Snow Plowed

by Abby Knox

  The driveway is narrow, rutted concrete, and needs to be replaced because it’s hell on the tires. It’s no match for my truck but it’s almost a hazard for normal vehicles. The driveway is currently covered from one end to the other with fresh snow, and something looks off. It’s not a fresh plane of white snow that drifted up against the house, as one sees in a snowstorm. Why would there be? We haven’t had a snowstorm in a while; just a lot of old snow and ice to contend with, mostly. Despite that fact, Aidan’s driveway is full of small whitish-gray piles everywhere. What in the world?

  I hop down out of my truck and trudge up to the driveway. On closer inspection, it looks like someone has put the snow there on purpose. I see scrapes in the small patches of visible concrete and ice in between the piles.

  This looks weird. Extremely weird.

  I look past his driveway to the neighbor’s house. The berm between his house and the yellow house next door has about half the snow that was there last week. It’s my job to know these things.

  I hear the front door open behind me. I swing around and there’s Photographer Boy.

  “Aidan? I have questions.”

  He’s all smiles and wearing a new coat, gloves, and even a new buffalo plaid Stormy Kromer hat with the earflaps—the preferred sub-zero-rated headwear of ice fishermen and snowmobilers in this part of the country—and tall snow boots into which he’s tucked his pajama pants.

  Because of course he’s not dressed yet. Why would anyone be dressed already at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday? I roll my eyes but can’t help the smirk on my face. Artists.

  “Nice hat. You’re a real local now,” I say.

  “Thanks,” he said. “I couldn’t say no to the earflaps. Couple of the shops were still open last night before I went home. I decided to let them outfit me instead of going to the big box store because well, shit, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  I smile. He gets points for shopping at the outfitter downtown. The stuff Bernie carries in his little shop on Jingle Bell Way is not cheap—including that cap with the ear flaps—but it’s high quality and will keep a person warm for many winters.

  “Nice,” is all I say to that, but that familiar, unsettling warm feeling is back. Crap.

  Aidan also garners extra points by approaching me with huge new disposable travel mugs, steam escaping from the vent in the lids.

  I take the travel cup. “Coffee? I’ve already had mine but there’s never enough caffeine for me.”

  He smiles, and his full lips stretch out around a set of teeth as white as the snow around us. His pink nose and cheeks tempt me to warm them with my mouth. And I’m dead sure he would welcome it, the way his eyes glint at me. His eyebrows are raised in amusement and expectation as if he’s feeling super hopeful that I’ll like what’s in that travel mug.

  “It’s hot chocolate,” he says.

  “Nice, thank you,” I say, trying so hard not to smile too big.

  “Mexican drinking chocolate. The good stuff.”

  I stare blankly. “OK. Well, chocolate is chocolate.”

  He starts on what feels like a whole prepared speech about the differences between hot cocoa and real hot chocolate and soon my eyes are glazing over and I remember why I’m here.

  And then on top of that, I see the camera strap slung over his shoulder. I was right. He was just trying to get me here to take my photo against my will.

  My inner voice reminds me, it doesn’t matter how cute he is, Ruby. Or how much he smells like cedar and peppermint, even outside on an icy cold day, or how his eyes show the sincerity of a little boy looking for approval. He’s got an agenda, don’t forget that.

  “OK, OK. Listen, it’ll take me two seconds to clear this teeny driveway, and in the meantime, any one of the neighbors on this street could have lent you their snowblower. Why do you need me?”

  His lush eyebrows quirk up at my comment. “Uh…”

  “Sure, look innocent, but I know you just wanted me to come here so you could surreptitiously snap a photo of me while I’m working.”

  I’m a nice lady. It’s not bragging to say that I’m aware of how much everyone in this town loves me. But I can be mean. Real mean.

  When his mouth opens to begin making excuses, I listen for maybe six seconds.

  “Oh, no. That’s not it. But I mean if you wanted to use this opportunity to sign a release and let me take a photo, I’d be OK with that.”

