Chapter 8 #2
The snow is pretty, though. Dazzling, even, as it hits the windshield, leaving dozens of small streaks that get erased by the wipers every other second.
I find myself fixating on a single speck just to watch it vanish.
And I wonder if each snowflake runs together or if they retain any of their structure.
If each snowflake is different, then what happens when it melts—
“Watch it!”
Ollie yells at the same time the car hits the rumble strip.
My pulse jackhammers in my chest, and I’m too confused to know which way to turn.
His hands shoot out to the steering wheel just in time, caging my own, strong and sure.
He jerks the car off the shoulder and guides us back onto the road.
His forearms flex, and I can feel the steadiness in his grip even through my panic.
I’m back in control, but he doesn’t let go. His hands are still covering mine, and I’m so grateful for the feeling—the touch, the safety, the understanding—I’m on the verge of collapsing.
“Are you okay?” he asks. His voice is firm. Concerned.
But not angry.
“Fine. I’m sorry, Ollie,” I say, jittery from emotion and adrenaline. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“Don’t,” he says. “It happens to the best of us.”
Leaning across the car as he is, his stubble brushes the side of my face, both scratchy and soft at the same time.
The sensation sends a shiver down my neck that has nothing to do with the cold.
His hands are warm and steady over mine, and I’m hyperaware of everywhere we’re touching—hands and arms, his chest against my shoulder, his breath near my ear, his simple, solid presence.
It feels like safety. But also like something else I’m not ready (or desperate enough) to name.
The truth is, it’s been so long since someone just ... helped. Without me asking first. Without me giving something in return.
Don’t read into this, I tell myself firmly. He’s keeping you from crashing, not making a move. Don’t mistake basic decency for connection just because you’ve had a rough couple of weeks.
But when his thumb brushes over my knuckle—accidental, it has to be—my heart does something complicated in my chest.
Stop it, I tell myself.
“I’m good now,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
“You’re sure?” He keeps his hands on mine, and I can feel the pulse in his wrist. Or is that mine? Ollie’s deep blue eyes are fixed on the road, and his face is close enough that I catch a hint of his scent again—that woodsy, masculine smell that I want to inhale and hold in my lungs.
I nod. “Yup.”
He removes his hands from mine and sits back in his seat, and I’m instantly cold. The steering wheel feels too big with his hands gone.
He turns off the podcast and fixes his eyes on me.
“Talk to me,” he says.
“About what?” My heart hasn’t slowed yet, and his attention isn’t helping.
“Rochester. What’s your favorite place to eat?”
I scoff, willing my breathing to return to normal. “We didn’t eat out.”
“We ate out all the time. I was on the road with some club team or another constantly.”
“What was your favorite?”
“Mom got AJ’s a lot. Sandwiches, salads. It was as close to homemade as we could get half the time. Their pulled pork sliders were awesome.”
A memory hits, one I haven’t thought of in years. “My dad took me to AJ’s once. I was probably eight. My mom went on an overnight trip with friends, and he was supposed to heat the casserole Mom had left for us, but he said he thought we should ‘live it up’ while Mom was away.”
“What did you get, do you remember?”
“Mac n’ cheese, probably,” I say. “I always got the mac n’ cheese at restaurants with my dad. Mom always made me eat vegetables or protein with it, but my dad ordered a side of fries. And he got me ice cream. We watched the Sabres-Bruins game. Sabres won.”
My voice cracks as the memory turns sour. Ollie probably thinks it’s a different kind of emotion.
“That’s nice,” he says.
I snort bitterly. “It would have been if my dad hadn’t bet a few grand on the Bruins. He complained the whole drive home.”
I can feel Ollie’s frown.
“He told you he’d bet on the game?”
I should shut this down. Laugh it off. I really should. “Not in so many words,” I say. “Hindsight made it a lot clearer.”
Silence fills the car. I can feel him thinking, piecing it together.
He’s smart enough to read between the lines, but he’s also closed enough to read in his head, not uttering a single syllable out loud.
He’s going to change the subject—I know it.
Even though my heart is screaming talk to me! Ask me something! Anything!
Ollie leans back in his seat and stuffs his hands in his dark red hoodie.
“That’s messed up.”
I peek at him, seeing anger on his brow and the set of his jaw. Anger on my behalf, I realize. When was the last time someone felt defensive for me? I choke on a laugh that feels like a sob.
“I’m not trying to pry,” he says, and I feel that hope of conversation—connection—wither like the dead cactus in my apartment.
Of course he’s not going to pry. No one ever does. Not with me.
A cactus is an easy plant to keep alive. In the winter, it only needs to be watered once a month.
I haven’t been watered in a lot longer than that.
My throat aches from holding back emotion. I swallow hard, trying to hold the feelings at bay, trying to keep the despair and hurt from pouring out.
It’s been a hard couple of weeks.
Following a hard decade and a half, honestly.
But I’m stronger than a cactus.
I have to be.
The wipers make a rhythmic swish against the windshield, and coupled with the angry wind outside, the car is so loud, I almost miss Ollie’s voice.
Then he says, “Can I ask about your dad?”
The emotion in my throat swells up to my nose and eyes, burning brightly.
I’ve been waiting for Arrow to ask for months, but this is better than nothing.
The urge to blurt Yes! fills me. I barely know Ollie—which might be the point.
After we drop the car off in Rochester, we’ll probably never see each other again.
That thought isn’t as comforting as it was a few hours ago.
Maybe that’s why I nod. “Sure. Ask me anything.”