Chapter 11
Carol
After our talk in the alley, I think of blocking Humbug. Just to see how he reacts. But there’s no need. Humbug goes silent. The next night at work, I wait for him to show up unexpectedly as always.
I’m expecting the unexpected. That’s nothing new. It’s my curse. The reason I love Christmas, the time miracles are supposed to happen.
The sky turns to wool an hour before close, and by the time I lock Sno-Globes, Humbug hasn’t shown his face.
Maybe my talk of breaking up with Blake scared him off. Because if I’m not with Blake, Humbug and I’d have to face whatever’s brewing between us.
Outside, Evervale is gone, blurred out under a gray so thick it eats the lights as I walk home.
Every breath I take is knives. Wind shoves me sideways.
I hold my coat closed with one hand and call Blake with the other, but the call drops twice, the cold chewing on the signal like it’s brittle candy.
Headlights ghost the street, then vanish. I try to walk toward my place and get nowhere. The drifts have grown knees. That’s when I hear rumble.
The Executioners’ tow truck noses out of the white like a ship, cab stacked with snow, wipers fighting for their lives. The passenger window rolls down, and Humbug leans across, breath fogging. “Get in,” he says, like even the storm obeys him.
It’s Humbug. His Harley would be suicide in this weather. And I hate how the fact he showed up makes me feel. Relieved but no less upset.
I stare a second too long, everything in me half-terrified he’ll always show up and half-terrified he won’t. My fingers stop listening to the cold as I climb in. The cab heat is a slap of heaven. I slam the door, shaking hard enough to rattle the coffee cups in the holder.
“You tryin’ to freeze to death?” he asks, pulling back onto the invisible road, eyes slitted against the blow. His voice is gentle anyway.
“Remember, I don’t drive,” I say, teeth clicking. “Bad plan.”
“Worst.” He reaches into the back, tosses a dark hoodie into my lap. “Put that on.”
It smells like him, leather and something that’s just manly man. I pull it over my head and the hem swallows my hips. The sleeves eat my hands. My shivering eases, slow as the truck chews snow.
“Roads are closing,” he says. “Cops asked us to keep the main drag clear. Garage is the nearest safe place.”
“The garage,” I echo. The word buzzes low in my chest.
He cuts me a look. “A storm’s a storm,” he says, and flashes a quick humorless smile. “And a sin’s a sin. One sin isn’t worse than another.”
“What are you talking about? We’ve just been talking.”
“Yeah, just talking. You tell Blake yet?”
“No…” I admit. “You said you’ve gotta be careful.” The words come out like I feel about it. Not great.
“Trina can take me for everything I own if I’m not careful. Or worse,” he says, like an excuse.
“Worse?”
“Trina’s the biggest troublemaker.”
Trying not to fight, I cross my arms. “You know that when you married her?”
“Yeah, loved that about her, then. Until her trouble came for me.”
Not wanting to talk about his wife, I look out the window.
We crawl through a world that’s turned to static.
Twice he has to muscle the steering wheel while the back end slides out like a dancer with a death wish.
His forearms flex, ink shifting under the skin, black lines I’ve traced with my fingers, and I think about in the shower, getting off.
His garage becomes a dull, friendly glow in the dark. He pulls up, kills the engine. Wind takes back the silence and howls with it. When we run to the door, the snow hits sideways. He shields me with his body out of habit, or instinct, or the hard truth that I want him to.
Inside is a strike of heat and oil and the sound of the old space heater grumbling its way toward useful.
One bay holds a stripped-down bike on a stand like a stag, ribs showing.
Another has the tow rig’s shadow on the concrete.
His office is a square of even warmer air, a coffee pot, a microwave and a battered leather couch that looks like it’s seen things it doesn’t talk about.
“Power’s spotty,” he says, locking us in. “We’ll ride it out here.”
The words are simple. The way my heart leaps isn’t.
He pours hot coffee. I wrap my hands around the mug, wishing it was hot cocoa. But I let the steam lie to my face. Snow pellets the thin windows like rice at a wedding no one RSVP’d to.
“Blizzard,” I say, to say something.
“Yeah.” He stands across from me, mug to his mouth, eyes to mine. Everything slow. Everything loud. “You called your boy?”
“Service is trash.” I look down. “I’ll text.”
He nods toward an outlet that looks like it’s survived more winters than me. “Charger.”
I plug in.
“He’s not worried about you walking home in this weather?"
I shrug. “I always walk home. I’m a big girl. I’m a strong and independent. Blake loves that about me.”
The phone lights, asks for attention, finds the network just enough to ping, three texts from Blake stacked like excuses.
Blake: You home?
Blake: Dinner?
Blake: Everything okay?
“He’s worried.”
It’s Humbug’s turn to shrug.
I type: Got stuck. At the garage. Tow truck picked me up. I’m fine. Roads are closed.
The dots appear.
Blake: Do you want me to come get you?
No. I type. Not in his BMW. It’s safer to wait.
A long pause.
Blake: Okay. Be safe. I love you.
The words land like a coat I should put on but don’t. I’d rather freeze at this point.
“You good?” Humbug asks.
“I told him I’m safe,” I say.
“That true?” he asks with a smirk.
“I’m safer here than anywhere,” I say and feel it.
He tips his head, a small, helpless surrender to the truth. The heater clicks. The clock over the parts shelf ticks. My heartbeat picks up like it wants to keep time with his.
“Maybe you’ve got beard blindness,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Say what?” It takes me a minute. “That’s rude and wrong to say,” I complain.
Humbug shrugs. “Maybe. I just don’t know any man who’d let his woman walk home in this mess. And not give a damn where you’re spending the night.”
“He doesn’t know, I’m here with you. He trusts me.”
We both make a face.
“Where’s your wife?” I counter.
“Don’t rightly know or care.”
“I’m not Blake’s beard. He’s not gay. Hell, he’s getting really tired of my excuses.”
“Your excuses?”
“I’ve not slept with him since… the robbery,” I admit.
At my confession, we fall silent, trying to pretend we’re just waiting out weather. Humbug messes with the radio, finds a station that fades in and out on a loop of warnings and Evervale’s year-round holiday music. I unfold my fingers and fold them again. He wipes a wrench and doesn’t need to.
We fail at pretending.
“Come here,” he barks finally.
I go.
It’s ridiculous how simple it is.