“If you paid any attention to me, you would have seen this coming.” Josh’s words drop like a bomb. For a moment, there’s a horrible silence, and then the screaming in my head makes everything fuzzy.
“Sounds like you made it hard for her to get a clear picture,” Mr. Trucker growls.
“Making someone work it out when you could just tell ‘em seems pretty spineless.” His slender companion shakes his head, eyes narrowed.
Josh opens the driver’s side door of his car, stares at me for a second, and then says, “The gift of freedom, of independence, is the best gift we can bestow. I’m freeing myself from your negativity and your outdated social constructs, Bri. I hope that makes you happy.”
Before I can explain that no, it absolutely does not, because he’s twisting everything... He’s gone. He’s gone, skidding recklessly around my strewn luggage and leaving me behind.
“Well, shit.” Both men chorus as they look at me with wide eyes.
“I’m g-going to need an Uber,” I say calmly—before I collapse in the parking lot and bawl.
Chapter Three: No Place Like Home for the Holidays
“Are you sure you don’t want to keep coming with me? I’m dropping this rig off in Bethlehem—kinda fitting for Christmas Eve Eve, and then heading to my sister’s house in Schenectady. I could drop you in Albany, and you could get a cab. Take you to the airport?”
“Thanks, Joe, but I’m going to be fine. I talked to my sister, and she and my mom will fly into Binghamton after Christmas, as soon as they can get a flight that doesn’t cost more than a month’s mortgage. Then they’ll rent a car to travel to Pine Ridge. The vacation won’t be a total loss.” I’m being brave. Itfeelslike a total loss. Josh’s whole speech, the suddenness of the break-up, the way it blindsided me, came out of nowhere... Happened during the most wonderful time of the year...
My heart says it's a total loss. Says he’s a bastard. Says I’ll never think about the holidays, or snow, or the beauty of nature the same.
Some little nugget of my brain that’s not focused on controlling my tears tells me that could change in time, and that sometimes something even better comes along—but I don’t really believe it. That’s just what people say.
Joe coughs awkwardly. “Well. That’s good. I hope they can get a flight from Dayton on such short notice. It’s not easy this time of year.”
“I know. Not cheap, either.”
I know, because my mom, Leah, and I had a frantic, meltdown-laden, break-up-induced panicked planning session in the bathroom of the rest area, me sobbing onto my phone and them trying to work out how to do a three-way call instead of standing over Leah’s cell phone and shouting into it. My dad’s side and all my aunts and uncles are flying in, driving in, or have already arrived. There were no flights until after Christmas unless I wanted to spend thousands of dollars, which I didn’t have. I checked the rental agreement. Couldn’t get out of it without a minimum of a week’s notice, and I was supposed to arrive in this little town called Pine Ridge that night. I did my research. It looks like an adorable little town, but that doesn’t matter right now.
I have to take deep breaths to stop from sobbing again as I swallow down the fantasies I had.
The lodge—or cabin, to me, they’re the same thing, one just sounds fancier—was out on the outskirts of the town, half an hour past the little kernel of civilization with stores and a branch of NYU. The address read Pine Ridge, but my map app showed I’d go up into the foothills of the mountains—not too high, but then again, the town was already up in the mountainous regions of the state.
He’d propose in front of the fireplace as snow danced outside. He’d hold me as we sat on a couch and watched movies, snuggled together under a blanket, his cheek resting on my head... We’d go into the quaint little place and window shop, look at the holiday displays...
No. Now, you’ll sit alone in the cabin for four days. Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to find a car dealership in Hicksburg, and they’ll rent you a car so you can drive around, not be stranded in the snow. All alone.
“You okay?”
“Maybe it’s good to be alone. I won’t have to fake cheerfulness or pretend I’m coping.” Anger surges suddenly. Josh ruined everything. This was so cruel. I don’t know how I could be missing him so much one second and feeling seething hatred the next. “He never told me. Not a single thing about wanting an open relationship, wanting me not to work in retail, not like my mom and her conspicuous clutter... None of that. I bet there were hints.” The anger shifts suddenly, a guided missile of self-loathing. “I bet I missed them. Saw what I wanted to see.”
The truck slows down as we leave the little town behind. “Don’t you beat yourself up. Real men have more manners than your ex-jackass,” Joe says, but he huffs out around a candy cane he has hanging from the corner of his mouth. “I’m a little worried about trying to get this rig into the narrow roads ahead. Even going through the town has been tight.”
I nod, dimly recalling him cursing under his breath as swags of evergreen hanging on the lightpoles slapped the sides of the trailer. “How about I take you back to town to find a room for the night? Tomorrow you can call for a car.”
The anger that’s been surging inside of me is reaching Vesuvius levels. I won’t spend another dime on a hotel. I won’t spend another dime on a rental car. I booked a beautiful lodge for a romantic week, and I’m going to use it. Damn it! I had a ride up here—my idiot ex and his “fuel-efficient” baby. My shitty car could handle this place—if I had put new tires on it. They’ve been put on the back burner for months so that I could pay for this trip.
I bite my lip, then demand, “How far can you take me before the road and the truck become incompatible?”Like me and Josh. Ha. So funny.
Not.
“Uhhh. ‘Bout a mile from the address you gave me. See here?” He taps the screen of the GPS mounted in his truck. There are numerous yellow and red lines surrounding the blue dot that indicates his rig. “Those small roads at higher elevations are a no-no for a rig this big.”
I squint. “How far is that?”
“I can take you until right about there, where the red lines start. Ten more miles.” He taps the screen. “Ought to be a mile or so from there to the address you gave me.”
“A mile or so? On foot?”
