“No carrots, junk only while we’re in the car.” I really should’ve printed out a list of rules. “But, I am willing to concede one major road trip law.” I pause for dramatic effect and to rev up suspense, but I think all it actually does is make Maxwell reconsider ever getting in the car with me again. “You may take charge of the radio.” He doesn’t even say thank-you before he’s reaching for the aux cord (because yes, my car is too old for you to do it wirelessly) and pulling out his phone. “Wait!” I shout and accidentally honk my horn. “You are in charge under the condition that if you turn on trash, it must be changed.”
“So I’m only in charge if I pick music you like?”
He sounds a little confused, which I don’t understand. It makes perfect sense to me.
“Exactly.” I focus on the road in front of me as snow begins to fall a little faster and the heavy fog that comes with climbing altitudes thickens. Thank goodness I had my snow tires put on yesterday.
“So essentially, you’re in charge of the radio still?”
“As long as you don’t turn on some podcast about rocket science or heavy metal, I’m sure we’ll be fine.” I sit up a little straighter. I’m not afraid to drive in the snow. Denver native, here. But I do respect it and its dangers. Also, could you imagine if I got into a car accident with Maxwell Lewis in the car before the playoffs? It would be like Marlee and the ice skating multiplied by a million.
“Well, damn, Boss.” He clucks his tongue. “Those were my first two choices.”
“Smart-ass,” I say through laughter. “Now shut up. I need to focus. Killing us would ruin my entire weekend.”
* * *
—
LIKE EVERYTHING WITH Maxwell, his taste in music is perfect. So much so that I’m almost a little disappointed when the mountains part and the valley holding Buena Vista comes into view.
Almost.
“Holy shit,” Maxwell breathes. “Now that’s a view.”
Pleasure flows through me at his words. His excitement is almost tangible in the car, and it makes not flooring it into town a struggle. But Buena is my place, and the last thing I want to do is get a speeding ticket to start our weekend and piss off the police.
Buena Vista—pronounced “Boo-na,” not “Bway-na,” which always confuses me and has caused me to lose countless hours of productivity wondering why that is—is one of my favorite places in all of Colorado. Most Coloradans wouldn’t understand. Hell, my dad doesn’t understand; he has a condo in Aspen that he rents out most of the year. But Buena Vista feels like a secret. A tiny little town with one bar and only a few more restaurants, it’s not the typical go-to for a relaxing weekend away. Which is exactly why it’s the perfect place for me and Maxwell.
I turn into town, driving the three blocks through their downtown until the business turns residential and our Airbnb comes into view.
Now, I don’t like to toot my own horn or . . . who am I kidding? I love it! The house that I found for our weekend is the cutest house that I have ever seen. The Blue Tower, as they have it listed, is the house of my childhood dreams, and when I saw it, it didn’t matter how much it cost or that it was much too large for only two people, I needed it.
“This looks like a storybook,” Maxwell says with his face pushed against the window, and he’s not wrong.
See, the Blue Tower is exactly that. A little blue house with a tower. They had pictures from the summer that sold me right away, but as I double-park on the cobblestone street and see the snow-dusted roof and garland-draped front porch, I know I would sell my soul to never have to leave. It’s still daytime, so the lights aren’t on, but I can still see the Christmas lights framing every window in the house . . . and it has a lot of them. Behind the house, Midland Hill looks so close that I’m sure I’ll be able to touch it from the balcony.
Not much is better in reality than in pictures. And this weekend, I get to spend my time with two of them: the Blue Tower and Maxwell Lewis.
“Do you have the key? Or how does this work?” Maxwell snaps me out of my head.
“I’m not sure, hold on.” I grab my phone and open up the email with the instructions. “The key is on top of the light by the front door.”
“All right, well, why don’t you let us in and I’ll grab the bags?” he suggests, and since I overpacked and my suitcase is stupid heavy, I agree.
“Sounds like a plan, Captain.” I mock salute, snatching my purse off the floor behind my seat and tossing my phone inside.
As soon as my door is open, the frigid mountain air socks me in the gut. But unlike at the food drive, it’s rejuvenating. There’s a freshness to the mountain air. A freedom that’s impossible to find in the city. It snowed yesterday, but unlike the snow that’s plowed by HERS, the small piles against the sidewalk are still white.
I climb up the freshly shoveled and carefully salted stairs to the front porch. The key is exactly where they said it would be. Actually, it’s not well hidden at all, and if that’s not a testament to how safe this little town is, I don’t know what is.
I put the key into the lock, and a sudden bout of nerves causes my stomach to sink. Maxwell and I have spent a lot of time together, but this is the first time we’ve spent this long together without a break or our friends around us. What if we realize we don’t work? What if what is supposed to be a romantic weekend turns out to be the end of us? How long can I even last in a relationship before I feel the need to move on? Maybe once the chase is all the way over, I’ll get bored and leave.
“What did you pack?” Maxwell grunts behind me, his presence the pressure I needed to open the door. “We’re only staying two nights, right? Or did I not pack enough?”
“I’m a girl,” I say as an explanation.
“I’m well aware of that.” He drops my duffel bag and small—fine!—average-sized suitcase on the tiled entryway. “But did I get the dates wrong?”
“No.” I shrug a shoulder. “I just pack heavy.”
I’ve always done this. It used to drive my dad crazy because I would always pack a minimum of three stuffed backpacks to sleepovers when I was a kid. And because I brought so much stuff, a significant amount of things I didn’t even know why I was bringing, it was inevitable that I’d forget something and he’d have to go on a retrieval mission, which usually meant he’d be stuck in my friend’s kitchen with their parents for a solid two hours while we “looked” for the lost item. Now, with the help of my well-meaning Lady Mustang friends, it has reached a new level of insanity. I have all of my makeup . . . which I doubt I’ll even wear . . . more hair products than I even know what to do with, and so, so many shoes.