Page 14 of Faking All the Way
My car is an ancient beater with rust spots around the wheel wells and a tendency to make concerning noises when I turn left. Sitting in my parents’ driveway next to Dad’s well-maintained truck, it looks like something that should be in a junkyard rather than still operating on public roads.
“Let me help with that,” Asher says as I start brushing snow off the windshield with my sleeve.
“It’s fine, I’ve got it,” I say, but he’s already clearing off the passenger side with efficient movements. I try not to notice how he manages to make even mundane tasks look smooth, or how the snow clings to his dark hair before melting.
We stow our bags in the trunk and climb into the car, and I immediately start fumbling with the various controls on the dashboard. The heat takes forever to kick in, the radio only gets two stations clearly, and there’s a persistent rattle coming from somewhere near the glove compartment.
“Sorry it’s nothing fancy,” I say as we pull out of the driveway, feeling compelled to acknowledge the obvious deficiencies of my transportation. “This was my first car, and I guess I’m sentimentally attached to it. I know it’s not much to look at.”
“It has character,” he says, which makes me snort.
“Character is definitely one word for it. I prefer ‘mechanically questionable’ myself.”
“How long have you had it?”
“Since I was seventeen. My parents bought it used, and I’ve been driving it ever since, only now it’s just whenever I come back to visit.” I pat the dashboard affectionately. “Still, we’ve been through a lot together.”
He chuckles. “Loyalty. I respect that.”
We’re about five minutes down the winding road that leads out of town when Asher suddenly straightens in his seat like he’s just remembered something important.
“Shit,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
“What’s wrong?”
“I completely forgot—I had a rental car reserved at the airport.”
I glance over at him, taking in his rueful expression. “What happened to it?”
“I got waylaid by a woman with a very convincing emergency,” he says dryly. “Never made it to the rental counter.”
The casual way he references our chaotic first meeting makes my cheeks warm, but also triggers a sharp stab of guilt. “God,I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about practical details when I dragged you into my disaster.”
“It’s manageable.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “I’ll call and have them deliver it wherever we’re going. What’s the address?”
I give him Samantha’s address, and it doesn’t take him long to sort out having someone bring a car to the cabin for him. Although I keep my gaze on the familiar roads leading to my best friend’s cabin, I can’t help glancing sideways at him as he thanks whoever he’s been talking to on the phone. I can’t believe he worked that out so quickly, and I wonder if it’s because he’s got money to throw at the problem, or just because he’s a clearly competent person.
“All set,” he says after ending the call. “They’ll deliver it tomorrow morning.”
“Just like that?” I can’t hide the impressed note in my voice. “Wow. Is that a hockey player thing or just a you thing?”
“Probably a little of both,” he admits with a slight smile. “You learn to deal with travel chaos when you’re constantly flying between cities for games, although the team takes care of most of that.”
The cabin is a short distance outside town, down a progressively more rural road that winds through tall pine trees and past the occasional farmhouse. By the time we turn onto Samantha’s long driveway, we’re completely surrounded by forest, and the cabin emerges from the trees like something out of a winter postcard.
“Wow. Nice place,” Asher says as the building comes into full view.
“Isn’t it? Sam’s grandfather built most of it himself back in the seventies. She uses it as a writing retreat when she’s not traveling to remote corners of the world.”
I park next to the main cabin, and we both climb out into the crisp winter air. The silence out here is almost jarring after the noise and chaos of my parents’ house. Just the sound of wind in the pine trees and our footsteps crunching on the gravel.
“The guest house is around back,” I say, leading him along a stone path that winds around the side of the main cabin. “It’s smaller, but it should give you plenty of privacy.”
The guest house sits nestled among tall evergreens about fifty yards from the main building. It’s charming in the same rustic way as the main cabin, with big windows and a covered porch that’s probably perfect for morning coffee when it’s not December.
“This is perfect,” Asher says as I unlock the door with Sam’s spare key. “Much better than fighting for a hotel room during the holidays.”
Inside, the space is cozy but compact. There’s a living area downstairs and a small bedroom with a quilted bedspread upstairs, along with a bathroom with vintage bronze fixtures. The kitchen, if you can call it that, consists of a hot plate, a mini fridge, and about two feet of counter space.
