Page 1 of Wren's Winter

Wren

It figures that the first car accident of my life was because of a missed turn. After all, missing a turnoff had to be my most consistent talent. Seven years in dance had led to nothing but the ability to pick up things with my toes and a tendency to break tasks down into eight counts. I had the gift of baking passable macrons and found the perfect red lipstick for my olive skin tone. But if I was known for one thing, it was always—without fail—missing the turnoffs.

My ex-boyfriend, Buck, never let me drive, citing the little three-point detours we had to take with every trip.

The whole way up the long trip, I was careful not to miss this turn. But all the tree-named streets sounded the same: Cedar Drive, Aspen Avenue, Sitka Lane.

Sitka, that was the one.

Slamming on my brakes, my little sedan skidded through the soft snow, veering to the right, where the front bumper wedged into a snowdrift. My head snapped forward, hitting the steering wheel, before whipping back into my headrest. Between the bang and my jostled body, I heard my chip bag crunch as my soda rolled over it.

Little spots formed behind my eyes as I blinked at the snowbank before me. Air rasped in my throat as I took my shaking hands off the steering wheel and patted myself down to check for injuries. Arms still attached, stomach still squishy, boobs still boobing. A wince shot through me as I touched my forehead. Blood clung to my finger. Flipping the mirror down, I looked at my reflection. A small but angry-looking cut at my hair line bled slowly. I grabbed a brown TacoTime napkin from the center console and dabbed the gash. It had stopped bleeding, but a knot was forming underneath.

Great.

I threw the napkin on the crushed chip bag, knowing its contents would be tiny little bits. A sign I shouldn’t be eating chips in the car.

Buck’s words echo in my head.

If you watch what you eat, maybe you’ll lose this junk you’re carrying around.

Asshole.

How did it take me so long to see it? And, worst of all, why did he get to be the one to dump me instead of the other way around? If there were anything more embarrassing than being dumped after three years together, it had to be by a guy you didn’t even liked in the first place.

Are your chips really the big issue here, Wren?

Damn. No, of course not.

I stuck my car in reverse and hit the gas, only to hear the loud whir of my tires but feel no movement. The steering wheel was cold against my palms, and I shook the wheel while letting out a scream through my teeth.

I tried to think back to driver’s ed. What would old Ms. Crawford say about this situation? She would, likely, be unsurprised. It took me five tries to pass my driver’s test. I suspected the fine people at Ridgewood Drivers’ Education were tired of seeing my face. And yet, I had never been in an accident—until today. Alone, in the Olympic Mountains, miles away from the closest town of Icicle Creek and many more from the nearest Nordstrom.

My phone chimed with a text, and I glanced at it.

Him. Again. This time it was, Where did you put my snowshoes?

If Buck had a talent, it was picking the worst time to ask for something. Did he have a superpower to sense when I was at my lowest?

I responded to Buck with the location, in the attic, beside his hiking gear he never wore and under the expensive tent he used once.

He sent back a red heart emoji. That man dumps me and then sends me hearts? Heat prickled beneath my skin.

The trip was supposed to be my birthday present from Buck, and our first time away together, just the two of us. Every other one we took ended up with a gaggle of his buddies tagging along—or worse, his family. When I made the reservation, Buck told me he’d call them to put his credit card down for the deposit.

This morning, I’d awoken to an email confirming the reservation starting tonight and the full charge of the stay on my already stressed credit card. Nonrefundable, nontransferable.

Still in my old Ridgewood High jazz choir tee shirt and covered in my Grandma Pearl’s afghan, I made the split decision to head up to the cabin myself.

My parent’s house was far too quiet since they decided to visit my aunt in California for the long winter weekend.

You sure you don’t want to come with us, Wren? I’m sure Cathy would fix up the dogs’ room with a trundle bed.

No, thank you. I may be twenty-four, newly dumped, and currently staying in my childhood bedroom, but I drew the line at sleeping in the room my aunt used for her five Akitas.

I had given little thought to the weather, what I had thrown into my enormous suitcase, or how well my 2015 Toyota Corolla would do in the snowy mountains. All I needed was to get out of my childhood bedroom and away from the stink of failure following me.

I sent a message to my best friend, Summer, who was likely packing for her internship in London and wouldn’t see it for hours. I also messaged my parents, saying that I was going to spend the long weekend in Icicle Creek. My mother’s response, Have fun with your friends, had made me laugh.

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