“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.”
