Chapter 15
Cole
It’s not even five and Denver’s still asleep.
Streetlights throw orange puddles on the snow-packed curb in front of her building, breath ghosts out of me in the cold, and my truck’s engine rumbles low like it wants to go back to bed too.
I kill the headlights, leaving the engine running, and pull out my phone to send her a text that I’m here when I see her walk out of the elevator in the lobby.
She steps out of the lobby a second later, dragging her suitcase. She’s swimming in an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up over her head.
“Morning,” I say. She mumbles a gruff response. I huff. “That bad, huh?”
“Haven’t had coffee.”
So that’s how we’re starting the day. “Got fifteen-plus hours to go, Simpson.”
I circle around, climb in, and crank up the heat another notch. The sky to the east is just a thin line of dark navy, mountains still a shadow behind us. If we hit the highway now, we’ll clear the morning traffic. That was the whole point of leaving this early.
She tucks her legs up, then pulls the hoodie over her knees. She’s wearing leggings and those fuzzy socks she always wears and wedges herself sideways to face the window.
I pull out, tires crunching on old snow. “You sleep?”
“Barely.”
“Why?”
She turns her head the tiniest bit, eyes half-lidded. “Can we not?”
Silence fills the cab. Not the comfortable kind we’d settled into that night on the ridge, but the heavy uncomfortable kind. She’s staring out the window, clearly uninterested in any sort of conversation this morning. I tap the steering wheel, telling myself to be the bigger person.
We hit I-76 East and Denver’s skyline fades in the rearview mirror.
For the first few hours, all I get from her are small sounds. A sigh. A throat clear. A soft curse under her breath when the seat belt rubs her neck funny. I reach over and adjust the strap for her without thinking. She blinks over at me, surprised, but still doesn’t talk.
“You gonna be like this the whole way?” I finally ask.
She opens one eye. “Like what?”
“Moody. Pissed off.”
She snorts, eyes closing again. “Wake me up when we cross into Nebraska.”
“That’s three and a half hours.”
“Then wake me up in three and a half hours.”
Jesus. I bite back a laugh because it’s ridiculous and also because some dumb part of me is… glad she’s here. Even pissed off.
A few hours in and the sky lightens. The highway picks up as other travelers start to join us. She hasn’t said another word. I can’t take it.
“You eat?” She makes the same noncommittal noise. “Hailey.”
Her eyes crack open. “What?”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
I sigh through my nose, flip on my blinker, and take the next exit for gas. “Coffee?” I ask.
Now I get a real answer. “Please.” I’m about to say I’m impressed she used please when she adds, “Two creams and one sugar, please.” Then she turns and continues staring out the window.
I fill up first. Cold slaps my face, diesel smell mixing with snow and exhaust. I’m halfway through topping off the tank when she hops out of the truck and stomps toward the mini-mart doors like a woman on a mission.
I shake my head, bite back a smile, and finish filling.
By the time I get inside, she’s got one of those red plastic handbaskets I’ve never actually seen someone use at a gas station and she’s already halfway down the snack aisle.
“You buying snacks or the whole store?”
She glances up at me, eyes a little brighter now that she’s had a few sips of the coffee in her hand. “You said I could grab something.”
“I said coffee.”
“Coffee and snacks,” she corrects. “Your words were ‘I’ll get it.’ I heard ‘Hailey, go wild.’”
She tosses in a bag of sour gummy trees, a king-size peanut butter cup, Chex mix, and a container of those frosted Christmas cookies that taste like plastic and sugar. Then she beelines for the hot food case.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn.
She pauses, hand hovering over a foil-wrapped breakfast burrito. “What? I’m starving.”
“Those have been there since Labor Day. I guarantee it.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re gonna get food poisoning in the middle of Nebraska and I’m gonna have to pull over every twenty minutes.”
She stares at me, then realizes I’m right and puts them back.
“Get your snacks and let’s get back on the road. I’ll buy you a real meal at a restaurant, Hailey. You’re not eating all that shit. You’ll be miserable.”
I talk her into putting half of it back, but the coffee, trail mix, and Christmas cookies were apparently necessary. When we finally get back to the truck and on the road again, the coffee kicks in and her eyes are no longer slits.
“So,” she says after a few minutes, pulling a cookie from the tray. “How many of these drives have you done?”
“Since I moved out here?” I think about it for a minute. “Probably six or eight times.”
“That’s it?”
I shrug. “It’s a long drive.”
She looks at me, studying my profile like she’s trying to read what mood I’m in. “You could fly, you know.”
