Page 8 of My Holiday Hookup Road Trip

FOUR

Sebastian

What’s wrong withme? More like what’s wrong withher?

It’s not like I stole her fucking rental. Rochelle wasn’t going to offer her this car. As it often does, my uniform opened a door that would’ve stayed closed if I’d been in jeans and a T-shirt. But the tight-lipped woman ignoring me from the passenger seat doesn’t seem to be in the mood for a debate about it.

Christ, what did I do last night that had her running out the door? I open my mouth to ask her, then snap it shut. What explanation could she give that’s going to improve the mood in this car? I was hoping we could both pretend like it never happened. We could be strangers stuck together in a shitty holiday travel situation. But she shot that down in about five seconds flat.

What’s wrong with you?

I wish I knew. The first girl in ages I actually liked, and it ended in tears and disaster. And now I get to inhale her shampoo and think about how cute she is in her jeans and an oversized University of Wisconsin sweatshirt for hundreds of miles.

I set the car in motion while she’s staring pointedly out her window, and as we leave Burlington in our rearview, silence becomes the third passenger.

I’ve always been guilty of making snap judgments about people and clinging to them. Some might even say I cling to my first impressions beyond what’s reasonable. My sister, for example, would remind me that I almost blew it for her when I met her boyfriend last Christmas. But wow did the woman now sullenly scrolling through her phone end up having none of the qualities I imagined she did. She went from dream girl to sobbing mess to hostile nightmare, and we’ve got fifteen hours in this car together—and that’s if we’re lucky with the weather.

The thought spikes my nerves, and I stomp on the gas. We made it out of town before the snow hit, but now, about an hour into our journey, flakes start to drift from the sky. I press my foot down harder, already calculating how much daylight we have left. It’s just past noon, so if—

“In forty-six miles, you’ll see an exit for Stilson Grove. Take it.”

“Come again?”

I glance over at her, and her eyes are straight ahead, fixed on the road. She’s traded her battered ball cap for a thick knit hat with a pompon the size of my fist. “I found a rental place with an available car.”

“You’re kidding.”

At my disbelieving scoff, she glances over, and I see in the flat line of her mouth that she’s not asking, she’s telling.

“The internet’s a miraculous thing,” she deadpans. “It’s only a short detour, and then I won’t be your problem anymore.”

I want to argue with her. Tell her the snow’s going to catch up with us if we stop at this point. Tell her it’s ridiculous for her to rent her own car when she’s already in one that’s headed in the right direction. Tell her that I need to know what I did last night that was so fucking terrible.

“You’re that desperate to run away from me again?” It slips out, and I pray she doesn’t hear the hurt curling around my words.

Thankfully, she merely exhales and says, “Just take the exit. Please.”

Why am I fighting this? I can be free of this awkward situation within the hour. I tighten my hands on the wheel and nod curtly. “Fine.”

I thought the silence was bad before? It was nothing compared to now. We drive like that for the next forty minutes, the mileposts flashing by as we barrel down the highway. I do as she asks, taking the Stilson Grove exit as the snow starts falling faster. We spend an eternity on a two-lane road that takes us into a barely-there town: a few blocks of houses, some fast-food places, a white stone courthouse on the town square, and...

“This is it?” Skepticism curls around my voice as I pull up in front of a run-down little storefront that Birdy’s phone directed us to. QUALITYCARRENTALSis painted on the big glass window, and the island of cracked asphalt around it is empty except for a rusty PT Cruiser and an oversized inflatable Santa with demonic yellow eyes.

“Apparently it is,” she says, and the instant I put it into park, she tugs her hat down over her ears and grabs the wallet she managed to unearth from the depths of one of her huge bags on our walk to the car. When she flings open the door and starts walking toward the entrance, I barely hesitate before pocketing the keys and following her inside.

“Hi,” she says once she’s in the shop, brushing snow from her sleeves and unzipping her coat. “I’m Elizabeth Denton. I’ve got an online reservation.”

“Reservation?” The piggy little eyes of the guy behind the counter travel down her body in such a gross, obvious way that I’m no longer second-guessing my decision to come inside with her.

She maintains her smile, and I’m no expert, but I don’t think it’s the real deal. Too stiff around the edges. Plus she zips her coat back up like she’s picking up the same bad vibes I am. How could she not? I’ve never seen such a sketchy place in all my days renting cars. Behind the peeling linoleum of the counter, the back wall’s only decoration is a calendar that’s three years out of date, and bafflingly, along the far side of the room sits a row of dented washers and dryers with price tags.

“Just to clarify, you’re a car rental company?” I’m still in my pilot’s jacket, but unlike Rochelle, this guy doesn’t look like he gives a shit about a uniform.

Sure enough, he curls his lip into a sneer and taps a sign bearing the name of a national car rental chain. It’s curled and dirty around the edges, but it does promise that this place is authorized. “We’re the only branch in the area.”

Birdy clears her throat and glances through the window to the mostly empty parking lot. “Great. Well, I used your website to reserve a sedan.”

The man lifts his hat to scratch at his peeling scalp. “Right. About that.” His smile’s as greasy as his forehead is dry. “Our online reservation system’s… on the fritz.”

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