Mac may be the asshat who cheated on my mother, but he was also the only father figure who ever stuck around, and activelywantedto. When he begged to stay in my life after the divorce, I yelled at him for being such an irredeemable dipshit, asked Mum if she was OK with it, and then he and I just slid back into our version of normal. It’s hard to resist sticking with someone who so genuinely wants you in their life.
“Hey, pumpkin,” he’d greeted me earlier, then winced when he saw my face. “Shit. Who am I having killed?”
“Josh,” I bit out, and told him about coming in from target practice and walking in on my boyfriend of almost two years balls-deep in Olivia. My teammate. Myfriend. Or so I had foolishly thought.
Mac gave me the same scowl that launched half his renegade cop movies. “That asshole,” he snarled, forgetting for a moment that he did the selfsame thing to my mother. “What do you need? Just say the word.”
“Your cabin, please, Mac.”
“You got it.” He grabbed car keys off a hook and pressed them into my hand. “Take the SUV. It’s gonna snow. Keys to the cabin are in the box. Code is…” He sighed. “6869.”
Mum’s birthday.
I gave him a mildly sympathetic look -mildly, because losing her was his own damn fault - and hugged him. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He waved me off. “And I still have the 1873 Winchester fromGunslinger’s Eulogy. Maybe drop that into conversation with Josh next time you see him.”
I’d managed a small smile, then left before my knees could give out.
That was six hours ago.
When Mac said it was going to snow, I don’t think he envisioned this post-apocalyptic rave.
“Dicksplash shitstain bucket of fetid monkey balls,” I mutter now, grabbing another chocolate chip cookie from the pack onthe passenger seat. I picked up other essentials at a gas station: essentially, ramen, ramen, and more ramen, with some Doritos and guacamole for veg content and shit tons of cookies for comfort. Mac comes to Montana to “get back to nature,” which translates asfuck all in the freezer, kill your own dinner. But right now, these cookies are everything.
These cookies are not sneakily trying to get noshed on by anyone else.
The heater wheezes, and I thump the dashboard. “Hang in there, champ.” The dregs of coffee in the cup holder have gone cold and sad. If the heating packs up, I’m toast. Frozen toast.Gross thought.
I grip the wheel tighter and tell myself it’ll all work out all right. Driving in a raging blizzard like this, well, it’s refreshing. Invigorating.Character-building.And I’d still rather be here than with Josh, the self-proclaimed humble feministnice guywith his lying, cheating fucking face.
At least Olivia’s form improved, I think sourly. Her back looked very… committed to the arch, let’s say.
The adrenaline from getting out of Dodge is burning off, leaving a headache burning behind my eyes. I keep replaying Josh’s stunned, wounded expression when I told him never to speak to me again, as if fidelity was optional fine print I’d sprung on him without warning.
Never mind.At least he’ll have a support group of gym mirrors to talk to.
The road narrows and I slow to a crawl. Visibility is somewhere betweendifficultandoh shit help, I’m being eaten by the void. My phone screen, abandoned on the passenger seat next to thecookies, glows with a helpful littleNo Service. Figures. Still, I think I’m only a mile or so from the cabin.
Being alone over New Year’s Eve is usually my idea of hell. This year, I crave it: silence, peace, not having to smile for anyone. Bliss.
The car skids, sudden and sharp. Instinctively I downshift and pump the brakes; the back end fishtails, then grudgingly corrects.
“Perfect,” I huff. “Love that for me.” You know what else I love? No-one is in this car to be a prick about the way I talk to myself.
The rest of the roads start to climb more and more. Montana’s way of testing character. Snowbanks rise on either side like walls, and the wind shrieks like it has teeth. The windshield fogs, and I scrub it with my sleeve. In the smeared reflection, I catch a glimpse of myself: flushed, hair a mess, eyes blazing. The girl training for Olympic gold isn’t here. The woman left behind looks tired, furious… and weirdly alive.
It’ssomething, at least. Some fragment of self respect to hold onto after being cheated on.
At long last, the turnoff appears. Mac’s cabin sits at the end of a long, straight track, just a darker triangle against the storm. The car wavers again and I bark out a laugh, thinking of that cartoon dog in the burning room insistingThis is fine. “Rebirth through peril,” I mutter to myself. “Very on-brand.”
The SUV groans along the last hundred yards. There’s already a foot of snow on the roof. My shoulders finally loosen a fraction as my headlights sweep across the A-frame cabin. Even though I’ve only ever been here once, there’s a sense of coming home. I made it.Suck it, Josh.
The snow is still pelting sideways, a white tantrum. The wipers can’t keep up anymore. I steel myself with a mild growl, grab my bags, and yank the door open.
The wind punches the breath out of me. Icy coldness claws at every bit of exposed skin. My hair whips across my face and immediately sticks to my lip balm. The steps up to the cabin are half-buried; my boots slip, the rail is freezing beneath my gloved hand, but it keeps me upright. I may be dumped, frozen, and alone, and possibly starring in an indie film calledPortrait of a Dumbass in the Snow, but I’m still standing.
My fingers are half numb by the time I reach the door. When I get it open, the flood of heat is so intense it almost hurts.
