Page 37 of Snow Much Trouble
Even typing it out feels ridiculous. How can you fall in love with someone in a weekend? It's not logical. It's not rational.
It's also the truest thing I've felt in years.
Ian's response takes a minute.
Then why are you still at the cabin?
Because she needs to focus on her career.
Fine. Then give up on something before it even starts. Never thought you were a quitter.
You’re a dick.
He’s also right. I’m not a quitter.
Does Lauren really want to never see me again? Or is she really just focused on her career?
The memory of last night comes back to me—the way she'd looked at me in the firelight, the way she'd laughed at my terrible jokes, the way she'd kissed me like she was memorizing the feeling.
That wasn't nothing.
I head back into the cabin, suddenly energized. I need to pack up and get home. But not before I do one more thing.
Grabbing my phone I text Lauren. Thankfully she had given me her number when we were exchanging stupid memes to pass the time.
Rule number seven: Text me when you’re home safe.
I don't expect a response because she’s driving, and I don't get one.
But that's okay. I'm not giving up on this. On us.
I just need to figure out the right way to show her that some risks are worth taking.
Even if it means completely upending my carefully planned life.
Especially if it means that.
Lauren
I make it exactly fifteen miles down the mountain and another twenty to the nearest town before I have to pull over because I’m debating turning around and going back to the cabin.
"This is ridiculous," I tell my steering wheel. "You knew him for two days. TWO DAYS."
My steering wheel, like Buck the reindeer, offers no commentary.
I idle in the parking lot of a convenience store, glancing around the small town. There is some kind of holiday festival going on. Lots of families and older folks bundled up and walking toward the center of town. Maybe I should take a stroll through the square and clear my head.
My phone is in the cupholder and I grab it. Dylan's text from an hour ago makes my chest ache.
Rule number seven: Text me when you're home safe.
Of course he's worried about me. Of course he's sweet and thoughtful even after I essentially ran out of the cabin like it was on fire.
I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I should just send a quick "will do" and leave it at that. Keep it simple, keep it clean, keep that door firmly closed.
But my traitorous fingers type.
Stopped at the holiday market in town. Need to clear my head before the drive back.
