Page 85 of Seeds of Christmas
The truck is already loaded. Carter’s in the driver’s seat, engine running, staring straight ahead.
Snow cling to the pine branches like powdered sugar, and everything smells clean and sharp—the kind of cold that stings your nose
I climb into the passenger seat and close the door.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
He puts the truck in gear and we start driving.
Away from the cabin. Away from the thermal sites. Away from the place where, for a brief and stupid moment, I thought I could be someone different.
The silencein the truck is suffocating.
I stare out the window at the passing trees, watching the forest give way to the road we took on the way up. It feels like a lifetime ago. Like we were different people then.
Or, maybe, I was just better at pretending.
Carter hasn’t said a word since we left. Just drives, hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw set. The tension radiating off him in the tight set of his shoulders.
I want to say something. Anything. But every time I open my mouth, the words dissolve before I can speak them.
What would I even say?
I’m sorry I’m like this? I’m sorry I can’t be what you need?
I’m sorry I’m afraid of losing myself? I’m sorry I’m too scared to let myself have good things?
None of it sounds right. All of it sounds like excuses.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Service came back about an hour ago, and texts have been trickling in ever since. My mom. My dad. All of them wishing me Merry Christmas, asking how the research is going, hoping I’m having fun.
I haven’t opened any of them.
I can’t deal with their cheerfulness right now. Can’t pretend everything is fine when I’m sitting in a truck with someone who can barely stand to be in the same vehicle as me.
Someone I did this to.
Carter’s hands tighten on the steering wheel.
We’ve been drivingfor maybe forty minutes when Carter finally breaks.
“Okay, I can’t do this anymore.” His voice is tight. Controlled. But I can hear the edge underneath. “What’s wrong?”
My stomach drops. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“Rhi.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You’ve barely said two words to me in two days. You won’t look at me. You flinch every time I get too close.” He’s still staring straight ahead at the road, but his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. “So either I did something to piss you off, or—I don’t know. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say again, because what else can I say?
Everything’s wrong. I’m wrong. This is wrong. I’m terrified, and I don’t know how to stop being terrified, and I’m hurting you to protect myself, and I hate that I’m doing it, but I don’t know how to stop.
“Fine.” The word comes out flat. Final. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t talk about it.”
