5. Boondocking & Breakdown
boondocking & breakdown
Marnie
Marnie had made a list of things she was absolutely not going to think about today:
The way Gabriel's voice sounded when he said "bonne nuit"
The fact that she'd lain awake for an hour after that conversation
How relieved she'd felt when he said they were okay
The terrifying possibility that he might be right
She was doing great with the list.
By which she meant she'd thought about all four things approximately seventeen times in the last hour.
They were en route to Charlevoix now, driving through Quebec's rural backroads because Kayla had decided the "scenic route" would make better content. The bus rattled over another pothole, and Marnie's coffee sloshed dangerously close to the rim of her mug.
"You okay over there?"
Gabriel was sitting across from her again, reading something on his phone. He'd been carefully polite all morning, friendly but distant, like he'd drawn a line and was determined to stay on his side of it.
Marnie hated it.
Which was ridiculous, because she'd asked for this. She'd practically demanded professional distance.
"Fine," she said. "Just reviewing the Charlevoix venue details."
"For the fifth time?"
"Third time."
"Still excessive."
She looked up, ready to argue, but he was smiling slightly. Not teasing, exactly. Just... present.
"Old habits," she said.
"You know what they say about old habits."
"That they're reliable and efficient?"
"That they're hard to break." He set down his phone. "When's the last time you did something without a plan?"
"Yesterday. I ate your grilled cheese without a pairing note."
"That doesn't count."
"Why not?"
"Because I made you do it."
"You didn't make me do anything."
"I strongly encouraged."
"That's not the same as..."
The bus made a sound.
It wasn't a good sound.
It was the mechanical equivalent of someone saying "uh oh" right before everything went horribly wrong... or right.
"What was that?" Clara called from the back.
The engine coughed. Sputtered. And died.
The bus coasted to a stop on the shoulder of a two-lane highway, surrounded by nothing but fields and forest.
Kayla appeared from the front, phone already out. "Okay, so that's not great. Everyone stay calm."
"What happened?" Marnie asked, already mentally cataloging their location, the nearest town, and how far behind schedule this would put them.
"I don't know. The driver's checking now."
Five minutes later, they had a diagnosis: dead alternator. And the nearest mechanic was forty kilometers away in a town that may or may not have the part they needed.
"How long?" Marnie asked.
The driver shrugged. "Could be a few hours. Could be tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Marnie felt panic rising in her chest. "We have an event in Charlevoix tomorrow night. We can't miss it."
"I'll call the venue," Kayla said. "Maybe we can reschedule."
"We can't reschedule. It's been confirmed for weeks. People have tickets. There's media coverage..."
"Marnie." Gabriel's hand landed gently on her shoulder. "Breathe."
She realized she'd been spiraling out loud.
"I'm fine," she said automatically.
"You're not. But that's okay." He squeezed once and let go. "Let's figure this out."
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Gabriel had negotiated their rescue.
They'd broken down near a small farm, and Gabriel, being Gabriel, had simply walked up to the farmhouse, introduced himself, and somehow convinced the owner to help.
Now they were standing in a gravel driveway while a man named Michel examined the bus with the focused intensity of a surgeon.
"He says he can fix it," Gabriel translated. Michel had been speaking rapid French, and Marnie had caught maybe every third word. "But he needs a part from town. His son can drive out to get it, but it'll take a few hours."
"How much will this cost?" Marnie asked.
Gabriel relayed the question. Michel waved a hand dismissively and said something.
"He says not to worry about it," Gabriel said.
"That's not an answer."
"In Quebec, that is an answer." Gabriel smiled. "He also says we're welcome to use his outdoor kitchen while we wait."
"Why would we..."
"Because I offered him cheese. And apparently, his wife makes excellent bread."
Marnie looked at Gabriel, at his easy posture, his complete lack of stress about being stranded in the middle of nowhere with no guarantee they'd make it to their next event.
"How are you so calm about this?" she asked.
"Because being stressed won't fix the alternator."
"But doesn't it bother you? Not knowing how this will turn out?"
He tilted his head, considering. "Non. Not really."
"How?"
"Practice, I guess. After my father died, the fromagerie almost went under. I spent about six months trying to control everything, the production, the sales, the finances. Nearly killed myself trying." He shrugged. "Eventually, I learned that some things you just have to let happen."
Marnie stared at him. "That's the least helpful advice I've ever heard."
He laughed. "I know. But it's true."
Michel called something from under the bus hood.
"He wants to know if we like pork," Gabriel said.
"Why?"
"Because apparently we're staying for dinner."
* * *
Two hours later, Marnie was sitting at a picnic table behind Michel's farmhouse, eating the best meal she'd had in weeks.
The rest of the team had scattered. Kayla and Clara had gone into town with Michel's son, Darnell was filming the sunset over the fields.
Which left Marnie and Gabriel alone with a loaf of fresh bread, three types of cheese, and some kind of pork dish that Michel's wife Marie-Claude had insisted they try.
"This is incredible," Marnie said, taking another bite.
"Told you."
"How did you know?"
"Know what?"
"That they'd help us. That this would work out."
Gabriel broke off a piece of bread, considering. "I didn't. But people are usually good if you give them the chance to be."
"That's very optimistic."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"It's just... na?ve."
He raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"
"Yes. People are complicated. Unreliable. You can't just trust that things will work out."
"Why not?"
"Because they don't. Not always."
Gabriel was quiet for a moment, studying her. "What happened to you?"
"Nothing happened to me."
"Something did. You don't get this control-focused without a reason."
Marnie set down her fork. She should deflect. Change the subject. Maintain professional boundaries.
Instead, she heard herself saying: "My dad left when I was twelve. Just, left. One day he was there, the next day he wasn't. No warning. No explanation until weeks later."
Gabriel's expression softened. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine. It was a long time ago."
"It's not fine. That's devastating."
Marnie picked at the bread. "My mom fell apart for a while. I had to, someone had to keep things together. Make sure bills got paid, make sure my little brother got to school. Make sure everything kept running."
"You were twelve."
"I know."
"That's not your job at twelve."
"It was the job I had." She met his eyes. "And I learned that if you want something to turn out right, you have to plan for it. Control it. Because if you don't, it falls apart."
Gabriel was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Not everything falls apart."
"Most things do."
“Not cheese.”
“Cheese just needs time, and the right conditions. It doesn't panic. It just… becomes.”
Despite herself, Marnie smiled. "You're comparing life to cheese?"
"I'm saying that some things get better when you leave them alone. Let them age. Give them time and the right conditions, and they become something better than they started." He leaned forward slightly. "You can't control everything, Marnie. And trying to will make you miserable."
"I'm not miserable."
"You're not happy."
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because he was right.
She wasn't happy. She was successful, she was good at her job, she was respected and professional, and exactly where she'd planned to be at thirty.
But happy?
When was the last time she'd laughed without calculating how it looked? When was the last time she'd done something just because it sounded fun?
When was the last time she'd let herself want something without a five-year plan attached?
"I don't know how to do that," she said quietly.
"Do what?"
"Let go. Trust that things will work out."
Gabriel reached across the table and took her hand. His palm was warm, callused, steady.
"Start small," he said. "Trust me for the next five minutes. Can you do that?"
Marnie looked at their joined hands. At his face, open, patient, completely sincere.
"Okay," she said.
"Good." He stood, still holding her hand. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see."
"Gabriel..."
"Trust me. Five minutes."
Marnie let him pull her up from the bench.
* * *
He led her away from the farmhouse, down a narrow path between two fields. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and amber. Crickets sang in the grass.
"This is kidnapping," Marnie said.
"This is a walk."
"Without a destination? That's just wandering."
"Exactly."
They walked in silence for a few minutes, their hands still loosely linked. Marnie tried to remember the last time she'd held someone's hand like this, casual, comfortable, not going anywhere in particular.
She couldn't.
"There," Gabriel said, stopping at a small clearing where someone had left an old wooden bench. "Perfect."
"For what?"
"Watching the sunset." He sat, pulling her down beside him. "No agenda. No plan. Just this."
Marnie wanted to protest. She had emails to check, venue details to confirm, and contingency plans to make for the breakdown delay.
But Gabriel was still holding her hand.
And the sunset was genuinely beautiful.
And for five minutes, just five minutes, she could let herself have this.
They sat in silence as the sky turned from gold to pink to deep purple. A cool breeze carried the smell of grass and distant woodsmoke.
"This is nice," Marnie admitted.
"See? You can do unplanned."
"Five minutes isn't exactly spontaneous."
"It's a start."
She glanced at him. He was watching the sunset, his profile outlined in fading light. Strong jaw, slightly crooked nose, the kind of calm that came from someone who'd survived hard things and come out softer for it.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For this. For being patient with me. For not..." She hesitated. "For not making me feel stupid for being the way I am."
Gabriel turned to look at her. "You're not stupid. You're scared. There's a difference."
"Your aunt said that, didn't she?"
"How did you..."
"You have the same phrasing." Marnie smiled. "She sounds smart."
"She's terrifying. But yes, also smart."
They sat for another moment, the space between them charged with something Marnie couldn't quite name.
"Can I ask you something?" Gabriel said.
"Sure."
"What would you do if this tour wasn't about work? If it was just... a trip. For fun."
Marnie thought about it. Really thought about it.
"I don't know," she said honestly. "Maybe I'd actually taste the wine instead of analyzing it. Maybe I'd try every cheese without checking the pairing notes. Maybe I'd..."
"What?"
"Maybe I'd let myself enjoy your company without worrying about what it means."
Gabriel's thumb traced a small circle on the back of her hand. "You could still do that."
"Could I?"
"Yeah." His voice was quiet, careful. "If you wanted to."
Marnie looked at him, really looked at him. At the way he was watching her like she was something worth waiting for. Like he'd give her all the time in the world if she needed it.
She was so tired of being careful.
"Gabriel..."
"Guys!" Kayla's voice echoed across the field. "Bus is fixed! We're loading up!"
They both jumped, pulling apart.
Marnie stood, smoothing her clothes unnecessarily. "We should go."
"Yeah." Gabriel stood too, hands in his pockets now. "We should."
They walked back to the farmhouse in silence, the moment broken but not quite gone.
And as Marnie climbed back onto the bus, she realized something:
She’d trusted Gabriel for five minutes.
Nothing had fallen apart.
Maybe something had even started to fall together.