This is a fucking mess.
A semi-truck ahead of me slides slightly, its back end drifting toward the center line. I ease off the gas even more. We’re barely moving now.
The snow is coming down in thick, wet clumps that splat against my windshield faster than the wipers can clear them. The sky has that peculiar yellowish-gray cast that means we’re in for several more inches before this is over.
My phone starts to vibrate in the cupholder. I glance down, expecting a text from Logan—probably something café-related or another joke about Thomas and me.
But it’s not Logan.
It’s a name I haven’t seen pop up on my caller ID in over a year.
Thomas.
My stomach drops straight to my ankles. I stare at the screen long enough to drift toward the shoulder and have to jerk the wheel back into my lane, heart pounding.
Why is he calling me? Sure, we’ve been texting about the party. But we haven’t spoken on the phone since before the Carol situation. And I wasn’t ready for this.
The phone keeps vibrating. Four rings. Five.
I should let it go to voicemail. I’m driving—in a blizzard, no less. What if I crash because I got distracted?
And we’re supposed to see each other in ten minutes. If he’s running late or whatever, he can just text me. It’s not like this is life or death.
I pick up on the sixth ring.
“Hello?”
My voice comes out higher than usual, as if I’m doing a last-minute audition for a cartoon chipmunk.
“Hey, it's me.”
Hearing his voice hits like a punch to the gut. Deep, slightly raspy—so familiar it makes my chest ache.
“Yeah, hey,” I say, casually. Great. Nailing it so far.
There’s a pause. Then, a little hesitant, he asks, “Are you driving?”
“Yeah,” I say, as if I’m not white-knuckling through a blizzard while having heart palpitations because of this call. “I’m on my way to the restaurant. Where are you?”
“Uh,” Thomas says, and I can hear the tension creeping in. “That’s actually why I’m calling. My car broke down.”
My heart skips a beat.
“What? Where are you?”
“I'm in a parking lot by the new apartment complex off Route 59. You know, near that old farm supply store?”
I do know the place—though I have no idea what Thomas would be doing out there. It’s on the complete opposite side of town from where he lives.
“My engine just died,” he goes on. “I’ve been sitting here for twenty minutes trying to get it to start, but nothing’s happening. I called for a tow, but they said it’ll be at least an hour, maybe more—there’ve been a ton of accidents—so I figured asking you might be faster.”
I can feel the unspoken favor hanging between us. And despite everything—despite a year of silence, despite the hurt, despite all my promises to stop being so available—I already know what I’m going to do.
“Send me your location,” I say, fully resigned to my own predictability. “I'll come get you.”
The relief in his voice twists something sharp in my chest. “You're the best, Carter Hayes. I’ll send the pin now.”
“Might take me thirty minutes,” I warn, as if sounding mildly inconvenienced might earn me back a shred of dignity. “The roads are crap.”
