“Based on what?”
“Small towns talk.”
That, at least, is true.
“And you’re comfortable being the wall between me and the rest of the world?”
“Yes.”
The wind shifts, pushing snow across the porch in a low sweep.
“You drove up here alone?” I ask, eyeing her car suspiciously.
“Yes.”
“Inthisweather?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t mind snow.”
“I don’t like driving in it,” she replies. “Unless it’s a… job requirement.”
An exasperated chuckle escapes my lips. Our eyes meet, but she doesn’t look perturbed.
Her statement doesn’t match the journey she just made. We both know this. And yet, my gut knots when I think about what I should say next.That I should tell her to leave.
I don’t.
The storm thickens visibly now, the snowfall turning from steady to dense.
“You’re aware storms like this can last for days?”
“I am.”
“And that you may be stuck here?”
She glances once over her shoulder at the narrowing whiteout. “I suspected as much.”
“You should have turned around.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t.”
Silence stretches deliberately between us. Most people rush to fill it. They soften it. But she doesn’t.
“You know what they’re calling this in town?” I say.
Her eyes round, puzzled.
“A mail-order bride arrangement.”
The listing had been a joke. A way to keep people away. A caretaker role that read suspiciously like a domestic arrangement.
Her mouth curves faintly, but she doesn’t laugh.
“And are you?” I ask.
“No.”
