Flashlights bob across my face. A man in a blue striped Cavalier Chicken uniform and a trucker with biscuit crumbs in his dark beard have come to my rescue.
Right now... I think they might need to rescue Josh. “What was going to be so life-changing about this weekend, then?” I screech.
“Ma’am! Miss! Are you okay? Sir?”
“She’s nuts!”
“He wants an open relationship! I spent all my vacation time and money to rent a cabin up here, hundreds of miles away from our family—so we would have this quiet, romantic, snowy Christmas card proposal,” I say, the sobs finally arriving.
“Sherented the cabin! I told her I wanted to cross-country ski!”
“After we talked about getting married, asshole! A June wedding and a honeymoon in Europe!”
“Wait, he wanted to talk about it after he skis? And you want to talk about itbeforehe skis?” the bearded man asks.
“No, Joe, I think she means she expected the proposal to come because they’ve already talked about marriage. And it sounds like they booked a romantic holiday retreat,” the chicken-guy explains, looking at me for confirmation.
I point to the skinny man in his striped uniform and whimper as I nod.
Josh snaps, “Hey, this is her fault. I’ve tried to talk to her about sexual openness before, and she didn’t like it.”
“Well, sir, if she didn’t like it, you had two choices. One, be open and tell her it was a deal breaker, or two, decide that she is more important than a new lifestyle choice, and be content,” says the trucker.
I nod so hard my pom-pom hat falls off. Josh isn’t even the one who picks it up. Joe hands it back to me, shaking snow and grit off of it first.
“What the fuck do you two know? You sell chicken! You—sit on your ass all day!” Josh points to one man, then the other.
“I’m a mechanic for FreightGemini, and I know enough to disable your little toy car. And I could sit on your scrawny jogger butt and squish your guts out of your nose,” says Mr. Trucker with a menacing growl.
I would love to see that, actually... “I’m okay with that,” I squeak, wiping my nose on my sleeve.
“And I happen to be earning my degree online while working here, putting myself through school and supporting myself,” Mr. Cavalier Chicken tosses out, arms crossing. “I’mnot the one standing in the snow two days before Christmas, making someone sob their heart out. Why the hell did you want to get away from it all if you weren’t going to propose, and if you didn’t want to be in a committed relationship that your partner would like?” he asks reasonably.
“Yeah!” I think, with the single functioning brain cell that I have left, that Mr. Chicken and Mr. Trucker should have a side business. Relationship Advice for Douchebags and Women Who Have Been Burned By Them.
It’s too long for a business name, but someone who isn’t hysterically sobbing and humiliated can figure that out.
Oh no. Leah. Leah and my mother! My dad! My whole family! They thought I was coming up here to get a romantic winter proposal—and I’m going to have to tell them that Josh,the guy they’ve known and fawned over for two years, has suddenly become... What exactly?
All three of us stare at Josh, who is throwing my bags out of the trunk and my purse out of the backseat.
“I don’t owe either of you judgmental freaks an explanation!”
“What about me?” I ask, my voice much quieter now, a thin, miserable whisper. “Do I get one?”
“I thought... I thought if you came up here with me and saw how amazing it is, how close we can be to nature, how we can be one with everything, you’d see things my way. It will change your life. Your career path—selling your soul to the god of commercialism.” Josh winces. “Tying ourselves down to one narrow definition of acceptable social behavior...”
“Lady, don’t let him fast-talk you. He didn’t have to bring you all the way up here to tell you he doesn’t like your job or your relationship,” Mr. Trucker warns.
“You wanted me to quit my job managing a discount department store to have group sex and stare at snow and trees?” I sum things up in a flat voice. “And New York has skiing. And New York is closer than Dayton to Kyle and his girlfriend, who are ‘so into the lifestyle.’”
Josh makes a scoffing sound that sets my teeth on edge. “This is because you’re unenlightened. That—and your mom is like Martha Stewart on steroids. No one can find their true path around her or that altar to materialism she calls a house.”
I shake my head. “Altar to materialism? Didn’t you cash one of your CDs to buy a game console and six weeks of coaching with a personal trainer?”
“It’s not enlightened to take care of myself?” he spits.
“It’s not enlightenment to keep secrets. To lead me on. To tell me you want the same things I want, when you really want something totally different.” I wipe my cheeks, which sting from the cold air hitting the wet patches my tears have left.
