Chapter 10
The following morning, we have a two-hour drive south along Ring Road to Myrdalsjokull glacier, where we will snowmobile to the highest point of the glacier, which happens to lie atop one of Iceland’s largest volcanoes, Katla.
Yep, Ben and I are going to snowmobile over a glacier on top of a volcano. So cool, cool, cool. Everyday stuff and all.
As much as I’m up for a new experience that doesn’t necessitate hiking, Suki may be nudging me even further outside my comfort zone with this one. Again, I’m left dreaming of pool boys serving me cocktails at a Tuscan villa or sailing through the calm waters of Lake Como with a glass of Pinot.
Oh, Italy!
Before I can fully home in on my anxiety over snowmobiling, however, I must first home in on my anxiety over another long car ride with Ben after I fled his room last night like he was highly contagious.
Fortunately, journaling buys me Ben’s silence.
Unfortunately, a heavy fog makes it impossible to view the mossy green mountains or the jagged coastline or anything other than the multitude of sheep within twenty feet of the road.
The first hour passes while I scribble down every possible detail of the sheep we pass: some with horns, some without, some grazing in groups, others lounging unbothered in the grassy fields, how fucking cute they are when they run, how one little guy hops (hops!) over a puddle in the most adorable display of animal agility ever witnessed.
I even attempt a few sheep sketches in order to prolong my “work”—they are not good, and I will show them to no one. Ever.
Eventually, I’m left with no other choice but to close my notebook or risk filling all the pages with indistinguishable four-legged drawings that could be cat, cow, or alien life-form.
Two seconds after I do, Ben’s voice breaks the silence. “About last night…”
Shit.
“You left in kind of a rush. Did I do something wrong? Because the last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable on this trip.” He hesitates, and then, softer, “Uncomfortable around me.”
Uncomfortable? That’s the polar opposite of what I feel when I’m with Ben.
And therein lies the problem. I’m sharing his fries when I need to be keeping my walls up, but he makes it so goddamn hard.
This trip makes it so goddamn hard. I turn in his direction, and he tosses a worry-ridden glance my way.
“I could never feel uncomfortable with you, Ben.”
Tension seeps from his shoulders as he says, “Okay, good,” and turns his focus back to the road ahead.
As the car falls quiet again, I study Ben’s profile—golden brown hair curling around the edges of a black beanie, pouty lower lip he worries between his teeth, three-day-old growth covering the sharp edge of his jawline.
Yeah, it’s not Ben I don’t trust.
It’s me.
* * *
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
While not my most articulate declaration, they’re the only words I have as Ben and I sit in a bus with the largest wheels ever—like a monster truck, I imagine, although admittedly, I don’t frequent the monster truck scene—which drives us up the side of the volcano.
We’re accompanied by two guides: Fridrik, a twentysomething blond with pale blue eyes who is intently focused on getting this monster bus up the volcano, and Natalia, a pretty twentysomething woman with wavy brown hair who sits in the row beside ours and fills Ben in on her entire life story.
As for me, I’m too busy staring out the window at the steep incline of volcanic ash and murmuring Oh my god on repeat to partake in any real conversation.
Ben and I bounce along in our two-person bus seat, and a realization strikes me out of nowhere: I, Mona Miller, am a complete and total badass.
It’s a feeling I know won’t last, so while my endorphins are flowing, I soak it in by snapping a selfie in my bright orange thermal jumpsuit provided by the tour company and texting it to the twins to rub my newly discovered badass-ness in their faces.
It’s still early in New York so fingers crossed I woke them up on their day off.
I’m zipping my phone back in the pocket of my jumpsuit when two specific words from Natalia catch my attention: northern lights.
Jerking my head around, I rudely interrupt Natalia’s story about the lights frightening her when she was a child. “Excuse me, but have you seen them yet this season? I want to see aurora more than anything while we’re here.”
“No,” Natalia says with a pitying tone. “It’s still early. Maybe in a few weeks.”
But I won’t be here in a few weeks, I want to plead with her.
As if Natalia controls the solar flares or whatever science-y stuff determines the northern lights’ visibility.
While it’s never guaranteed to see the lights anytime of year, everything I read online suggests the best chance is between September and April, so I’m not willing to give up hope yet.
“We’re here,” Fridrik announces from the driver’s seat, cutting the engine and exiting the monster bus without another word. Picking up my badass helmet, I follow Ben and Natalia down the aisle.
