Page 14
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ve been driving this truck in worse conditions since I was sixteen. It’s a tank.”
Still, there’s that gnawing people-pleasing fear rising in the pit of my stomach, alongside the growing questions. For goodness’ sake, slow down, Chloe. He’s starting to think you’re a maniac driver. He’ll think you’re being a stupid girl trying to show off in a snowstorm—because you are, aren’t you?
I try to reason internally with the side of me that fights to drop to a crawling twenty-five miles an hour to please him. You are a good driver, Chloe, I tell myself. You are driving at a safe and comfortable speed. I grip the wheel more firmly. You cannot slow down because you’re afraid of rejection or disapproval. You just got a hard-earned point for dancing like a moron in a parking lot.
Oh wait.
He said yes to that.
Well, anyway.
The point is, you are not giving in.
I turn on the radio to distract myself and force my mental energies elsewhere. A fitting and riveting chorus of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” hums through the old speakers, a smidge staticky. I crank up the volume.
Several minutes and a string of festive songs pass in silence.
“Just to be clear,” James says, somewhat out of the blue, “you did hear where I was heading? The Carriage Inn.”
I turn the wheel. “I know.”
He nods. Looks out the window for several more seconds.
“It’s just . . . I believe you passed a turn sign for Highway 26.”
“It’s faster to take the Monroe exit,” I say.
He nods again.
And then, as if he just can’t help himself, he says, “And you know where the Carriage Inn is?”
At this, I laugh at last. “I know where the Carriage Inn is.”
“You don’t need to pull up your map?”
“I do not need to pull up my map.”
He sniffs. Rubs his hands together. Holds them up to the heating vents that are about as useful as a dead opossum.
“Would you like me to tell you the exact street address?” I say.
He looks disbelieving. “You don’t know it offhand.”
“Sure I do.” This is becoming a sort of game now.
He scrutinizes me. “How long have you been gone?”
“Seven years. Minus a couple of home visits.”
“That’s a long time to be away and still know an address for an obscure inn.”
“Indeed it is.”
“Well.” His pause is long, contemplative. “I believe you.”
I sniff, keeping up with his competitive silence as we bump along the crunchy, snowy highway.
“168 Carriage Lane, Maple Hills, West Virginia, 38444,” I blurt out.