“Yup, I could.” I can feel her staring at me like she’s waiting for more. “It was a bad breakup. I thought we were happy. She wasn’t. She ended it right before Christmas and fucked everything up.”
She goes quiet for a few miles after that. I think maybe she’s going to let it go, that we’ll just sit in this quiet space until the next gas stop. But, of course, she doesn’t.
“So now you just—what? Don’t celebrate Christmas at all?”
It’s not judgmental exactly. Just curious. But something about the question gets under my skin anyway.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
She angles toward me in the seat, brow pulling. “That’s kinda sad.”
“I’m not really in the mood for a therapy session, Hailey.”
Her lips part, and she stares at me for a beat before turning back to the window. “Fine. Whatever.”
The heat from the vents feels too high suddenly. The truck’s cab tightens around us until even the sound of her breathing annoys me. She crosses her legs, unwraps another cookie, and I swear the crinkle of plastic could drive a man insane.
I flex my hands on the wheel, jaw locked. “You’re getting crumbs everywhere.”
She shoots me a side-eye glare. “Jesus, you’re fun.”
“Not trying to be.”
“Mission accomplished.”
The rest of the drive sinks into silence again. The kind that sits heavy on your chest. Her shoulders are rigid, her reflection in the window is pissed.
Another hour rolls by. The sky darkens with low, thick clouds. Snow starts to picks up, the small flakes that were falling gently a little ago quickly turning into large wet flakes that swirl across the windshield. The wipers fight to keep up, smearing the flakes into streaks.
Then the truck lurches. A sharp hiss and thud echo under the floorboard. The steering wheel jerks in my hands. “Shit.”
“What—” she starts, sitting up.
“Flat.”
I guide us to the shoulder, heart hammering as I slow to a stop. We’re in the middle of nowhere—just two lanes of highway cutting through rolling fields of snow. No towns. Nothing.
“Of course,” I mutter, throwing it in park.
She hugs her arms around herself. “Seriously?”
“Yup.” I grab the gloves from the dash, shove my door open, and cold air knifes through the cab.
I can already tell it’s not good when I round the bed of the truck. Rear passenger tire, flat as hell, rim kissing asphalt.
“Perfect,” I bite out, crouching down to check the damage.
“Do you have a spare?” she calls through the cracked window.
“No, Hailey, I thought I’d just sit here and manifest one,” I snap before I can stop myself.
She narrows her eyes, pushing the door open. “Wow. Someone’s cranky.”
“Someone asked a stupid question.”
“I asked because you’re acting like the world’s ending!”
“It might as well be.” I yank the jack from the back, slam it onto the snow, and start lining it up under the frame. My fingers are already going numb.
“You could’ve flown,” she mutters under her breath.
My head jerks up. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
“I said, you could’ve flown. Would’ve saved you all this.” Her tone’s casual, but it’s gasoline on an open flame.
“Sorry my truck doesn’t come with in-flight champagne,” I bite back.
She crosses her arms. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” I stand, wiping my hands on my jeans, snow collecting in my hair and coat. “You didn’t have to ride with me. Nobody begged you. You could’ve bought a plane ticket and saved yourself the torture.”
Her mouth opens like she’s about to yell, but then she clamps it shut, color rising in her cheeks. “I was trying to be nice.”
“Yeah, well, maybe don’t try so hard.”
We stare at each other, both breathing hard, snow swirling around us. Somewhere down the road, a semi rumbles by, horn blaring, wind pushing against the truck as it passes.
I finish swapping the spare in record time, fueled by irritation and the echo of her voice still bouncing around my skull. By the time I climb back behind the wheel, she’s sitting with her arms crossed and her jaw tight, eyes forward.
The heater blasts, but it doesn’t do a damn thing for the frost that’s settled between us. I’m cold, exhausted, and very much in need of a warm shower after that. The thought of driving another five or more hours during this storm is unbearable.
“Let’s just find somewhere to stay,” I mutter, pulling back onto the highway.
“Somewhere to stay?” She looks at me, confused.
“There,” I say, pointing to a sign that reads Valley View Inn five miles ahead. The words barely leave my mouth before she exhales a laugh that’s more disbelief than amusement.
“Let me guess, a tiny roadside motel that looks like the start of a murder podcast?”
“Probably.”
“Great. Can’t wait.”
Her sarcasm fills the cab, scraping across my nerves. I grit my teeth, eyes locked on the snow-blurred road. The wipers thump in rhythm with my pulse, every sound louder than it should be.