Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
River was good to me when we talked about my ex. I can do the same for him.
I take another chance, setting a hand on his shoulder. This feels important to say for many reasons. “I still hate what Hayden did to you,” I say, gently. “I know you’re over it. I know it was a long time ago. But I want you to know that just like you hate Ezra, I hate Hayden.”
Now that I’ve voiced that, it’s like I’m speaking another language. Maybe an interpreter can translate for me: I don’t like your ex because he took you away from me, and treated you badly, and I would never treat you like that. If you gave me a chance, I’d be incredible to you.
Can River decipher the sentence?
The corner of his lips twitches. “You do?”
“I do,” I say, then squeeze his shoulder. Touching him feels so good. Maybe it does to him too, since he breathes out harder, and I hope that the same sensations running down my arm are running down his as well.
River jerks his face to me, locking our eyes for a few seconds, before he returns to the road. “Look at us, hating each other’s exes through all the years.”
All the years.
Yup, that’s what we have. So many years between us. So many pasts.
And the future of our friendship.
That’s the risk.
But I believe in the reward. I want the reward. I hope he does too.
“That’s what friends do,” I say, letting go of him.
“That’s definitely what they do. Friends,” River says, adding the last word maybe for emphasis, but it comes out a little wistful.
A little lonely too.
I want to tell River that if he’d let me be his lover, I’d be his friend as well. I don’t think I could abandon him ever.
I don’t have it in me.
Our conversation slows, then fades to silence as River focuses on the road. The sky turns whiter, the clouds swell, and the hint of snow is hardly a hint anymore—more like a damn billboard, flashing against the sky. White blankets the horizon. I check my weather app once more as a green sign looms on the side of the road. Markleeville—twenty miles.
My glasses slide down my nose, and I push them higher, peering at the forecast.
The weather says one thing and one thing only.
“So . . .” I begin.
“Yes?” River asks.
“The forecast calls for snow. And more snow. And then some more.”
He goes to that quiet place again, the one where I’m left guessing. The place I’m spending a lot of time in today.
And in this quiet spot, my mind operates as a train depot too, returning to Clueless and all the lessons from it.
I suppose the biggest one is when Alicia Silverstone sees what’s been in front of her all along in Paul Rudd.
My chest swells with new hope.
The hope that River will see that too.
The guy who’s been in front of him all along.
8
RIVER
Things that are fast—cheetahs. Supersonic jets. Snow falling outside Tahoe late on a Friday afternoon.
Make that evening.
The clock ticks past five as I hit the turn signal for the Markleeville exit, and we head down the exit ramp, coated in a dusting of flakes.
“We’ll just be in and out like a Bugatti,” I say tightly, since driving in shitty weather is zero fun. Especially driving a car meant for the city, rather than the mountains. The last twenty miles on the highway took an hour. As soon as the snow began, traffic slowed and cars slogged.
“Definitely. Open the cupboards, turn on the faucets, and then we’ll beat the snow,” Owen says, then he turns to me. “You okay?”
“Why do you ask?” The question comes out at Mach speed.
He points to my hands. “You’re kind of death-gripping the steering wheel. Which I get. I’d probably do the same too. But I just wanted to see if you were hanging in there,” Owen says, a note of concern in his voice. I know that tone. It’s the one he uses as the press guy with his ballplayers on the team, when he’s looking out for them, making sure they’re okay.
The man is seriously good at taking care of others.
Especially since a cursory glance at my hands shows he’s right. My knuckles are white. “Guess I’m a little tense,” I admit, then stretch my neck right and left, and loosen my grip. “My Honda is small. It’s not one of those monster trucks that eat up dirt and snow for breakfast.”
“Can you even imagine driving one of those tanks in the city? You’d never be able to impress me with your parallel-parking skills in one of those,” he says, upbeat, a smile on his face again as I turn on the road through town, bathed in white already, like it’s getting ready to pose for a cute mountain town postcard.