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ChapterTwenty-Nine
Nick
It gets dark really early in winter in Cottonwood Hollow. By early, I mean dusk is painting the sky by four or four-thirty in the afternoon. By five-thirty, it's pitch black. So right now, at six, the sky is lit up by the night. The moon is out and the stars are shining against the brilliant backdrop of an ebony sky. The snow beyond the windshield of Nick’s truck glows a haunting shade of blue so light, so faint, it almost seems as though magic has been spilled over the land. Glitter dust shimmers over the sharp cuts of a mountain valley that twinkles under the white light of a bright moon, and the arms of spruce trees are weighted down by heavy drops of white as though painted on like gobs of shimmery icing. This place is so beautiful, there isn't a time of day that's more beautiful than another.
Everything feels magical here. Everything feels possible.
I feel like I can finally let myself dream.
Nick's deep rumble breaks into my thoughts. “What do you do back home?”
“What do I do? As in for work?”
“Yeah.”
I pull in a deep breath. “I waitress. It's nothing fancy, but I like it. It works for me. It pays the bills, you know?”
He nods. “Did you always want to waitress?”
“No.”
“What do you want to do?”
“That's the problem,” I admit, laughing softly. “I never wanted to do anything, really. Still don’t.”
“You don’t want to go to school for anything?”
“Nope.” I shrug. He's asking, and I'm going to be honest. I've never had a dream job.
“Really?” He sounds surprised, and I wonder if he’s also a little disappointed.
“I don't lack ambition,” I tell him, determined to defend myself. “I just don't wantthatlife. You know, the one that’s all about work, all about a career. I want a simple life, and I don't need a lot to live. I'm okay with a small pay check and time to just be.”
“You've never dreamed about anything? Never wanted anything for yourself?”
“I didn't say that.” My tone comes out sharper than I intend, and I soften it. “You didn't ask that.”
I look at him, and really look at him. He's frowning, but his face is contemplative. I've got a view of his right side, there's no scars on his right side. He's unblemished and beautiful, but he looks a little disappointed.
I continue, “You asked if I had a dream job, not if I have a dream.”
I hate how people dump all wants into a career, like we’re nothing but worker bees. Like there’s nothing more to life than the title we slap on our capabilities. It drives me mad.
“All right,” he relents. “Do you have a dream?”
“I do,” I say but I offer nothing more.
He chuckles. “Are you going to leave me in suspense all night?”
“Maybe.” I shove my hands between my thighs because even though the heat is blasting, it's still cold. Cottonwood Hollow, and the snow that falls on it, is cold. I'm used to warm.
“Come on, Sadie. Give it to me.”
Well, when he asks like that…
“My mom and dad were great parents. Mom was always there for me. Always. And Dad—he was too. He worked and Mom dabbled in the workforce when I got older. She waitressed some, did some time at a car wash, a greenhouse, and finally found her joy working part time in a crafting store.” I smile at the memory, even though it makes my eyes shine with emotion. “Mom loved the craft store. She loved to craft, and knit, and crochet. I hate crafts. I don’t have the patience for it like Mom did. But she loved it. So, while I was in school, she worked. She brought in a small pay check. And mostly, it covered her habit of crafting, but she was happy. They were happy. And I was happy.”
“All right.” He looks confused, but he's listening.
