Page 269 of The Hopelessly Bromantic Duet
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 toCluelessand 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 heuses 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 acute mountain townpostcard.
I’m so grateful for the distraction of talking. It makes driving in these conditions more bearable. “Is that all it takes to impress you? Parallel parking?”
“Maybe I’m easy,” he says.
“Ha. Things no one ever said about you.”
Owen just smiles. Like that comment pleases him. I kind of want to linger on how he looks when he’s happy, but mostly I just want to get out of this damn car soon.
“Hey,” Owen begins. “I never once asked if you wanted me to drive. Do you want me to drive?”
I laugh, shake my head. “No way.”
“Because you think I’m a terrible driver?”
“No. BecauseI’ma terrible passenger,” I say.