Page 53 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies
I sing every song I know without a verse about poor choices.
Gabe giggles at a chorus he likes.
Luca frowns at the snow as if he can reason with it.
The Subaru climbs.
Dotted lines vanish into white wash.
The slope lifts its chin.
I tap the brake and the pedal answers with a grumble.
“Not far,” I tell the car and the boys and the universe. “We are not far.”
Cell service drops without a goodbye.
The GPS stares like I betrayed it.
The mountains shrug.
Nonna said these hills are older than our pride; they do not bend for anyone who forgets humility.
I slow.
I consider turning back.
I consider the tote on the seat, six loaves that smell like Christmas and chances.
I consider two small boys who deserve to see their mother try when no one is watching.
Snow thickens until the air feels like wool.
Wipers sing their tragic opera.
I let the tires find the ruts left by braver wheels and follow their story up the road.
“Almost,” I say, because sometimes saying it makes it true. “Almost there.”
We are almost nowhere.
We are in a white room where trees are ghosts and the road is memory.
A curve appears without warning.
The incline asks a question.
The tires kiss something slick and decide to dance.
The car jerks left, then right, then left again.
My stomach drops.
I steer into the slide like a woman who took one winter lesson at nineteen and once drove a delivery van on a dare.
The Subaru fishtails.
The nose kisses a drift.