  I put on my real mean face. “Oh, I’m sure you would love that. What a perfect opportunity. Well, you listen to me, buster.” I ignore the whisper of a smile forming on his lips right now, as well as ignore the fact that I’d love nothing more than to kiss that arrogant smile right off his face. And maybe slide my tongue down his throat. “This snow wasn’t here yesterday. It was over there.” I point at the berm between the two houses. I know these neighborhoods like I know my own name, and I know that Ellison, who lives in the yellow house, religiously snow blows his driveway with precision. And to my knowledge there was not a sudden overnight dumping of snow on Holly Circle, so do you mind telling me the truth? Because I have very little time on my hands. I have actual clients—the city, the hospital, three freaking nursing homes—that need me. Old people who need visitors. The oldest resident in the entire state, as a matter of fact. She’s 106, her family needs to see her at Christmastime, do you understand that?”

  He holds up one hand in surrender because the other one is still holding his silly, scrumptious-smelling drinking chocolate or whatever. I take a sip of mine while I knit my brows together threateningly. It’s good. Really, stupid good. I hate this guy for making me drink something so ridiculously rich before I’ve had my lunch.

  No, I refuse to drink any more. I don’t care about the subtle end notes of cayenne pepper that warm my tummy.

  He laughs. Laughs! The nerve. “I’m sorry, you caught me.”

  I narrow my eyes at him even more. This is the meanest face I make and he’s not even a little bit intimidated, which makes me angrier. “I caught you doing what, Aidan?”

  He shrugs.

  I look over at the piles of snow and back at him. “Did you put that snow there yourself?”

  He shows me his teeth in a part-smile, part-grimace kind of look.

  “Why? Why would you go to all that trouble?”

  He laughs out loud. “I thought it was obvious. I wanted to see you.”

  “I told you, you can’t take my picture.”

  “That’s not why I wanted to see you.”

  “What? What are you saying?” Side note: I know what he’s saying.

  “I wanted to see you because I like you and I wanted to have hot chocolate with you. I was going to invite you inside, but I see now that you have a schedule to keep, so I won’t keep you any longer.”

  I stare at him. “Once again, learn to ask your neighbors for favors. If you told Barb and Ellison over there in the yellow house that you were scheming because you wanted to flirt with me, she would have gladly told you my favorite color, flower, flavor of coffee, favorite food. Hell, this entire town wants to see me married sooner rather than later so if you want to try again, get your shit together a little bit.”

  Aidan cocks his head at me. “Wow.”

  The realization of all the things I just said makes me want to bury myself under a pile of snow and never come out. “Oh, wow. OK, I said a lot of words. Never mind. I have to go.”

  I turn to leave and he says, “Wait, don’t go yet.”

  Annoyed, I turn and grab his hot chocolate out of his hand and head back to my truck with both cups.

  “And also, maybe put on real clothes next time you want to invite a girl over for hot chocolate. Just a thought.”

  He laughs, not the least bit affected by my ire, which makes me more indignant.

  “Are you going to at least plow the driveway? Because now I can’t get out to go take more photos of your adorable town.”

  “The town is very small! You can walk!” I shout. “But better get in
side now and put on snow pants. Your tender LA testicles are gonna freeze and fall off if you have to hoof it.”

  Before I shut my door and start the engine, I hear him shout. “What are snow pants?”

  I fire up the engine and rev it a couple of times while I grit my teeth. God, he’s a pest.

  Why isn’t he going inside? He sees me looking and waves.

  I almost feel bad I took his hot chocolate. Wait. No, I don’t. He deserved it. He threw off my schedule, that’s his punishment. I mean, he didn’t actually throw off my schedule; I was scheduled to go home and treat myself to lunch and an orgasm, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  He’s just standing there, waving at me. Waiting to see what I’ll do.

  Well fine. I am just spiteful enough that I’ll sit here through my lunch break. And anyway it won’t take that long. He’ll break. It’s way too cold to be outside in pajama pants, no matter what he’s wearing underneath.

  And why do I care what he’s wearing underneath?

