Page 125 of Demo
“Yeah … no. Your car is shit in the snow.”
She sighs, knowing I’m right, but I can see she’s going to put up a fight. “Knox, I can’t just leave my car here. I parked in the emergency area. They will probably tow it, or at least ticket it.”
“Here,” I hand her my keys. “Go start the truck. Give me your keys, and I’ll give them to Bram. He can take your car back to the house after the snow stops. He’s gonna have to get their car anyway because they need the car seat.”
Lizzie pauses a second, then concedes.
I make quick work of running the keys back inside to Bram and when I get back outside and approach the truck, I see her standing outside leaning against the tailgate. “Why are you just standing out here?” I ask as I take the keys from her, hit the unlock button—but it’s already unlocked—and hop into the driver’s seat to start the truck.
I hear a mumble from Lizzie, who hasn’t budged, then I reach behind me to grab the snow brush before getting back out. “Come again?” I ask as I start aggressively swiping the snow from the roof and windshield.
“I can’t get in there.”
“Where?”
“The spaceship,” she says with an eye roll, then, “the truck!” she barks. “The front seat of your truck.”
I look around me, like I’m missing something. “What? Why not?”
She’s quiet for a moment, as she just looks at me. Then she takes a deep breath and looks away. “It’s the scene of the crime, Knox.”
The scene of what …Then it hits me. “Oh, shit,” I say, shaking snow off my hair. “I didn’t …”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t really think about it either, until I was standing with the passenger side door wide open, and images started running through my head.”
“Shit,” I interrupt her. Realizing there’s not much I can do to make the situation better right now, I tell Lizzie, “You drive.”
She shakes her head and opens her mouth like she’s about to protest, but I cut her off. “If you focus on driving in this shit, you can’t possibly think about anything else. And I know you can handle the truck in the snow. You drive.” I walk around to the passenger side, finishing brushing off the truck, and hop in just as she does the same on the driver’s side.
We buckle up, and Lizzie adjusts her seat while awkward static fills the truck cab. It’s thick, just like the snow, and I’m not sure what’s worse, the storm outside or the one brewing in here.
She navigates the truck out of the parking lot, and we crunch right over the packed snow on the road as we approach the highway. I see the light for the anti-lock brakes flash a few times as we merge onto the highway, but Lizzie is good about applying slow, steady pressure, so we don’t have a problem. But the snowfall is getting heavier and the roadway is getting more covered as we progress.
We are silent, no radio on, as her pace gradually slows to accommodate the declining weather. Once or twice when Lizzies has to brake slowly to let a car merge, I can feel the traction slip, but other than that, the tires maintain their grip on the road.
The wipers are set at their fastest speed as huge, wet flakes splatter on the windshield, and also against the side windows, darkening the cab. Although Lizzie and I are still quiet, it suddenly seems very loud in here, as the sounds of the wipers going back and forth, the tires crunching through the snow, the heat blasting out of the vents, and our own breathing fills the air.
This is so fucked up. This isn’t us. This isn’t us, at all. And it’s all my fault.
My fingers flex and curl as they ache to reach out and touch her.
“Lizzie,” I start to say, but then I see brake lights ahead of us, and a few cars spin out to either side of the highway, and I hear her suck in a breath through her teeth as the rear of the truck fishtails, first left, then right, before we are eventually spun around so we are facing the wrong way, watching as an SUV slides sideways, slowly, in our direction and—by some miracle—stops about two feet away. We make eye contact with the driver and passenger in that vehicle, exchanging a sigh of relief.
“Knox,” Lizzie says to me, and I look over at her. I didn’t realize I had reached my arm out over her chest to keep her from lurching forward, with my other arm braced on the dash.
“Yeah?”
“Get your hand off my boob. And don’t try to talk to me while I’m driving in this shit, OK?”
“Yeah,” I say, pulling my arm back. “No problem.”
***
After about forty-five more minutes of white-knuckle driving, Lizzie navigates us back to the apartment and, to my surprise, pulls right into the lot to park. When I look at her with raised eyebrows, she simply says, “You can’t drive home in this. And, besides,” she unlocks her seatbelt and lets it aggressively retract, “I need a drinking buddy.” Then she opens the door and jumps out.
“OK, but you know I don’t usually drink much these days,” I retort.
“No, but you can watch me do it.” She slams the door.
