2. Ben
BEN
The phone’s shrill ring cuts through the metallic whine of the impact wrench. I drop the tool on the workbench, wiping grease from my hands onto an already-blackened rag. It’s nearly midnight. Calls this late, in a storm this bad, are never good news.
“Sullivan’s.”
The voice on the other end is tinny, dispatch from the county sheriff. “Got a single-vehicle accident, Ben. Mile marker twelve on the old ridge road. Driver’s on site.”
I glance out the bay door at the sheets of rain hammering the asphalt. The worst storm we’ve seen in years. Probably some tourist who thinks all-season tires work on slick, winding mountain roads. “On my way.”
My old Ford F-250 cuts through the deluge, wipers fighting a losing battle.
The road is a river of mud and pine needles.
Just past marker twelve, I see it. Not a jacked-up Jeep or a college kid’s Subaru, but a little silver Civic, its front end crumpled like a discarded beer can against the embankment.
Standing beside it, illuminated in the sweep of my headlights, is a woman.
She freezes, one hand shielding her face from the glare.
Her hair is plastered to her skull, dark clothes soaked through, mascara-streaked rivers running down her cheeks.
She looks less like a stranded motorist and more like the sole survivor of a plane crash.
A knot tightens low in my gut, a swift, unfamiliar pull.
I kill the engine and step out, the cold rain an instant shock, soaking my hoodie in seconds.
The air smells of wet earth and hot, burnt metal.
She’s staring at the front tire, or what’s left of it, her arms wrapped tight around her torso.
She’s shaking, a fine, full-body tremor that’s more than just the cold.
"You ok, Ma'am?"
“I’m totally fine.” Her voice cracks, trying for a strength it doesn’t have. She looks like she’s about two seconds from shattering.
A bolt of lightning fractures the sky, a brilliant, spidery web of white.
In the stark, momentary brightness, my eyes catch a flash from her left hand.
A diamond. An engagement ring. She follows my gaze, her own dropping to the offending sparkle on her finger.
Her expression shifts, a messy collision of panic and embarrassment, and she quickly shoves her hand into her pocket.
“Alright, let’s get you out of this.” I turn back to my truck, grabbing the heavy winch hook and chains. The metal clanks against the wet asphalt. She flinches at the sound, hugging herself tighter.
As I work, securing the chains to the Civic’s undercarriage, she starts talking, her words spilling out in a rush. “I was just driving. Through. Just needed some air, you know? It got stuffy back there.”
She gestures vaguely behind her, in the direction of a city that must be miles away.
I don’t push. I just nod, cranking the winch cable until it’s taut.
My gaze slides over the back window of her car.
Expensive-looking luggage is piled on the backseat, the kind with leather tags.
Tucked half under a wool blanket is a long, white garment bag.
The kind that holds something you don’t want wrinkled.
Something important. Her phone buzzes from inside her pocket, a muffled vibration against the drumming rain.
Her hands clench into fists at her sides, a death grip on the device.
An unspoken ‘don’t answer’ signal. There’s a weariness in her face, etched deep around her eyes, that has nothing to do with a car wreck.
It’s the look of someone who’s been running on fumes for a long, long time.
I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror.
I get the car secured and help her into the passenger seat of my truck.
The cab door slams shut, sealing us in a bubble of quiet warmth against the raging storm.
Instantly, the small space fills with the scent of damp wool, hot metal, and the lingering cedar from the bar of soap on my sink.
She’s shivering violently, her teeth chattering in a fast, unsteady rhythm.
Without a word, I crank the heat dial up, aiming the vents at her.
She watches my hands, then sinks a little lower in the seat as the warm air washes over her.
A long, shuddering breath escapes her lips.
For a few minutes, we just listen to the engine’s rumble and the swish of the wipers.
“Even possums apparently have a better survival instinct than I do.” The whisper is rough, but a flicker of a smile touches her mouth.
A short, deep laugh escapes my chest before I can stop it. It’s the first one of the night.