  I mean, I only wonder this out of concern. I am a humanitarian after all. If he’s wearing briefs under that union suit, that should at least hold his nuts up close to his body for warmth. Boxer briefs might work too, but you gotta be careful. A lot of guys stretch those out and they don’t do any good. Wear boxers in this weather and forget about it. Only an insane person would be going loose-pencil-box in this weather.

  Oh my god, Ruby. Stop thinking about his nuts and pencil. Hmph. His fault for wearing a union suit with a flimsy button fly.

  Aidan turns, shoulders dropped, and melodramatically Charlie-Brown shuffles down the walk and back through his front door. Ha! I was right. He finally cracked and went inside.

  I should be on my way now. I’m ready to go. I’m going to go home, grab some lunch—skipping the orgasm because I’m too mad now—and be on my way to salt and sand the hospital parking lot.

  Here I go.

  Ah, hell.

  I throw the truck in gear and clear his goddamn driveway, gritting my teeth and cussing for the entire 30 seconds that it takes to do the job.

  The California boy doesn’t know about snow pants; it’s not his fault.

  Chapter 3

  Aidan

  * * *

  I’m looking up “snow pants” on Bernie’s website when my phone bleeps.

  “What’s up, Brody?” I say to my assistant.

  “I was wondering if you wanted me to do any touch-ups on the Christmas photos. You could email them to me if you want.”

  “No can do, I’m using 35-millimeter film. But here’s what I will need you to do. When I periodically overnight you the film from this shoot, you can practice learning how to use a dark room.”

  “Come on, Aidan.”

  “You want to be my assistant, this is how I do things. No photographer worth his salt doesn’t learn how to do things old school. It’s not difficult, it’s just following a recipe.”

  “I’m gonna fuck it up, man. And then you’ll have nothing to show for a week’s worth of work.”

  “Relax, man. I’ve already got more rolls than I know what to do with. If you fuck up one roll, it’s not the end of the world.”

  “Fine,” he huffs out, in a way that scrapes against my nerves.

  “I know you don’t want to hear this,” I say, “but if you want to work for the respected magazines, this is what you have to do. I’m helping you out to try to bring you to the next level. Does that make sense?”

  “Yeah, yeah I’ve heard this speech before, dude.”

  We hash out the detail and I remind him exactly where I put all the directions, and then I hang up.

  Brody can handle this. We went to art school together; I’ve seen his potential. He just needs some motivation other than money. And to let go of the pissy attitude, like he knows better than I do. I took a gamble hiring him; after art school, he went on to make his living selling scandalous photographs to tabloids. He’d made a lot of money as a paparazzo, but after he ended up causing himself and a major tabloid to get sued, he lost everything. He needed a full-time job and a steady paycheck, which is what I provide. In exchange, he’s doing all of the things around my studio and gallery that I used to have to do but didn’t want to do, which took time away from shooting on location. Answering general questions in my email inbox, managing my website and social media, and ordering supplies.

  I go back to looking up snow pants and then head over to the outfitter shop I hit last night for that one last piece that Ruby seems to think is super important. The rest of today I spend shooting the hustle and bustle of the day. Not that Christmas is super hustling and bustling.

  Tourists meander in and out of the shops on Santa Lane and Jingle Bell Way. People chat outside in the freezing cold with their coffees at Holly Jolly Bakery, seemingly immune to the temperature.

  I feel like I’ve walked into the tundra version of Mayberry. Everyone is so nice to each other.

  Even Ruby, who was trying so hard to tell me off, could at best muster an adorable annoyance. It was like being shouted at by a cartoon bunny.

  But how could I reduce someone to something as simple as a bunny when she’s got those sexy lips that curve up at the edges sort of crooked when she’s trying not to let me see her smile? Not to mention high cheekbones that glow with the bite of the winter air. Eyes that sparkle, even when she looks around nervously as I blatantly flirt with her.

  Dammit, where did she say she was working the rest of the day?

  The hospital.

