"Me neither." He grabbed his keys, testing the weight of them in his palm. "Let's go anyway."
My Prius looked ridiculous next to Rhett's truck. Compact and fuel-efficient, and entirely wrong for someone my size. I'd bought it because it made sense. After all, being practical about one thing in my life felt important when everything else was chaos.
Rhett's truck was a beast—'96 Silverado with rust eating through the wheel wells and a bumper sticker that said SUPPORT LOCAL HOCKEY in faded letters.
"You driving or am I?" he asked.
"You into folding up this early in the morning?"
"Fair point." He clicked his key fob, and the truck chirped. "Hop in."
I walked around to the passenger side, boots crunching in the snow, and caught our reflection in the storefront window across the street. Me in my Storm hoodie, too big and taking up too much space. Rhett beside me in his contractor's jacket, steady and sure.
My brain tried to find the mismatch, where we didn't work. Came up empty.
I yanked open the truck door and climbed in. The bench seat was cold through my jeans. The interior smelled like coffee and sawdust and winter, exactly like Rhett.
He slid behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine coughed, caught, and roared to life. Heat started pumping through the vents—barely warm yet, but promising.
"You good?" he asked.
I looked at him. At how his hands rested on the steering wheel, confident and capable.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm good."
"Liar."
"Okay, I'm terrified. But we're going anyway."
"That's the spirit."
"Jake's going to roast me alive."
"Probably, but affectionately."
We pulled onto the street, and Thunder Bay opened up around us—grain elevators dark against gray sky, harbor frozen at the edges, and the Sleeping Giant keeping watch in the distance. My adopted city. The place I'd come back to every summer because Gram was here.
Now, Rhett was here too. Part of the landscape. Part of what made the place feel like somewhere I might want to stay.
"Hog?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for letting me come."
"Thanks for wanting to," I said.
He reached across the bench seat and found my hand. Squeezed once.
We drove through Thunder Bay with our fingers linked, heading toward team breakfast and the moment when my worlds would collide. I was still terrified. Still expecting the moment when Jake's chirping or Pickle's questions would make Rhett see me trying too hard to be both things simultaneously.
For once, I was willing to risk it.
Chapter twelve
Rhett
The Drop smelled like bacon grease and maple syrup, the morning sun cutting through the windows in dusty shafts. The jukebox sat silent for once, and in its place, I heard the scrape of forks on plates, the low rumble of conversation, and the hiss of the griddle from the kitchen. It was the Storm's unofficial home away from home.
