My phone flickers in and out of service, the virtual SIM card clinging to life just long enough to deliver a flood of messages every time we dip into a valley with decent reception. There are frantic emails from my editor wanting updates on the flight situation, a string of messages from Dara asking if I’m alive and demanding photographic proof, two reporter friends alreadyin Mexico City telling me what I’m missing at the pre-fight pressers, and a dozen attempts at rescheduling interviews that I’ll have to sort out whenever we finally get there.
But that was all back when I had service. Now my phone shows one bar, then no bars, then one bar again like it’s taunting me. Thunder rumbles somewhere to the east, and I watch the clouds shift and darken through the passenger window. Nature’s way of saying:you thought the airport disaster was bad? Hold my beer.
I glance over at Dominic, his forearms relaxed on the steering wheel, looking almost bored despite the storm closing in around us. His jaw is stubbled and his dark hair is still slightly disheveled from the wind that hit us when we stopped for gas an hour ago.
He drives the way he does everything else, I’m realizing. Controlled, focused, and seemingly utterly unbothered by circumstances that would have most people white-knuckling the wheel and praying to whatever deity might be listening.
I don’t consider myself someone easily rattled. I’ve stared down defensive linebackers twice my size during post-game interviews. I’ve asked uncomfortable questions of billionaire team owners who could end my career with a phone call.
But heights aren’t really my thing, and these mountain switchbacks, with their dramatic drops into misty nothing and their complete absence of guardrails in certain stretches, have been testing my commitment to appearing calm for the last hour. And so I’ve been internally composing my obituary for the last twenty minutes.
Brooke Bennett, 42, died in a car accident in rural Mexico while attempting to cover a UFC fight. She is survived by her apartment plants, which were already dead, and her collection of half-finished novels she always meant to read.
“You’re staring,” he says, not taking his eyes off the road.
“Occupational hazard.” I shift in my seat. “Reporters observe things. It’s what we do.”
“Uh huh.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “And what exactly are you observing?”
“That you’re not a completely horrible person to be stuck in a car with driving through mountain roads in Mexico.” I glance out the window at the valley opening up below us, green and brown and hazy with rain, stretching toward mountains in the distance. “Could’ve been worse.”
“High praise.” He laughs, which crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I think the same about you, for the record. And I still can’t wrap my head around it, honestly. All those years we spent at each other’s throats, and it turns out we were both wrong about each other. I keep thinking about all the time we wasted.”
Ikeep thinking about the sex we had in New York. The part where I came so hard I saw stars, specifically. The way his hands felt gripping my hips on the kitchen counter, the sound he made when I did that thing with my tongue, the way he said my name right before?—
I clear my throat and shift in my seat again. “Yeah, it’s pretty insane when you actually stop and think about it.”
Great job, Bennett. Really eloquent. Years of journalism training and that’s what you come up with.
The rain picks up again, drumming hard against the roof. I tap my fingers against the window and glance in the rearview mirror, where the Gonzalez family’s headlights glow steadily behind us through the downpour.
We’ve been leapfrogging with them at gas stations for the last few hours, long enough to exchange names and learn they’re heading to Mexico City too, visiting family. The dad, Miguel, is apparently UFC fan and recognized Roman’s name immediately, couldn’t believe his luck that he’d bumped into Roman’s actual coach on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Andhis wife, Rosa, had kindly looked over our map and pointed out which roads to avoid because of cartel activity, plus a few checkpoints we’d want to steer clear of.
Their teenage daughter on the other hand had looked mortified by the whole interaction, buried in her phone while the four of us chatted. She reminded me of myself at that age, convinced my parents existed solely to humiliate me in front of strangers.
Lightning flashes ahead, bright and close and nothing like the occasional storms we get in New York, and the thunder follows almost immediately.The storm is right on top of us now, rain so hard I can barely see the road, and I can feel the Honda shudder when gusts of wind hit us from the side.
But there’s something reassuring about those headlights behind us, another car pushing through the same mess, making their way through like us. If we die, at least we won’t die alone.
I let myself sink back into the seat as the road has straightened out a bit and we’re finally descending into easier terrain at least, the worst of the mountain switchbacks behind us.
My shoulders loosen for the first time in hours. Maybe we’ll actually make it in time for the weigh-in. Maybe this whole insane detour will turn into a funny story we tell people:remember that time we got stranded in Mexico and had to drive through what seemed like a hurricane to make it to the title fight?—
A crack splits the air, loud as a gunshot.
Something massive and dark crashes across the road in front of us.
The scream tears out of me before I can stop it.
“Fuck—“ Dominic wrenches the wheel hard, his foot slamming the brake, and the Honda shudders violently as the tires fight for grip on the wet pavement. For one horrible secondI feel the back end slide toward the edge, toward the drop, toward the nothing below us, and my hand flies to the dashboard bracing for the impact, the roll, the fall?—
The car stops.
We’re sideways across the road, headlights illuminating the massive tree that just missed crushing us by maybe ten feet. Its trunk is splintered where the lightning struck, raw wood exposed and steaming in the rain like something wounded. Water streams down the windshield and drums against the roof and for a long moment neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes.
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, in my fingertips where they’re pressed white-knuckled against the dashboard.
“You okay?” Dominic’s voice is rough, his breath coming fast.