The truck’s cabin becomes a small, warm world walled off from the storm.
Her phone screen lights up on her lap, casting a fleeting blue glow across her pale face.
Each time it buzzes, a fresh wave of tension rolls through her shoulders before she flips the device over, silencing it.
I keep my eyes on the slick road, pretending not to notice the war she wages in her own lap.
The winding road becomes a ribbon of black, my headlights catching the glisten of wet leaves and the ghost-white bark of birch trees.
The quiet between us stretches thin, filled only by the rhythmic thwack of the wipers and the hum of the heater.
“You eaten anything tonight?” My voice is rough in the hushed space.
The silence that follows is a solid thing. She stares out her window at the dark, rushing trees, her reflection a faint double image in the glass. It is answer enough. A knot I have no right to feel tightens in my chest.
We roll into town. Main Street is a quiet canyon of brick buildings and dark storefronts.
Rain-slicked asphalt mirrors the warm glow of the old-fashioned streetlights and the lazy buzz of the diner’s neon sign.
Everything sleeps under the weight of the downpour.
Everything except for Lachlan’s place. The mountain inn stands at the end of the street, its porch light a welcoming beacon, warm light spilling from the lower windows like honey. I pull the truck to a stop at the curb.
She just stares at it, her hand hovering near the door handle.
She looks at the inn like it is a fortress she lacks the password to enter.
For a long moment, she does not move, a small, lost figure in the vast passenger seat of my truck.
Then she turns to me. Her eyes, wide and dark in the dim cab light, are stripped bare of everything but a raw, exhausted honesty.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice soft but steady. “For stopping.”
The simple gratitude in her gaze strikes me with the blunt force of a physical blow, clean and sharp, lodging somewhere deep behind my ribs.
I nod once, a sharp dip of my chin. "I'll get your things."
Her car, still hooked to the winch cable, sags in the downpour. I fish a suitcase and the long, white garment bag from the back seat and follow her up the inn's wide, covered porch steps.
The heavy oak door swings inward, releasing a wave of heat and the scent of old wood, cinnamon, and brewing coffee.
Lachlan looks up from the massive reclaimed-wood desk where he’s polishing a glass.
His easy smile is already in place, but his eyes, quick and sharp, take in the scene: me, dripping a puddle onto his polished floors; the woman beside me, swimming in my old grey hoodie and a pair of worn sweatpants I keep stashed for emergencies.
“Ben. Finally decided to grace us with your presence on a weekday?” His gaze flicks to the woman, and the teasing edge in his voice softens. “Looks like you brought a friend.”
He sets the glass down, his full attention shifting to her.
He doesn’t miss the way she hangs back by the door, her hands lost in the sleeves of my sweatshirt, her face pale under the lobby’s golden glow.
She looks like a ghost haunting the threshold, completely untethered from the warm, sturdy reality of the room.
“Her car’s wrecked up on the ridge road. She’ll need a room.” I set her suitcase down near the desk, the white bag draped over it.
“Figured as much.” Lachlan rounds the desk, his movements smooth and unhurried. He stops a few feet from her, giving her space. “We’ve got a room with a fireplace ready for you. I’ll bring up some tea.”
She gives him a small, tight nod, her eyes darting between us.
“I’ve got to go tow the car back to the shop.” I turn to leave, my hand already on the cold brass doorknob.
“Ben.” Her voice is quiet, pulling me back. “Thank you.”
I just nod again, unable to find the right words.
I pull the door open, letting in a blast of cold, wet air.
But I stop on the threshold, turning back one last time.
She’s standing by the desk now, and Lachlan is talking to her, his voice low and reassuring.
She looks small and fragile against the backdrop of the inn’s massive stone hearth and dark wooden beams. He’s taking care of it.
I should feel relieved. Instead, a strange, heavy warmth settles in my chest, a fierce and unfamiliar instinct to stay, to make sure she is all right.
It makes no sense. I step out into the storm, the rain washing over me, and realize with a jolt that I still don’t even know her name.
But oh, do I want to.