Page 34 of Secret Nights and Northern Lights
Eventually, I’m left with no other choice but to close my notebook or risk filling all the pages with indistinguishable four-legged drawings that could be cat, cow, or alien life-form.
Two seconds after I do, Ben’s voice breaks the silence. “About last night…”
Shit.
“You left in kind of a rush. Did I do something wrong? Because the last thing I want is for you to feel uncomfortable on this trip.” He hesitates, and then, softer, “Uncomfortable around me.”
Uncomfortable? That’s the polar opposite of what I feel when I’m with Ben. And therein lies the problem. I’m sharing his fries when I need to be keeping my walls up, but he makes it so goddamn hard. This trip makes it so goddamn hard. I turn in his direction, and he tosses a worry-ridden glance my way. “I couldneverfeel uncomfortable with you, Ben.”
Tension seeps from his shoulders as he says, “Okay, good,” and turns his focus back to the road ahead.
As the car falls quiet again, I study Ben’s profile—golden brown hair curling around the edges of a black beanie, pouty lower lip he worries between his teeth, three-day-old growth covering the sharp edge of his jawline.
Yeah, it’s not Ben I don’t trust.
It’s me.
* * *
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”
While not my most articulate declaration, they’re the only words I have as Ben and I sit in a bus with the largest wheels ever—like a monster truck, I imagine, although admittedly, I don’t frequent the monster truck scene—which drives us up the side of the volcano. We’re accompanied by two guides: Fridrik, a twentysomething blond with pale blue eyes who is intently focused on getting this monster bus up the volcano, and Natalia, a pretty twentysomething woman with wavy brown hair who sits in the row beside ours and fills Ben in on her entire life story. As for me, I’m too busy staring out the window at the steep incline of volcanic ash and murmuringOh my godon repeat to partake in any real conversation.
Ben and I bounce along in our two-person bus seat, and a realization strikes me out of nowhere: I, Mona Miller, am a complete and total badass.
It’s a feeling I know won’t last, so while my endorphins are flowing, I soak it in by snapping a selfie in my bright orangethermal jumpsuit provided by the tour company and texting it to the twins to rub my newly discovered badass-ness in their faces. It’s still early in New York so fingers crossed I woke them up on their day off.
I’m zipping my phone back in the pocket of my jumpsuit when two specific words from Natalia catch my attention:northern lights.
Jerking my head around, I rudely interrupt Natalia’s story about the lights frightening her when she was a child. “Excuse me, but have you seen them yet this season? I want to see aurora more than anything while we’re here.”
“No,” Natalia says with a pitying tone. “It’s still early. Maybe in a few weeks.”
But I won’t be here in a few weeks, I want to plead with her. As if Natalia controls the solar flares or whatever science-y stuff determines the northern lights’ visibility. While it’s never guaranteed to see the lights anytime of year, everything I read online suggests the best chance is between September and April, so I’m not willing to give up hope yet.
“We’re here,” Fridrik announces from the driver’s seat, cutting the engine and exiting the monster bus without another word. Picking up my badass helmet, I follow Ben and Natalia down the aisle.
“Oh my god,” I announce one more time as I step down onto crunchy ice, the frigid air burning my exposed cheeks and nose.
We’ve arrived at the tip of the glacier, where solid-white sheets of ice ooze down over the gravelly, coal black mountain of ash like icing dripping from the top of a cake. The vibrant green peaks I’ve grown accustomed to are now rolling hills in thedistance far below us, the wispy gray heavens the only thing above. My gaze collides with Ben’s, and again there’s a flash of excitement in his eyes that echoes the same sentiment within me.
Since it’s only the four of us—which I assume has to do with Around the Globe Media being the entity that booked this tour—the guides allow Ben to take some photos before we make our way over to a line of twenty-plus snowmobiles.
“Take your pick,” Fridrik says, moving his arm in a sweeping motion down the row.
“Wait.” I stop in place. “We’re each driving ourownsnowmobile?”
“This is a snowmobile tour,” Fridrik replies, matter-of-fact.
“Yes, but I thought we’d be riding with you two. The guides. The professionals who drive these things every day.”
“No.” Fridrik pulls on his helmet, already straddling his chosen vehicle. “We don’t drive guests. You sign up for a snowmobile tour, you drive a snowmobile.”
“These are two-seaters,” I add, scrambling for any justification as to why I assumed that I, personally, would not be driving one of these things.
“Yes.” Fridrik, who doesn’t seem to either realize or care about my increasing trepidation, says bluntly, “Sometimes our guests bring along children who are too young to drive.”
Is he purposely comparing me to a child?
