Page 30 of Truth Be Told
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay out there?”
A headlight shines through the nearby window, lighting up one side of her face. She squints and looks directly into it. “The plow’s here,” she says. “Looks like I’ll be making it out of your driveway, at least.” She sighs. “I guess coming here was just a bad decision all around.” She freezes, realizing what she just said.
I don’t take offense because I get it. Coming right before a snow storm? Most definitely a bad decision. Sneaking into my room in the middle of the night? Pretty bad move, too.
But everything that happened after that point? I guess that’s where we differ. Because to me, stopping before we started down that path of self-destruction was only a good thing for us.
Instead of explaining herself, she looks at her feet. “Bye, Cohen.” She walks over and kisses me lightly on the cheek, her lips warm and bold enough to finish the kiss completely, not half ass it with a peck. When she pulls away, there’s that sadness again. I can tell she doesn’t want to leave. I can’t blame her. I don’t want her too, either.
I touch her face, cupping the back of her head and her cheek in the same way that I did last night. Before she knows what’s hitting her, I bring my mouth to hers. Her lips are luscious and warm, and it feels like I’m tasting her for the very first time – because I almost am.
She doesn’t say a word when I finally remove my mouth from hers. She’s been still the whole time, only bringing a hand to my side to absently play with my shirt.
“You're amazing, Stella. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”
The corners of her mouth try to pretend that she’s fine, but they struggle. “Bye, Cohen,” she says softly.
I release her, my hand falling to my side where it suddenly feels empty and cold.
Outside, the air is still with no wind to blow the snow around. The plow has finished most of the important clearing and now heads back down for another round to complete the job. The fat snowflakes are still falling just as steadily, but the fiercest part of the storm seems to be over. That’s a plus, but it’s still not good enough for me.
Stella gets in her car and warms it up while I shovel it out and wipe and scrape away at the windows.
“Wait here,” I tell her through the window when I’m almost done. She gives me a confused look. “Keep it going. Just wait.”
I flag the driver down and motion for him to roll down his window.
“How are the roads out there?” I ask him, out of breath.
The man looks too old to be doing this, and at first I’m sure he didn’t hear me – he has to be close to eighty years old, and he’s frail, his collar bones visible through his unzipped coat and low cut shirt. He’s complete with a long, snow-white beard and the smell of peppermint mocha from Starbucks. A real Santa character, minus the gut, and if Santa drank Starbucks.
“They’re not too bad,” he answers. “We’ve been taking care of it pretty good, but you’ll have to watch out for black ice.”
“It’s bad?”
“Just watch out for it, that’s all. I almost ran into a patch on my way over. Got here fine, but if it catches someone off guard, it could ruin their night.”
It wasn’t his intention, but his words sting. I want to ask him if the black ice he saw was near the Kensington Road bridge, where the road is dangerous enough as it in on a normal night. The entryway to the bridge doesn’t have a guardrail, it curves suddenly, and the drop off leads straight down into a body of water.
I know all this because that’s where I forged in and tried to save her.
“Thanks,” I say weakly. My stomach is suddenly in knots.
The plow driver doesn’t pick up on it though. “I’ll leave you some salt to take care of whatever comes down after I’m done here. It’s supposed to stop soon.” Then he nods and rolls up his window, then continues on his way to finish his work.
“What is it?” Stella calls through her window, through the snow.
I return to her car. “I was seeing how bad it is out there.”
“And?”
“He says it’s bad. Be careful, do you hear me? Do you take–” I’m trying to ask what route she’s going to take, to see if she’ll need to pass the Kensington Road bridge and warn her of it if she doesn’t already know, but she cuts me off.
“I’ll be okay.” She pats the steering wheel. “This baby is actually pretty good in the snow.” She laughs. “It’s me who isn’t.”
I’m about to stop this whole thing. I want to tell her to get out, come back inside and wait a few more hours with me to be sure the roads are clear. Despite my fears, though, I don’t have the heart to refuse her the privilege to give it a shot. Just as I conclude the thought, I look to the sky. The snow has stopped.
“See?” she says, sticking her head out the window to see what it is that I’m looking at. “You are my lucky charm after all.”
