Page 7 of Christmas With the Jerk

It’s a winter wonderland for most, I'm sure. The only thing surrounding us are twinkling lights in the far-off distance, peeking out from the occasional farmhouse that is shrouded in blue snow and darkness.

We pass through tiny towns that seem to have been forgotten by time, towns with Christmaswreaths hanging on lampposts and half-lit decorations in front yards. Normally, this would make me feel nostalgic, getting me in the mood for the holiday.

But not tonight. Tonight, I hate everything about it.

My heartbeat is finally coming down to a normal rate. The adrenaline from nearly crashing is wearing off, too. Which makes me scared I'll doze off again. Next time I might not be so lucky.

Another gust of wind blows across the highway, making the snow swirl like a tornado, and my heart races again.

I can’t keep doing this.

I’m not going to make it if I have to drive all night in these conditions.

I can barely see the lines on the road, let alone stay awake.

Out of habit at this point, I pop another gummy worm in my mouth, hoping that will buy me some more time. The sour and sweet make my mouth water.

Thorne shifts beside me, turning in his seat, but he doesn’t wake up. Figures. Of course, he’d be able to sleep through this storm. Wouldn't it be nice to not have to worry about anything too much to have to be bothered. No real responsibility, no pressure. He was born with the Chilton name, and that’s all he needs to get by.

Some of us aren’t so fortunate. I have to remind myself sometimes that I chose this job, this path. What others do or don’t do shouldn’t matter. I keep my eye on the prize.

I swallow my resentment, but it burns in my throat. I’ve worked for everything, fought my way up the ladder, and I’m proud of that grit. My fingers grip the steering wheel tighter as the car slides slightly on the snow-covered road.

I need to pull over. There's no way around it.

Thorne snores blissfully. The bastard.

According to the GPS, we’re somewhere, just past what I think was Harrisonburg,Virginia. It’s remote, and the highway feels endless—just us and the snow.

I've got to find a hotel. Hell, I'll even take a shady motel. Anywhere with a bed and some running water. And hopefully heat.

The GPS chirps, rerouting us onto a side road due to some accident up ahead. Of course. As if this couldn’t get worse. We veer onto a dark,narrowroad, the snow covering any signs of civilization. There’s nothing out here, no gas stations, no restaurants, just endless, empty fields blanketed in white.

Thorne’s snoring is escalating.

Surely there has to be a hotel somewhere.

I squint, trying to make out something in the distance. After what feels like hours, I finally spot a small neon motel sign lit up on the side of the road.

The building looks old, the kind of place you’d only stop at if you had no other options. And that is exactly where we are right now: out of options.

“Thorne,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. He groans but doesn’t wake up.

“Thorne!” I say louder this time, but still nothing. He’s completely out, his head lolling to the side. He was talking in his sleep, something about apple cider and teddy bears and I almost choked on my gum. Maybe he still has visions of sugar plums dancing over his head.

Fine. I’m making the decision and he will just have to deal.

I pull off the road, slowing down as I approach the motel. The snow is falling even harder now, piling up in the parking lot. I glance over at him, wanting to shake him awake. To make him go in with me in case a mass murderer is behind the desk. But he isn’t budging and I’m making the executive decision.

The Evergreen MotorLodge

2416 Old Highway 11, Harrisonburg, VA

2:17am

I can't helpbut notice how absurdly light the bright orange plastic key feels in my hand… As though it belongs to a time when motels like this were actually considered nice.

The plastic tag attached to it, rounded by years of life, says Room 6. The gold numbers are faded, and I half wonder how many hands have held this exact key over the last one hundred years. Or, how many copies are floating out there in rural Virginia. I can almost hear the banjos playing in the distance.

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