Page 91 of Blame it on the Bet
I can’t believe it’s nearly Easter and I’m here trying to drive through freaking snowmageddon. According to Walker’s latest text, I should be out of this mess in about forty-five miles. But that’s a long haul with poor visibility and a road that’s icing thicker and slicker with every passing second.
Okay. Eye on the prize, Bryan. Eye on the prize.
I’m going to get to St. Paul safe and sound. Right? Right.
I reach over and pull out a mammoth chocolate chip cookie from the bakery bag Janet left for me, and cram it into my mouth. Its soft, buttery goodness sends a delightful burst of sugar fuel into my bloodstream. I pop the CD Bailey gave me into the player and brace myself for an onslaught of Katy Perry and Justin Bieber. I’m stunned when the interior of the car is filled with Peter Gabriel.
“Love, I get so lost, sometimes…”
Wait. What?
How could this girl—a child, really—have chosen the perfect song for this insane quest? How does she even know this song? I was just a kid when it came out. She wasn’t even born! I flash on that stupid movie with John Cusack holding his boom box outside of Ione Skye’s window, serenading her like some twentieth-century minstrel. It was a terrible movie, but the scene is iconic. And isn’t it exactly what I’m about to do? Stand outside of Hennessy’s window with my heart in my hands, hoping she’ll be moved by the same feelings that are shredding my insides to pieces right now?
“In your eyes, the light the heat. In your eyes, I am complete…”
“Oh my God,” I mutter. “What am I doing?”
I slap my palm on the steering wheel. Big mistake. It’s so loose that the slight motion causes the old Jeep to swerve.
Which causes the tires to catch a particularly nasty patch of black ice. Which causes me to slam on the brakes. Which I wasn’t supposed to do. Next thing I know, I’m gliding across three lanes—thankfully empty at this hour in this weather— and executing a slow-motion 180 off the highway and into a snow bank.
By the time the car comes to a complete stop, I’m breathing heavy and covered from head to toe in a cold sweat. The thermos and snacks are now scattered on the floor of the passenger side.
“Jeez…” I murmur on an exhalation, resting my head on my hands, which are still glued to the wheel.
“Hey! Hey, you all right?”
For the second time tonight, I jump at the sound of someone rapping on my window, looking up to find a burly guy with a Twins baseball cap peering in at me through the frosted glass. I manage to get the window rolled down.
“Uh…yeah. I think so…”
“Man, I saw you cross the highway. You was lucky there weren’t nobody else out here! What you doing out in this mess, brother?”
“A girl.”
I don’t know what makes me say it, but it’s the only answer I have.
He doesn’t so much as blink.
“Ah, well, then. Let’s get you on your way. I’m Woody,” he informs me.
“Bryan.”
“’Kay, Bryan, try easing yourself out of the snow bank…” He spends the next few minutes guiding me back and forth, inch by inch, until I’ve extricated the jeep and stuffed my heart back down into my chest, where it belongs. “Right then, good job, Bryan. You headed to the Twin Cities?”
I nod dumbly.
“I’m going that way, too. Why don’t you pull up behind my rig and follow behind me the rest of the way. We’ll take it nice and slow, ’kay?”
“Yeah… Yeah, thanks, Woody, that’d be great. Here…”
I pull the bag of muffins from next to me and hand it to him through the window. A huge grin fills his face, and I see he’s missing more than a few teeth.
“Little Slice of Heaven—I love that place!”
He walks down the shoulder to where he’s parked and hops back up into the cab of his truck. In a few seconds, I’ve recovered enough of my courage to move forward slowly and align myself with his rear wheels. It’s not until we both pull out and continue southward that I see the logo on the back of his truck. I feel my breath catch in my throat. Again.
It’s a pair of wings over the words:
