Now that I’m the one driving, I’m considerably less excited. Not only is it hard to see, but it’s been snowing long enough and hard enough that the road is now covered in a thin layer of the stuff, with only two black tracks along the asphalt where other cars have been driving.
Not that I see any other cars right now. Apparently everyone but me got the memo that it was going to snow, and no one else decided to drive over the mountain after dark on Christmas Eve.
I keep driving and tell myself I’ll be fine, that in forty-five minutes I’ll be curled up on my couch with a cozy blanket and my favorite holiday movie, A Nightmare Before Christmas. I remind myself that tons of people live in places like New England, where it snows all the time and they drive around like nothing’s happening and it’s no big deal. I try to remember everything I’ve ever learned about driving in the snow.
Turns out that it starts and ends with go slow, I guess, because snow driving is not a topic addressed by even one driving instructor in the South. Our game plan for winter weather is simple:
1. Panic.
2. Buy all the bread and milk at Kroger. Fight someone if you must.
3. Under no circumstances buy weather-appropriate clothing.
4. Don’t leave your house until the weather is over and everything has melted, three days later.
As I’m ruminating that I’m still on step one, headlights come up behind me, and I sigh with relief as I slow from twenty miles an hour to fifteen, then creep around a sharp bend in the road. At least if I get stuck in a ditch, there’s someone else to witness my tragic demise.
Then the headlights get closer, and I frown. I grip my steering wheel a little tighter, because that is not a safe following distance, particularly in these conditions.
They get even closer, and now, I can barely see even though I flip my rear-view mirror to night mode. The vehicle behind me is an SUV or something, so the lights are high off the ground, totally blinding. I squint and hold up one hand.
Just go around me, I think. For fuck’s sake.
Instead, they flash their brights.
“Okay, asshole,” I say aloud, and slow down. This guy want to be a danger, he can do it in slow motion.
I keep driving. Every time I go around a curve I can feel my wheels slip a little, no matter how slowly I take it. I’m sweating, but I don’t dare use a hand to turn the heat down. My hands would probably be shaking if I weren’t gripping the steering wheel so tightly.
Still, this asshole behind me is tailgating and flashing his brights.
And then, finally, it happens. There’s a curve on an incline, the kind of thing that takes drivers by surprise in perfect conditions.
Halfway up it, my tires start slipping. The car slides a little to the left, just across the yellow line.
I, a southerner who has studiously avoided driving in snow her entire life, panic. I slam on the brakes, then slam on the gas. For some reason, I put my car into second gear, and it does absolutely nothing so I do the brakes and the gas again and then the brakes because I have absolutely no idea what to do and —
Then I’m in the ditch.
It’s almost gentle, like the ditch is giving me a hug. I must have just experienced the world’s slowest traffic accident, my little sedan gliding off the road, bumping to a stop at a steep angle.
The car behind me revs, takes the curve, steadily climbs the hill.
“Screw you,” I mutter. “Seriously? You’re not even stopping?”
I know instinctively that my car’s not going anywhere, but I try anyway. My engine roars and my tires spin. Fuck. Fuck. I’ve got AAA but I don’t want to spend Christmas Eve waiting hours for them to come to the back of beyond and drag me out, I want to go home and drink my hot drink and watch my movie and then wake up in the morning to discover that Santa brought me exactly the new raised flowerbeds I’ve been wanting.
Up ahead, a pair of red lights stops at the top of the hill, two bright spots against the dark of the night. I frown, then wait for them to drive off, but they don’t. Long moments pass, and nothing happens.
“Fine,” I say aloud, tear my seatbelt off, and get out of my car. The headlights are still on, and I stay in their beam as I stomp toward the very large vehicle up ahead.
“Hey!” I shout.
Nothing happens. I stomp more.
“HEY!” I shout louder. “WHAT’S YOUR PROBLEM?”
I’m almost up the hill now, and I can see that what I thought was a big SUV is, in fact, a completely ludicrous pickup truck. The tires must be four feet tall. The bottom of the driver’s-side door is at eye level.
Also, the paint job is… red-and-green stripes?
I don’t have time to process that, because the driver’s side door opens.
A moment later, Santa jumps down.
I stop, because this is getting too weird. Not only did Santa just jump out of a giant pickup truck, he doesn’t exactly move like an old man who eats too many cookies.
In fact, he doesn’t have a classic Santa bod at all, which I can tell even though he’s wearing the whole costume, hat and beard included.
No, Santa is… hot?
“You ran me off the road!” I shout before I can get any further with that train of thought.
“You ran your —”
Santa swipes at the beard as strands blow into his mouth.
“That’s not how you drive in — shit.”
That last word is said at a normal volume, as he turns away. He yanks the beard and hat off, tosses them into the cab of the truck.
Then he turns back around, and my stomach drops straight out of my chest cavity.
I know Santa. I’ve met Santa before.
Met isn’t the right word. I made out with Santa. Against a tree. In the woods. At my best friend’s wedding.
Santa touched my boobs at my inebriated urging, and I liked it.
And then he never called.
I banish all boob-touching thoughts, ball my fists at my sides, and take a deep breath.
“What the hell?” I shout.
Chapter Two
GRADY
I almost wish I’d just driven off. Hell, I go ahead and give it some quick consideration right now: I’m sure she’s got a cell phone and Triple-A, and they won’t be more than a few hours. She can play some phone games until they get here, and I won’t have to be inconvenienced in the least.
Obviously, I can’t do that. I’m sure some people can leave a motorist stranded on a snowy Christmas Eve, but I was raised right.
“Don’t you have any clue how to drive in snow?” I shout down the hill. “You can’t just go five miles an hour and think you’re gonna get anywhere, you gotta build up speed or you’re gonna land in the ditch!”
“Of course I don’t know how to drive in the snow!” she shouts, the wind whipping through her words. “This is the south! And I was doing just fine until you drove up behind me with your big-ass truck and its big-ass wheels and shone your big-ass lights until I couldn’t see shit!”
“Because you were just begging to spin out and slide right off the road!”
Adeline crosses her arms over her chest and looks away, like I’ve really pissed her off. I fold my arms over my chest too, bracing myself against the wind sneaking through my Santa costume.