Page 3 of Snowed In
I fling the envelope into the front passenger seat, and he immediately changes track.
“Right-o! Any radio preference?”
I shake my head, glancing out the back window as he puts the car in gear. I don’t know what I expect to find. Isaac chasing after me? My grandmother weeping? All I see are cars and the other drivers casting curious looks my way. And though I still feel guilty about the party and the lying and the rather abrupt exit from what was supposed to be the rest of my life, I don’t regret it. Turns out the right decision just happened to be the most dramatic one, and as my getaway driver pulls out of the parking lot, I feel nothing but relief as we leave the hotel, the church, and my future behind.
ONE
CHRISTIAN
Five Years Later
This pub smells like a gym. Specifically, it smells like the changing room of a gym. It smells like the changing room of a gym the first day back after Christmas, full of sweaty bodies and damp towels and too many people in my space. Because there are too many people in my space. Too many loud, shuffling people, including the woman behind me, who’s trying to squeeze past my chair but is seemingly unable to do so without jabbing an elbow into my back.
I hunch forward, reaching for my drink as an excuse to get away from her, only to scowl as the group next to us bursts into noisy laughter. Tourists, by the look of them. Six fresh-faced people in expensive rain gear and practical walking shoes. German?
“Christian.”
Or maybe Dutch.
“Christian.”
“What?” I drag my gaze away from them to find Zoe watching me from across our tiny table.
“Do you think I should get a fringe?”
“A what?” Another person squeezes past, another elbow in the back.
“A fringe,” Zoe continues.
“Yeah,” I say, distracted. “Sure.”
“Not too long.” She makes a chopping motion against her forehead, her expression deadly serious. “Like, to here.”
“Sounds great.”
“But will it look great?”
“How should I know if—Watch it,” I snap as some guy in a cheap suit almost spills a glass of wine over my head.
Zoe frowns. “I feel like you’re not having a nice evening despite my incredible conversation skills.”
“I’m having a great evening,” I mutter. “And I’m sure I’d love your incredible conversation skills if I could hear them, but I can’t. You’re bad at picking places.”
Her mouth drops open. “This is my favorite pub.”
“It’s packed.”
“It’s a lot of people’s favorite pub. And it’s not usually this busy,” she adds. “It’s just raining.”
It is raining. I can see the sharp, violent burst of a shower against the stained-glass window above her head. It certainly explains the damp smell everywhere. And the sudden throng of office workers all looking a little stale after a day at their desks.
“What about side bangs?” Zoe asks.
“What are you even—”
“For myfringe.” She sounds exasperated now. As if I’m the problem and not our surroundings. “Be more helpful. I thought you’d be good at this.”
“Why would you think that?”
