8
River
Things that are fast—cheetahs. Supersonic jets. Snow falling outside Tahoe late on a Friday afternoon.
Make that evening.
The clock ticks past five as I hit the turn signal for the Markleeville exit, and we head down the exit ramp, coated in a dusting of flakes.
“We’ll just be in and out like a Bugatti,” I say tightly, since driving in shitty weather is zero fun. Especially driving a car meant for the city, rather than the mountains. The last twenty miles on the highway took an hour. As soon as the snow began, traffic slowed and cars slogged.
“Definitely. Open the cupboards, turn on the faucets, and then we’ll beat the snow,” Owen says, then he turns to me. “You okay?”
“Why do you ask?” The question comes out at Mach speed.
He points to my hands. “You’re kind of death-gripping the steering wheel. Which I get. I’d probably do the same too. But I just wanted to see if you were hanging in there,” Owen says, a note of concern in his voice. I know that tone. It’s the one he uses as the press guy with his ballplayers on the team, when he’s looking out for them, making sure they’re okay.
The man is seriously good at taking care of others.
Especially since a cursory glance at my hands shows he’s right. My knuckles are white. “Guess I’m a little tense,” I admit, then stretch my neck right and left, and loosen my grip. “My Honda is small. It’s not one of those monster trucks that eat up dirt and snow for breakfast.”
“Can you even imagine driving one of those tanks in the city? You’d never be able to impress me with your parallel-parking skills in one of those,” he says, upbeat, a smile on his face again as I turn on the road through town, bathed in white already, like it’s getting ready to pose for a cute mountain town postcard.
I’m so grateful for the distraction of talking. It makes driving in these conditions more bearable. “Is that all it takes to impress you? Parallel parking?”
“Maybe I’m easy,” he says.
“Ha. Things no one ever said about you.”
Owen just smiles. Like that comment pleases him. I kind of want to linger on how he looks when he’s happy, but mostly I just want to get out of this damn car soon.
“Hey,” Owen begins. “I never once asked if you wanted me to drive. Do you want me to drive?”
I laugh, shake my head. “No way.”
“Because you think I’m a terrible driver?”
“No. Because I’m a terrible passenger,” I say.
“That tracks.”
“And why would I be a terrible passenger?” I toss back at him.
Owen holds up his thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space. “You’re just a little controlling. I bet you’d be a back-seat driver the whole time. Shouldn’t you slow down? Shouldn’t you speed up? Let me show you a shortcut. The light’s green, the light’s red, the light’s pink and sparkly. Wait, there’s a duck crossing. Let’s stop and take pictures of ducks,” he says.
“Sparkly pink lights? There are sparkly pink lights in your world of fictional roads?”
“Yes, and you’d point out every single one.”
I shrug lightly. “I probably would. Also, I’d definitely take pictures of ducks,” I say as we roll through the quaint downtown, its stores closing at the end of the day.
“You would.”
The GPS tells me to take a right at the stoplight, and I follow the lead, then let out a long exhale. “Maybe I am tense.”
“Told you that you needed that shower, hot-stone-massage thingy,” he teases.
“Hey! Maybe Declan is going to surprise us with masseurs waiting at the cabin.”
Owen snaps his fingers. “Dammit. You weren’t supposed to guess, River.”
“I better drive faster,” I say, except I won’t and can’t, since we’re chugging up a winding road to the cabin now. The white stuff is flinging itself down from the sky, and the homes on each side of the road boast carpets of snow across their front lawns.
My little car curves around the bend.
Owen peers up at the windshield, taking in the scene. “Snow’s coming faster.”
“Yeah, but I bet it stops soon, and we can still make it to Nisha’s tonight. It’s only five,” I say, staring straight ahead at the white flakes as the sun dips below the horizon.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he says.
But we’ve got to make it to Tahoe. Staying alone in a cabin here is not in the plan. “Nah, it’ll be fine. It looks like it’ll stop very soon,” I say, trying to will it so with the weather. I nearly believe it myself.
The GPS chirps, “In four hundred feet, your destination will be on your left.”
A cough seems to burst from Owen. “River . . .” he says tentatively.
“Yes?”
“It’s supposed to snow for a few hours. The roads are slick. Your car is tiny.”