas. Since when does grumpy Ollie Fletcher have a smile that could melt glaciers? And why am I noticing?
“Phew,” I say. “I was about to throw you out of the car.”
“I don’t think you’re strong enough.”
“Moms can lift cars off their children when they’re in danger.”
He takes a big bite. “You’re not a mom and I’m not your child.”
“The chocolate is my child,” I say, grabbing the other Mars bar before he can take it. “And next time, if you have a problem with delicious snacks, go into the service station and get some boring ones yourself.”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Good boy.”
We both fall silent. It’s nice at first, but then it goes on too long.
My mind latches on to any sound—Ollie’s breathing.
Him shifting on the vinyl seats. And the wind is so loud outside of the car, it makes me feel panicky.
I reach for the radio button, but Ollie shoots his hand out at the same time, and his fingers bump mine, strong and warm. For a second, neither of us moves.
He clears his throat. “Here,” he says, turning it on. “You focus on driving; I’ll get the music. I should’ve thought of that.”
“Actually, do you mind pulling up a podcast? I think music might put me to sleep at this point.”
He checks his phone.
“I don’t have service.”
“Check mine,” I say.
He looks at the lock screen. “Nothing. I have some old podcasts downloaded,” he says. “But they’re all Beyond Justice episodes. Can you handle that?”
“Fine,” I say, shielding my eyes from someone’s brights coming the opposite way.
“Flash your brights at him,” Ollie says.
“No, that’s rude,” I say.
“It’s not rude. He’s rude for keeping his brights on when there’s oncoming traffic.”
“He probably forgot,” I say.
“Only you could make excuses for someone you’ve never met.”
“Oh, believe me,” I say, “I can make excuses for anyone.”
“That isn’t the flex you think it is,” he says, plugging his phone in.
“Tell me about it. My mom always says I’m way too forgiving.”
My overshare lingers in the air like a bad smell.
“So, uh, I have all of seasons three through five. Are there any topics you don’t want to listen to?” he asks.
“Nothing with kids,” I say. “And nothing financial. I can’t handle the Crypto King case right now. How about the serial killer from season four?”
There’s a pause. It’s so long, in fact, that I look over to see Ollie Fletcher staring at me, his face only illuminated by the dashboard lights. “I gotta ask: what?”
“Forget about it,” I say. “Play whatever you want.”
“You work in criminal justice. Wouldn’t that make the grisly episodes harder to listen to?”
“I wish,” I say. Then I wince. “Sorry, that sounds gruesome. I don’t wish I had firsthand experience with anything like that.”
I know immediately I’ve said too much, because Fletch’s attention is even more fixed on me.
And he’s not saying anything.
This isn’t going to work. I’m tired. I need to stay awake, without listening to a podcast that I’m tired of living in, tired of talking about (sorry, Arrow).
Maybe this is bad of me, but honestly, I’m so tired of never talking about myself, I’d probably spill everything if anyone asked. But Fletch won’t. It’s the same problem I have with Arrow: I drop hints like Hansel and Gretel drop breadcrumbs.
He never follows them.
When I joined the message board, there were strict ground rules: no names, jobs, or locations. It was meant to keep people safe. No weird stalkers, no baggage, no one googling your life. It made perfect sense. It allowed Arrow and me to communicate comfortably without prying or oversharing.
Curiosity at your own pace.
I’m sick of it.
Not sick of Arrow, mind you. Messaging with him is the highlight of my day.
But it’s not enough anymore.
I’m tired of only talking about my thoughts, never my life. Of being the person who helps everyone else process their feelings while mine stay locked up tight. Arrow is wonderful, but we don’t talk about everything. And right now—more than ever—I need ... more.
One thing’s for sure, though: Ollie Fletcher won’t be the person to give me that. The only thing we have in common is our destination.
We’re going the same direction. Separately but together. Even if he’s not as awful as I thought at first. And that smile …
Fletch plugs his phone into the console, and a moment later, the Beyond Justice intro plays, its discordant, staccato notes filling me with nostalgia for a time when I still loved the show.
But their last case hit home too hard.
My last case did, too.
Now, I only listen to make Arrow happy.
I tune out mentally, letting my thoughts wander away from the podcast. The whole point of listening to something is to keep my mind busy, but it’s not working. I don’t want to revisit all these people’s lowest moments.
Instead, I try to focus on the road, even as my eyes are burning.
The wind is coming sideways, rocking the tiny car and making the snow hit the windshield at an angle.
Every time I pass a big truck, I grip the steering wheel extra tight, bracing against the sudden gust of wind that threatens to blow us toward the shoulder.
But soon, I’ve passed all the trucks, and there are no other vehicles in sight. The weather’s been so bad, I’ve had to go much slower than I normally would, which means we’re still an hour and a half away from our stop for the night.
I tune out the droning voices of the hosts until it’s just me, Ollie’s breathing, and the storm.