by Leah Konen
I laugh, glad that I was generous back there. Not that I wouldn’t be. But still.
“Not because I thought you were assholes or anything,” she adds. “Just because you’re young. Anyway,” she says, running a hand through her hair, turning the music down and tapping her hand on the wheel. “Where are you guys off to? After getting the rental car?” She pulls up to a light and stops.
“Hudson,” Noah says. “Well, she is. I’m technically going to Lorenz Park.”
Selena smirks. “Maybe you two should consider going to the same place.”
Noah laughs awkwardly from the backseat as the light turns green. “She won’t even tell me why she’s going where she’s going.”
“Oh, won’t she?” Selena asks, looking at me with a genuinely friendly smile and playful eyes, like we aren’t telling her the whole story.
I shrug. “He doesn’t need to know everything. Not to mention, he’s going to win his ex-girlfriend back. He really doesn’t need to concern himself with my problems.”
Selena looks surprised for a second, but then her smile grows. She alternates between looking at me and catching Noah’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “You know, it took me and Bobby two whole years to tell each other we liked each other. Back in college. We met freshman year, but we couldn’t get it together until we were juniors.”
“Well, it worked out, didn’t it?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer, just pulls around, right up to the Enterprise. “Here we are.”
“Thank you so much,” I say.
“Seriously, you saved our asses,” Noah says.
“It’s really okay,” she says. “Glad I could help. And be careful out there. Drive slow, pull over if you need to. Be safe.”
“We will,” Noah says, and I know that he means it.
I’ve only known him for, like, five minutes, but I already know that he would never do anything to intentionally put me—or anyone—in harm’s way.
Noah grabs my suitcase in the backseat, and I reach for the door.
“Oh, and about me and Bobby, of course it worked out,” she says. “Only if I could do it all over again, I certainly wouldn’t have waited those two years.”
NOAH
5:45 P.M.
WE WALK TOWARD THE ENTERPRISE, AND I BEG THE gods of karma that this works out for her. I’m hoping we’ll get a lucky streak. That there will be a car, and I’ll get her home at a reasonable hour that’s not midnight. That everything will be all right.
Of course, even if it is, it won’t be all right for me. I know that.
My reservations are in just over an hour. My plan is shot. What I wanted to happen is not going to happen, at least not in the way I planned.
I have the wildest thought all the same.
I think—only for a second—that I wouldn’t change this if I could. These few hours together have been something special. An adventure I will tell my kids about one day.
Something I don’t want to give up.
It doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be with Rina. Or that I shouldn’t still go see her tonight, if it’s not too late.
But it doesn’t mean I’m a total robot, either.
We walk through the front door, and I catch Ammy’s eye. There’s hope there, with a touch of happiness.
A robot wouldn’t notice how beautiful she is. Wouldn’t care about whatever happened that she refuses to talk about. Or give a damn about her icy feet or the way she looked when she was sitting there reading Murakami in the gallery.
I’m no robot.
The inside is exactly what you’d expect of a car rental office, a fluorescent-lit, linoleum-floored building probably hastily put together in the eighties. There’s a sad, dingy front desk, and two guys sitting behind it.
We step up to the line. There are only two people in front of us, an older couple. From the way the guy at the desk is typing, it looks like they still have cars. They have to.
I don’t know what we’ll do if they don’t.
But I know, in some weird way, that whatever happens, we’re in this together.
I smile at Ammy, trying to be reassuring.
“You think they’ll have cars?” she asks, almost reading my mind.
“Yeah,” I say. “After the day we’ve had, they’ve got to.”
She smiles at that, but weakly. The kind of smile Rina gave me when she came to bed that night at Lake George. She asked me what was up. She asked me why I’d been so quiet all evening. At first, I stuck to my story.
Nothing. Everything is fine.
The older guy puts his arm around his wife while they wait for the paperwork. They’re both wearing matching puffy red coats. When she leans into him, they fit together in a way that seems right. My parents look like that sometimes; not all the time, but sometimes.
Would Rina and I ever make it that far? Maybe. It’s not that insane of an idea.
