The main one is that I haven’t driven since the accident.
The car is completely stationary, just sitting here in my driveway, and my heart still starts racing a mile a minute. You’re going to be fine, I tell myself as I’m buckling my seat belt. It’s just like riding a bike. But I can’t bring myself to lift the keys to the ignition. The ridges of the metal are now pressed into my skin from squeezing it so hard.
Once I realize this, I loosen my grip. Get it together, I tell myself before forcing my hands to start the car. There’s a part of me that hopes the muscle memory will help me remember the accident, but it only reminds me of the last time I attempted to get behind the wheel—I couldn’t leave the driveway without having a panic attack. This time will be different, I urge myself.
I think about turning the music on, but what if there’s a song playing that makes me jumpier? Then, because I’m already panicking, I start wondering what I was listening to when I crashed. Why are you thinking about that now? I plead with myself.
But it’s too late. I’m already thinking about that and how one wrong move in a car can send your vehicle spiraling. Horrible questions and thoughts begin to spiral in my mind. How many people crash in perfectly fine weather? How many people text and drive or goof around with their friends in the backseat? How many grandmas can hardly see but still have their licenses? The bad possibilities keep popping into my head faster than I can stop them—so quick that before I know it, my breathing is faster too. I try breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, like you’re supposed to do when trying to stay calm, except I’m anything but calm right now. As I look down at the steering wheel, I can feel my mind blacking out, like it sometimes does when I’m really nervous. Then suddenly I go from breathing fast to feeling like I can’t breathe at all. With the last amount of energy in my body, I reach for the door handle.
I’m still breathing heavily, but the second I’m outside the color returns to my eyes. I’m relieved but frustrated at the same time. Driving is my only option to get to the next paper heart unless I ride my bike all the way there….Or is it?
I reach for my coat pocket and pull out my phone to message Andy my address, worried that he’s going to take his time to respond since I blew him off last night, but he responds instantly.
Is this a new clue?
I reply.
No. My address.
Are you admitting I’m good at solving mysteries?
My cheeks get hot and I type back faster.
Pick me up, will you?
You don’t have to be so demanding Watson. JK on my way.
I heave a sigh of relief in the driveway. Problem solved.
Not even a minute later, his Jeep Wrangler is pulling up. I reluctantly walk over to the car. When I approach the passenger seat, the window is rolled down. Andy’s sitting there with a huge grin. “Hey there, neighbor.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Neighbor?”
“Yeah. Me and my mom just moved down the street. The yellow house.”
“What happened to the Florrises?” I ask.
“Who’s that?”
“The old couple who lived there before you.”
He shrugs. “No idea.”
“I thought you were a detective.”
“No,” he laughs. “Just your driver, apparently. Get in.”
* * *
We get to the ice-skating rink by 9:05, but those five minutes annoy me more than I’d like to admit.
I’m not irritated for long, though. I step out of the car and I’m reminded once again that this place is as close to magic as you can get. The mountain house itself is more like a Victorian fortress beside a frozen lake. Next to the mountain house is a large pavilion with an ice rink. If a winter wonderland exists, this would be it.
The morning is the best time to go. In the afternoon the ice will have zigzag marks ingrained all over it from the skaters’ turns. But now the ice is crystal clear from the Zamboni.
There also isn’t much of a crowd. One dad is there with his little girl, who can’t be older than three. They’re standing in front of us in the rentals line. She’s twirling in an adorable tutu that looks like it could be part of a Frozen costume. The mom is sitting off on the side, getting her professional-grade camera ready to capture this big moment.
But as excited as this little girl might be, I know there’s no way her heart is racing faster than mine.
As we wait in line, I pull out the paper heart, holding it in my gloved hands.
The next heart is at the peak of winter wonderland.
“Are you going to tell me what the clue is?” Andy asks, trying to peer over my shoulder. I put the heart back in my coat pocket.
“You don’t believe me that it’s here?” I retort. But as confidently as I say that, I look around and start doubting myself. The far side of the rink is where my last Instagram photo was taken—the one I can’t remember taking because it was during those eleven weeks. But I can tell where I was skating from the trees in the background.
“I’m not doubting you, just wondering why you’re sure it’s ice-skating. I did not sign up for cardio.”
“The last time I checked, you did volunteer. But you don’t need to do this with me—you just have to wait for me to finish so I can have a ride home.”
“Oh no, I can’t leave Watson hanging,” he says, stepping up to the counter as the father and daughter leave.
I’m about to argue that he can drop the Sherlock Holmes act when the girl behind the counter asks for our skate sizes. I eye her suspiciously as I say six and a half. Maybe my mystery admirer told the ticket girl about the paper hearts, like they did to the man at the flower shop? But the girl hands me my skates without batting an eye. I sigh. So much for that.
We gather our skates and then find a small wooden bench so we can put them on. I string my laces together quickly, ready to hit the rink, but Andy takes his time, lacing his up like he’s learning to tie his shoes. When he’s finally done, he pulls the laces undone and starts over.
“Really? What’s taking so long, diva?” I ask him.
“I’m not being a diva. I’m just trying to figure out if I need new skates. I think they messed up my size. These are so tight.”
“They’re supposed to feel tight. Have you never skated before?”
“Yeah, just not with rentals,” he says with a nervousness in his voice that makes me wonder if I buy it. “What, you don’t believe me?” he asks, reading my face and smirking. “I bet I can go around this rink seventeen times before you.”