“Oh my god,” I announce one more time as I step down onto crunchy ice, the frigid air burning my exposed cheeks and nose.
We’ve arrived at the tip of the glacier, where solid-white sheets of ice ooze down over the gravelly, coal black mountain of ash like icing dripping from the top of a cake.
The vibrant green peaks I’ve grown accustomed to are now rolling hills in the distance far below us, the wispy gray heavens the only thing above.
My gaze collides with Ben’s, and again there’s a flash of excitement in his eyes that echoes the same sentiment within me.
Since it’s only the four of us—which I assume has to do with Around the Globe Media being the entity that booked this tour—the guides allow Ben to take some photos before we make our way over to a line of twenty-plus snowmobiles.
“Take your pick,” Fridrik says, moving his arm in a sweeping motion down the row.
“Wait.” I stop in place. “We’re each driving our own snowmobile?”
“This is a snowmobile tour,” Fridrik replies, matter-of-fact.
“Yes, but I thought we’d be riding with you two. The guides. The professionals who drive these things every day.”
“No.” Fridrik pulls on his helmet, already straddling his chosen vehicle. “We don’t drive guests. You sign up for a snowmobile tour, you drive a snowmobile.”
“These are two-seaters,” I add, scrambling for any justification as to why I assumed that I, personally, would not be driving one of these things.
“Yes.” Fridrik, who doesn’t seem to either realize or care about my increasing trepidation, says bluntly, “Sometimes our guests bring along children who are too young to drive.”
Is he purposely comparing me to a child?
“Ems,” Ben softly interjects. “Why did you think they made a copy of your driver’s license when we checked in?”
“I don’t know!” I bite out, anxiety turning to pure, unadulterated fear. “I guess I thought they wanted to make sure the name matched to who signed up. I didn’t think about it!”
“You can ride with your partner,” Natalia chimes in with an encouraging smile, and I know she’s only trying to be helpful, but riding with Ben isn’t the ideal situation, either.
If Jacklyn lost her mind over sharing fries, I can only imagine what she’d say about sharing a snowmobile.
“As guides we aren’t allowed to let you ride with us. It’s a liability thing.”
“Unless you wreck,” Fridrik corrects, and Jesus, why won’t this man shut up? “Or there’s an injury. Or any other emergent situation.”
I stand there, blinking back and forth between the row of heavy machinery and the three people all awaiting my response.
I literally fled Ben’s hotel room last night, the last thing I need is to have to rely on him today.
(Especially when “relying” on him involves him sitting between my thighs while I wrap my arms around his waist and hold him tight.)
“Give us just a second,” Ben says to the guides, then takes my arm and maneuvers me away from Fridrik and Natalia, both already situated on their snowmobiles with the engines purring. “What’s going on? You don’t want to drive your own snowmobile?”
“Fuck no,” I whisper sternly. “I’ve never even seen a snowmobile in real life before today.
” My voice quivers as it increases in pitch, quite the departure from my badass self of a few minutes ago who confidently sent a group text to her brothers bragging about precisely how badass she is.
Hopefully glaciers on top of volcanoes don’t get a good signal and the message didn’t go through.
“You remember Mr. Sumpter’s poor petunias I demolished when you and the twins taught me how to drive?
” My mind flashes to the day I drove straight through my neighbor’s immaculate flower beds, not even tapping the brakes as I nearly took out his mailbox, too.
Turns out, those concerns over my depth perception were, in fact, valid.
And my reaction time wasn’t looking promising, either.
When we’d eventually rolled to a stop in the middle of the front yard, I’d immediately burst into tears while Marcus and Mason started in on how Mom and Dad were going to be so pissed if I’d damaged the car.
Ben whipped around in the passenger seat and promptly told them to shut the fuck up and that they weren’t helping matters.
We all climbed from the car to survey the damage right as Mr. Sumpter appeared on his porch and demanded to know what had happened.
I’d started to speak up, but before I had a chance, Ben took the blame for me.
He spent the next two weeks of his summer replanting those beds to Mr. Sumpter’s satisfaction.
“What if this turns out even worse? I don’t even drive a car on a daily basis, much less one of these…
vehicles on skis! What if I go too fast and slide right off the volcano? Or—oh god!—into the volcano?”