Page 7 of Ice Queen

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I have a sister. And I’d hope that if she ever found herself in a similar situation, someone would come along and help her get away without being an asshole themselves.” I let his words sink in, my teeth pressing into my lower lip as I softly nip at them.

I watch as his hands loosen on the steering wheel, his long, thick fingers tap rhythmically against the sides of it, clearly trying to figure out what to say next.

I beat him to it. The discomfort of not wanting to inconvenience him any further wins out. “You can just drop me off at the bus station. It’s right up the street,” I whisper so softly I’m not even sure he heard me.

I’m proven wrong when he scoffs, slowing to a stop at a light. When he turns to look at me, I press myself against the door.

“And that.” He juts his chin in my direction. “Is exactly why I won’t be doing anything of the sort.”

The light turns green, and he presses down on the gas, moving the car through a town that I'm assuming from the rental, he’s not a resident of, with ease. I watch the familiar landmarks pass by, except now they look different.

They look tarnished, reminders of all that’s transpired over the last four years. The way I let myself be molded and formed into what he wanted me to be, what his family expected me to be. Now, I’m constantly questioning what's real and what’s made up in my head, wondering if it’s me that’s insane.

“I just need to get to the airport. I was going to take the bus.” It’s impossible to hide the shake in my voice.

He tenses, shoulders creeping up to his ears, before he exhales forcefully through his nose. “No, I’ll take you.”

“I can’t let you do that, it’s an hour from here!” I’ve already inconvenienced him enough. There’s no way I’m letting him drive me an hour to Colorado Springs.

“Princesa, please,” he says, shooting me a look that mixed with the stretched out way he made those s’s roll off his tongue, completely scrambles my brain.

All the fight drains out of me when I realize it’s a plea, someone I just met is pleading for me to do what’s best for myself. I don’t even know why he’s calling me that, but I guess it’s better than telling him my name. This way, he can’t think about how pathetic Kaitlyn is. Jesus, how far have I let myself fall?

“One day, our paths will cross again,” he says like it’s a fact. “I hope at that point that you’ve built a life that you’re proud of, far away from the man who, I assume, hurt you.”

He makes a right, merging onto the interstate that leads away from our small mountainous town. His brows pull together and down over his eyes as he focuses on the road. Clearly lost in thought, there’s a heaviness to him that has me questioning if there’s more to why he’s helping me than just his sister. But before I can analyze him any further, he breaks the silence again.

“That would be the best form of a thank you I’ve ever gotten. Live for you, it’s your time.” His voice softens on the last part.

Something in my chest stutters, as if his words dug straight into my chest and built themselves a home in the places I forgot existed long ago.

Live for you.

My first instinct is to apologize for ruining his night, for needing help. For not knowing who I am without someone else telling me.

My fingers curl against the fabric of my jeans. What if I go back? Would this stranger regret helping me if I did?

And why the hell does it even matter? I’ll never see him again.

But it does.

Even now, after years of mental beatdowns, I’m still measuring myself by how useful I am to the people around me. I don’t even know what I want. Only what I’m good for.

Yet, here in the darkness of the car, with the world passing by like a time warp, there’s something so unfamiliar beneath my panic. A small, traitorous, epically dangerous spark of hope, one that tells me this is the right move. That this is what’s best for me, and I’m allowed to make that decision. The feeling terrifies me more than Wyatt ever did.

I swallow hard, forcing a deep breath through my nose, quietly, of course. I don’t want to bother him with the chaos waging war inside me. He’s already done enough. He doesn’t need my confusion, my fearful gratitude, or my quiet desperation to be enough to stand on my own.

Before I know it, we’re pulling into the airport. I don’t know where this road leads, but as I get out of the car, my lip trembles.

My voice cracks when I whisper, “Thank you.” My fingers immediately find the handle of my backpack, folding it back and forth.

He gives me a solitary nod and a quick flash of a smile, that’s all I let myself have before I hurriedly turn and walk inside.

“I’ll take the first flight to somewhere warm,” I tell the lady at the ticket counter.

She smiles. “Is Tampa Bay, okay?”

Tampa Bay. I find myself biting down on my lip, trying to starve off my smile, but it grows too fast, too big to contain. “Yes, ma’am. That’s perfect.”