I think she might be scanning for road signs.
Returning my concentration to the street, I exhale through my nose. “If we can make thirty more klicks, we’ll be fine.”
“I’m trying to keep track of our distance,” she tells me. “But it’s quite difficult.” Even now she wants to be my right-hand. I swallow back emotion that surges, constricting my lungs.
And then, just like that, we’re spinning.
It happens faster and swifter than the first two times, and I have zero control over the wheels. Nothing I do will stop tires from skating like four hockey pucks on ice, but I try to right us without causing more problems.
Disorientation kicks in for a split-second before we stop. I assess our surroundings with almost no visibility, but two tires dip a bit. Which means we’re probably on the bank of the road.
I turn to her. “Jane, are you okay?” I reach for her before I remember we’re not together, and she might not want me to touch her.
I pull back.
She blinks hard. Her chest rises and falls heavily and she sweeps my frame just as much as I sweep her. Confusion pinches the creases of her eyes. “Why don’t you look like we just went through a rollercoaster?”
“Because I’ve spun out on black ice before,” I tell her. “It’s nothing new.” It’s not as violent as a car crash, but the shock is the same. “You didn’t answer me. Are you okay?”
She nods, gulping a bigger breath. “I think so. I just kept thinking we were going to flip like Maximoff and…” And Farrow and her brothers and little cousin.
“We didn’t,” I say strongly. We’re just fucked. We’re nowhere near the house.
“So now we wait in the car, and tomorrow we hike.” Confidence blazes her words. She pulls her shoulders back like she’s preparing for every war to come.
“No, there’s not going to be a hike.”
Her brows bunch. “Then what?”
“We have to wait for help.” She can’t walk eight-hours in the snow without the right gear. I can’t put her in that situation, and unfortunately, I also can’t radio the team. Comms are still down.
“You think we’re too far away.” Jane realizes into a slow nod. “Alright then.” She unlocks the glove compartment and grabs a flashlight. “We should gather provisions from the trunk and make sure the exhaust pipe isn’t blocked.” Goddamn, she’s smart.
My lips almost lift.
Bottom line, she’s one of the best people to have in this situation. I’m sure of that. Desire pumps through my body without much warning. Bottle that shit. I hate right now how much I’m enticed by each and every part of her.
“That was my plan,” I tell her stiffly. “Except you’re not a part of it.” I hold out my hand for the flashlight.
She doesn’t move.
“Jane, your shoes.”
She glances at her leopard-print ballet flats. Our boots are back at the house, still drying from yesterday’s thunderstorm. Only difference is that I had an extra pair.
Jane sighs at the sight of her shoes. “And here I thought you were being over-prepared by bringing two pairs of the same boots to a week-long trip.” She brushes a strand away from her eyes. “My mom would call you intuitive.”
I shake my head. “It’s just a habit. I’m a size 15 shoe. I can’t run to the store if anything happens to my boots.” I stop and then push myself to say more. “As soon as I started making good money in security, the first thing I bought was an extra set of shoes for each that I own.”
“I love how practical you are.” She flushes immediately. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped.” Her eyes are reddened from crying earlier. “Which, I suppose, is why they call it a slip of the tongue. And I’ll just stop talking…”
I want to tell her to never stop.
I want to tell her that I could listen to her forever.
We’re broken up.
I fight between being a pushy asshole and giving her space that she needs—and I land over on respectful ground.
Give her space.
I keep my mouth closed.
She passes me the flashlight, the plastic thudding into my palm.
“You’re okay staying here?” I ask, just to confirm
She nods. “We don’t need to have another problem to deal with, and me getting frostbite on my toes would surely fall into that category.”
I take a good look at her—head to toe—one last time before I grab my jacket from the backseat and leave.
Brittle air and freezing winds bite my exposed skin and burn my eyes. I tug on my gloves. No time to waste, I bend down and clear snow off the exhaust pipe.
And then I stand and try to wrench open the iced trunk. I forgot to unlock it.
I step back, wind whipping my hair and snowflakes wetting my cheeks. My lungs burn from the cold, breath visible in the dark, and I pull my jacket higher, covering my mouth.
The trunk pops.
Suddenly. Without me doing jack shit.
Jane.
I almost smile again.
And then I remember we’re not dating anymore. Don’t think about it. I reach into the trunk and fumble through the bags and consolidate some of the items into two.
When I shut the trunk, my stomach sinks at what I see.
Jane is outside of the car. Or at least half of her is. She leans out the driver’s side window and ties her purple scarf to the side-mirror.
In case we get buried under snow.
Her body is exposed to the elements, flurries kissing her brown hair and wetting the strands.
I’m about to help, but she’s so quick. In a blink, she’s back inside the car, window rolling up. Good job, honey. I want to tell her those words, but somehow I know that staying in the blistering cold might be more comfortable than sharing a cramped car with her all night long.
We’re not together anymore.
She made that clear.
I double-check the exhaust pipe one more time before climbing into the backseat. Some food and supplies now accessible, I tear off my gloves and stick them in a seat pocket.
Jane is still in the driver’s side, reading the time off her wristwatch. “We should turn off the car in a couple minutes to preserve battery. And only turn it back on every two or four hours after that. I’ve also cracked this window about a half-inch to avoid carbon monoxide poisoning. Just in case snow covers the exhaust pipe while we’re asleep.”
I won’t be going to sleep tonight, but I don’t tell her that. “Looks like we’re all squared away.” I lean back, but my body is a cement block. “We should do four-hour increments, not every two-hours.” I’m not taking any chances.
If we can dig the car out tomorrow morning, we might be able to drive. But if the car dies because we fucked the battery, then we’ve lost that opportunity. Suffering the cold tonight in favor of better odds tomorrow—that’s the plan.
She inhales a deeper breath and angles her head, watching me unlace my boots and take my feet out of them. Her eyes feel like hot lasers on me, scorching each inch of flesh. I shrug off my jacket, damp from the snow, and I stuff it behind my head in the gap between the back window and seat.
Silence.
It eats around us. Painfully, uncomfortably. She’s the only person who could make me despise the quiet. Before her, it never really bothered me. I craved it. Pined for it. Now silence is too loud, too blistering, and I’m begging for her voice to deaden it.