Some of the tension releases from my shoulders. I can just hang out here, I guess.
But my worry comes right back as I press my face to the door, searching the dark night for signs of life.
There are none.
Unless you count snowflakes as living creatures.
Would Justice and Rosalie turn back?
Surely he wouldn’t bring his new wife into these kinds of dangerous conditions. He’s far too protective of her.
I shouldn’t have broughtmyselfinto these conditions.
Sigh.
But the alternative was another Christmas alone.
“Here you go.”
I’m drawn from my thoughts as the man reappears with a well-loved mug full to the brim with hot cocoa. Shoving my gloves in my pocket, I welcome his kindness.
“Thank you. This makes things seem less bleak.”
His nose scrunches as he looks out toward the parking lot. “You might need to use the Wayward Traveler Cot.”
My brows go up. “I’m appreciative, but I’m hopeful I can catch a ride with my brother and his wife when they pass by.”
The man slowly shakes his head. “Road’s closed where you just came from. They announced it on the radio right before you came in.”
To say my heart drops is a poor description of what I feel. My hands start to feel clammy.
Take a breath.
I know what’s happening. This is my response when I feel out of control. It’s just a trauma response.
“Well,” I croak, “that cot sounds like a five-star resort compared to my car.”
We both go silent, watching the snow layer on like icing being spread on a cake.
“Are you staying here?” I ask.
He grins. “Live here. My apartment’s out back. My Ford truck’s tucked away in the garage, nice and safe from all that salt on the road.”
Ah, that explains the lack of cars and tire tracks.
“I’m turning in soon,” he reaches for the Open light, flipping the toggle, extinguishing the blue neon.
I force myself to drink the cocoa, but inside I’m trying not to unravel. “Guess they’ll clear up the road to the mountain tomorrow,” I say hopefully.
He’s doing something at the register now, but he sounds skeptical. “Maybe.”
One by one, he cuts off the lights on the display cases, plunging the sodas and the cases of beer into darkness.
“Hm. That’s weird,” he says, waving a gnarled hand toward the window.
My heart jumps as I press my face closer. “Headlights!”
“Might be the sheriff. Who knows, but whoever it is, they’re crazy to be out there tonight.”