  Despite my much wiser angels, my lonely horndog streak outweighs all of it. I drive to the hospital. I could let my dick do the driving, it’s making such a nuisance of itself.

  “Down boy,” I say. “I know what you want. Don’t get your hopes up, it’ll probably just be me and you tonight.”

  I retain enough of my tenuous grasp on reality that I stay back on the street, out of the way, while I watch that snowplow truck scrape, back up, shift, and scrape again all the traces of snow and ice from the last snowfall. When she’s almost done salting everything, someone comes out from inside the lobby of the hospital. It looks like a pretty woman in a very smart business suit. She’s carrying a tin of what could be Christmas cookies, and she’s waving at Ruby.

  Ruby’s truck makes a pass in front of the ER entrance and stops. She hops down from the truck and briefly talks to the woman in the suit. She hugs the woman, and the woman goes back inside. Before Ruby climbs up into her truck, she opens the tin and smells it.

  What I do next is probably going to get me into enormous trouble. It’s unethical. It’s wrong. It’s an asshole move.

  But I just…have to. I snap a picture at the moment she’s inhaling whatever wonderful Christmas scents are coming out of that festive tin. And I know in my gut it’s the perfect picture of her. The bright red bow on top of the tin, Ruby standing in front of her snowplow, a euphoric smile on her face. It conveys all one needs to know about Ruby: she’s a hard worker, she loves her town, she loves Christmas and she is beloved. That’s it.

  With nobody watching, her eyes roll back in her head in ecstasy.

  And I’m the asshole that captured it without her consent.

  What I do next is unforgivable. I follow her the rest of the afternoon. She hits three different nursing homes before she’s done.

  I don’t shoot any more photos, but I just watch her. At the first two nursing homes, more people come out to wave to her, nurses, caregivers some residents bundled up in wheelchairs.

  Why does every damn person in this town love her so much?

  Well, isn’t it obvious? You’re already in love with her, idiot.

  Not in the eternal, true love kind of way. That’s not possible. I don’t believe in love at first sight. But I do love her spirit, her friendliness, I even love the way she’s annoyed by me.

  After the second nursing home, I follow her out into the country for a few miles, and I begin to worry about being noticed. She’s going to know I’m following h
er.

  Why is she going all the way out here by herself? Does the city not have enough snowplows that a single female on her own has to risk getting stuck out here?

  I have half a mind to tell Mayor Johnson to send his men on these risky drives over miles of packed snow out in the country.

  Out here in the boonies, there’s nowhere for me to park on the street on a country highway, so I find a parking spot and hope for the best. When Ruby finishes doing her thing, she parks at the front entrance and then hops out of her truck and goes inside.

  She’s in there for a long time.

  I’m sitting in my car freezing for about 30 minutes and the temperature is starting to drop. I’m starting to understand snow pants now.

  Or maybe I just need a Ruby to keep me warm.

  Something tells me there’s a wild girl underneath that sweet exterior. With her warming me up in bed all night I could go for days in a blizzard and be unaffected.

  I’m losing my mind the longer she’s inside that nursing home. Where is she? Why is she in there? What is she doing? Is she visiting someone?

  Knowing her, they’re probably all throwing her a party.

  For some reason, this almost makes me angry. Does she not have any enemies? It’s just not possible to go through this world and have zero enemies. Or at least a nemesis. Huh. Maybe the nemesis is me? I can’t say that thought doesn’t turn me on even more.

  That’s it. I need to make a move, or just go home, watch some porn, and get her out of my system. Yeah, buddy. Because porn will take care of the Ruby-shaped chasm in your life.

  I hate it when my inner monologue sounds like a sarcastic narrator in a movie.

  After about 30 minutes, Ruby exits the nursing home and goes back to her truck. When she pauses, her mittened hand on the truck door, her facial expression is not all raindrops-on-roses. No, the Maria Von Trapp of Christmas, Michigan is sad. Really sad.

  She covers her mouth and sprints to the front end of the truck, out of view of the building’s entrance. Her hand on the door is there to steady herself, I see now.