Page 6 of Christmas With the Jerk

“Right, so we’re driving to Boston now, Dad.” Christ. “I bought a one-way flight out of there on Thursday afternoon, a little later than the last one. Since our flight was canceled, they won’t honor our original flight back.”

Silence stretches momentarily on the other end, and I brace myself.

“Driving? That’s going to take too long,” he says, his voice tight with disapproval. “You can’t afford to miss this, Thorne. I know you know that.”

“I know, Dad. We’ll get there in time. That's why we have to drive. There were no flights that would get us there in time. We even looked into driving to other airports and the timing wouldn't work out.”

“You’d better. You know I have a lot riding on you getting this account.”

I grip the wheel a little tighter, my jaw clenching. “I understand that.” I try to keep my voice calm so Woodley doesn't think my Daddy is scolding me about work.

“I made a sizable investment in this company for you to get this job. Don’t make me regret that. You need to keep it not only for the sake of having a job, but I don't want to lose my money.”

There it is. The unspoken reminder. I’m not here because of my qualifications or my brilliance. I’m here because he pulled the strings. I can practically hear him looking down his nose at me through the phone.

“I got it,” I mutter, the words bitter in my mouth. “I’ll handle it.”

“You’d better. Call me when you get there.” The line goes dead.

I let out a long breath, dropping my hand from the wheel. That phone call wasn’t helpful, and I’m not sure he meant it to be. More like a threat. I’m already doing everything I can. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.

“Everything okay?” Woodley asks, her tone neutral. She’s still staring out the window, but I know she heard every word of that conversation. My dad was practically yelling into the phone and she’s not the type to miss anything.

“Fine,” I mutter.

She doesn’t say anything else. The silence between us feels heavier now, the weight of the hours ahead pressing down on us. Sixteen hours in this metal prison. Sixteen hours to think about how screwed I’ll be if we don’t get to Boston in time.

“Look,” I say, more to fill the silence than anything, “I know you think I don’t take this seriously, but I need to get to Boston just as much as you do.”

Woodley shifts slightly, still looking out the window. “It’s not about what I think, Thorne. It’s about getting the job done.”

I glance at her. Her voice is quieter than usual, the edge softening just a bit. Maybe I’m not the only one feeling the pressure here. But that doesn’t mean she’s going to cut me any slack.

The GPS chimes again, reminding us of the hours ahead, and I let out a sigh. It’s going to be a long night.

THREE

Woodley

You'll be doing alright / With your Christmas of white / But I'll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas.

Wednesday, December 20

Somewhere on I-81 North

1:12 am

My eyes areheavy as I drive, despite popping gummy worms, which I guess aren’t known for their no-doze properties. I blink hard, trying to fight the drowsiness weighing down my lids, but it’s no use. Soft Christmas music is playing through the radio feels like a lullaby, only making me more tired. “All I Want For Christmas Is You” by Mariah Carey comes on. Ironic, considering that all I want for Christmas is to get as far away from this car and Thorne Chilton as humanly possible.

I nod off for just a second—maybe two—before the car jerks violently, startling me back awake. My heart pounds in my chest, my hands gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping grounding me to this earth.

Shit! That scared me to death. Okay, I've got this. Come on, Woodley. You can do this.

I glance over at Thorne, still sleeping soundly in the passenger seat, completely oblivious to the fact that I almost killed us both. Thank God. Of course he’s asleep. Of course he gets to doze off without a care in the world while I’m stuck driving through this mess in the middle of the night.

Tightening my grip, I curse under my breath. He got the first leg of the trip, when it was still light out and the snow wasn’t coming down in sheets. At that point the drive seemed bearable, with only light snow dusting our windshield.

Now, I’m the one left to navigate through this white nightmare while he snores peacefully beside me. The GPS says we’re still more than six hours away from our hotel in Boston. And the sky is dumping snow, blurring the edges of the road, slushing under my tires.

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