Page 13 of Snowbound

I’m sure he’s the kind of guy who, if you take your car to him, can fix it without even having to look at what’s wrong with it. I would be surprised if he didn’t know his stuff. It’s what makes my car being out of order even more painful. There’s no reason why he would lie to me about it.

It’s not like he wants to keep me around.

After all, the look he gave me when he suggested that I stay with him wasn’t exactly one of happiness and generosity. It was one of doing what needed to be done.

When we pull up to his house, I have to suppress a gasp. It’s a beautiful place with wood siding and a dark roof, the kind of place that looks like it’s been hand built with love. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it himself.

He has a small garage, but he doesn’t open it. He probably has another car in there. I would almost go so far as to say maybe his wife’s car is in there. But he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who has a wife, and I didn’t notice a ring. He’s a loner. That much is obvious.

He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t need to rely on anyone and wouldn’t thank you for suggesting that he might want to.

“We’re here,” he says as he kills the engine. “Come on. I’ll show you inside.”

He slams the truck door shut behind him and unlocks his front door. Tentatively, I get out too, and he gestures for me to go in. I step into his warm hallway and shiver at the difference from the cold. It smells of firewood and pine and immediately makes me feel safe and comfortable. It’s a very welcoming home for someone who clearly lives alone.

“Oh,” I say, realization making my stomach flip. “My bags are in my car. All my things…”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, ushering me further in. “You can borrow some pajamas for tonight. We can go over to the shop in the morning to get your things.”

“Thank you,” I say softly as my head spins. If this was a date, I’d say we were moving way too fast. Wearing his pajamas? Isn’t that a weird thing for a stranger to do?

But it’s that or sleep naked, I guess, and I don’t really want to do that in a stranger’s house either.

He leads me up the stairs to his spare room. It almost looks like a show home in here. The bed is made: the sheets a rustic beige plaid, a small red blanket folded at the foot of it. A tiny armchair sits by the window, a perfect place for a guest to sit and look out at the scenery, and the dresser looks like it’s been cut out of a single oak tree.

But a fine layer of dust sits on the bedside table, and I can’t help but wonder when the last time was that he had any guests over.

“Make yourself at home,” he says. “I’ll get you a towel for the bathroom. “I’m sure you want to clean up after everything.”

“Yeah. Thank you.” He frowns, and I can almost hear him thinking that I sound like a broken record for saying it over and over again, but I am grateful. I have nothing else to say but my thanks.

He darts out of the room and comes back with two white towels. It fits. He’s a meticulous kind of guy, I think. The kind of person who likes everything to be in its proper order. Having me here must be a nightmare for him. I’m completely throwing off his routine.

Giving me one last look, he excuses himself and shuts the door behind him as he leaves, and I’m left in the silence of someone else’s house. It’s awkward to be here. I barely want to breathe in case I’m taking up too much space, but I do want to shower. I need to feel clean.

I stand frozen on the spot for another moment, then give in and head to the bathroom to turn the shower on. While it warms up, I toss my clothes on the floor, then step into the warm water.

It rushes over me in a torrent, and for the first time all day, I can almost forget all my worries.

I know that the second I step back outside, a nightmare will be waiting for me, but I don’t want to think of that now. I’m going to take things one step at a time, and my step right now is to get clean. There’s only one bottle of soap in here, so I save washing my hair until I can buy some shampoo. Soap isn’t unwelcome, though. It’s clean and fresh-smelling, and I almost feel human after washing with it.

But I can’t keep pushing off the inevitable forever. Finally, I get out of the shower and wrap myself in a towel, pulling it tightly around me. I’m not looking forward to putting my clothes back on, but it’s not like I can borrow anything from Gabe.

At least, that’s what I think.

When I emerge back into the room, a pair of jeans, a couple of shirts, and a sweater are lying folded on the bed. I approach it tentatively, feeling a little weird. Why does Gabe have women’s clothes?

He’s not a creep, is he? He definitely hasn’t given me that vibe so far. Maybe he has a sister or something.

I pick up the sweater. It’s a little big for me, but it’ll do.

I also notice one of his shirts folded up on the pillow as if he’s trying to say,Here you go. Pajamas. I can’t help but smile at that.

Putting on fresh clothes feels good, but nothing can stop the fear inside my chest at knowing that I have to look at my voicemails. Fortunately, the house must be underneath a satellite or something, because I finally manage to get a couple of bars of signal.

I have seventeen missed messages and four voicemails.

The bride told me she was going to call me this evening, and no doubt she’s furious that I’ve blown off our engagements. Not that I think she should have any right to contact me before our meeting in my own personal time, but I live to please these people.

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