My mom and dad met in high school, a Catholic school in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Their fifteenth wedding anniversary coincided with their twenty-year high school reunion. Yeah, they’ve had their rough patches. It took my dad injuring his back at this stupid roofing job he’d taken when he couldn’t get professor work, and my mom making good on her promise to walk out if he didn’t quit, to shake him out of his middle-aged construction worker fantasy. But at the end of the day, they’re a pretty good match. They wouldn’t be spending all this time together if they weren’t.
I glance over to Ammy. She’s on her phone, texting someone, and I wonder who.
There’s something about her that makes me want to know everything about her.
Something in her face, in her eyes, that reads KEEP AWAY, like the signs on the guy’s front yard. She may not have a whole locker full of guns to protect herself like he does, but she has her ways.
“I hope you know I’m not a bad person,” I say to her. It’s an awkward thing to say, I realize as soon as it’s out of my mouth.
Does she think deep down I’m a bad person? Probably not.
But do I care so much that I want to hear her say it anyway? Yes.
She looks up from her phone. “What?”
“I just mean, back in the diner, when I walked away, when I got upset . . .”
She shakes her head. “Noah, it’s okay. It doesn’t really matter.”
“But—”
“Seriously,” she says. “Let’s just get our car. You don’t have to explain anything to me.”
I nod at her. I don’t know what else to do.
I don’t know why it seems to matter so much.
Ammy goes back to looking at her phone.
The couple in front of us walks away, eager to get their hands on their economy midsized sedan.
“Here we go,” Ammy says. “Fingers crossed.”
I step up to the counter, put on my best smile, the same kind I gave the guy who asked his wife for a ride. I may be awkward on the inside, but I try my best to keep it locked up in there, where others can’t see.
“We want to rent a car for tonight,” I say.
The guy clears his throat. He looks remarkably chipper for the fact that he’s stuck inside an Enterprise in an awful storm.
“Do you have a reservation?” he asks perkily.
Ammy takes a short, worried breath, while the other guy behind the counter shakes his head, like he’s somehow disappointed in us for daring to come in without a reservation.
I’m worried, too, but I force myself to stay calm for her. “It’s okay,” I say to her, my voice almost a whisper. “It’s going to be okay.”
I turn back to the guy. “No,” I say. “Is that going to be a problem?”
Luckily, we have the nice guy. He laughs jovially. “Our inventory is a little low, but it should be fine. Give me a sec.” He starts typing.
I turn to her, shove my hands in my pockets, and it feels as if everything rides on this moment. It feels so very important for us to get a car here. If we don’t, what in the world are we going to do? We’ve missed a tra
in and a bus, walked just about everywhere, and holed up in every place I can think of to stay warm.
Soon, none of the shops will even be open. We don’t have any other alternatives. . . .
I imagine Ammy and me, huddled outside the Enterprise office, the awning our only shelter, trying to stay warm.
This is why I don’t act without thinking.
This.
Is.
Why.
The guy keeps typing. If the answer was no, he’d have said so already. That’s what I’m telling myself, at least.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper again, and her eyes . . . well, to say they looked worried would be the understatement of the year.
She’s trusting me. She’s trusting that what I said was right.
That it would all be all right.
But will it? I wonder. Even if we get the car?
Will it be all right for either of us?
Will I get Rina back?
Will she get whatever in the world it is that she wants?
“Well, we don’t have any standard sedans or coupes left,” the man says. My heart sinks, and I feel cold and achy all over. Lost. I don’t have the guts to look at Ammy, so I grab her hand in mine, squeeze it ever so slightly. Don’t let go.
“But,” he says. “You’re in luck. We do have one car left.”
AMMY
5:53 P.M.
IT HAPPENS SO FAST.
We don’t stop to ask what the car is or how much it is or any silly details like that. We just turn to each other, and for that moment, it’s like we’re the only people in the whole wide world. I’m cheering, hooting and hollering, and so is he, so much so that I can barely tell who’s even saying what. His hand is still in mine, but then he lets it go, and he opens his arms, and I hook mine on his neck, and then his arms wrap around me as he lifts me up.
The shitty little Enterprise office blurs as he spins me around, and I feel so light, so comfortable, so right like this in his arms.
He stops spinning, and I feel almost drunk as our eyes lock on each other’s.
Our faces are so close, and I can see a bit of stubble on his chin, the color in his cheeks from hours of adventure that we never signed up for, and yet—here we are.
I can smell a bit of coffee on his breath, mixed with the subtle scent of Tide on his T-shirt, the exact kind my mom always uses—chemical fresh. I can feel the warmth emanating from his body, the two of us a heater in this big blistering world of cold.
And for a second—Lord, I don’t even know what will happen.
Because for a second, our eyes still locked together, I’m sure that anything could happen.
And I’m sure of something else, too.
I don’t care how messy it is, I don’t care about my vow not to date, I don’t really care about the consequences at all:
I want anything to happen.
I want him.
But then the man at the counter clears his throat, and the moment is broken.
We both look over, and Noah finally puts me down, and we start giggling.
And as soon as his arms let me go, I wish so badly that they hadn’t.
“Do you want to know what kind of car it is, sir?” the guy asks.
Noah nods as I try to calm my breathing, try to stop the heat rising up to my face. Try to remind myself that it’s the middle of winter and romance is the last thing I want right now, especially with a guy who is supposedly on his way to get his girlfriend back.
I try to remind myself that all the crazy feelings running through my head right now—well, they’re really just relief at finally being able to get where I need to go, at a bit of shelter from the literal storm.
Because they can’t be anything else. They just can’t.
“It’s a Ford Mustang convertible, cherry red,” the guy says.
That sends us laughing again.
“One hundred bucks a day, plus an under twenty-five surcharge.”
I look at Noah, but he shakes his head, pushing my fears aside, and pulls out his credit card.
I go to fish for cash in my wallet, but he waves his hand. “We can work it out later.”
Then he looks at the guy.
“However much it is, we’ll take it.”
NOAH
6:05 P.M.
I FLIP THE HEAT ONTO HIGH, RUBBING MY HANDS together as I wait for it to warm up.
I adjust the side mirrors and the rearview. My face looks super red.
Is it from the cold? Maybe.
Is it from Ammy? Probably.
Partially, at least.
I was hardly thinking when I picked her up and spun her around. But besides my mind, everything else was going double speed. More alive, more present. My heartbeat, my breathing, the feel of blood in my veins. The feel of her in my arms.
I clear my throat, feeling weirdly exposed, like she can hear my thoughts. “Uh, want to get us hooked up with some tunes?” I ask.
I put the car into reverse and back out as she scans her phone for music. The car moves with a jerk.
“Sorry.” I turn briefly to Ammy. “I’m not used to driving such a nice car.”
She laughs, but then she goes quiet.
Does she feel weird about the hug? Is she wishing she could just be out of here and never see me again as quickly as possible?
I remember the way she wrapped her arms around my neck. It certainly doesn’t seem like it.
But on the other hand, she did call me a stranger.
Slowly, I pull out of the Enterprise parking lot, still getting used to the way the car moves.
“Merge onto US Nine North,” the phone lady says. She’s a bit late, but I make the turn anyway. I’m paying attention like I never have before, because we may be out of the woods literally, but we’re still eighty miles from home, and the snow doesn’t look to be stopping any time soon. A detour because I wasn’t listening to the phone lady’s monotonous voice could prove disastrous.
It’s dark out now, the wiper blades working double-time against the storm. I reassure myself that there’s no ice yet—at least none that I can see or feel. But there’s snow. Lots of it. And I have to be careful.
I keep the phone lady on talking mode, tucked into the cup holder, right where I can hear her. Once we’re on the highway, she says we should arrive by seven thirty-five.
Ammy must have missed whatever she’s going to, but I could almost make it to see Rina tonight. I wouldn’t have the reservations, but I could get flowers, still take her somewhere. I could still say all the things I wanted to say.
It could still work.
Maybe.
“How do I do this?” Ammy asks, smashing buttons to no avail as her eyes flit between her phone and the dash.
“I think it’s Bluetooth,” I say.
“Ooooh,” she says. “So fancy.”
I laugh. This car is much fancier than the old Volvo I sometimes borrow from my dad. “Only the best for you, my dear.” I feel awkward as soon as I say it.
But she laughs. A laugh that will be hard to forget.
“Actually, you want me to do it on yours so you can still hear the directions?” she asks.
I nod. “That would be perfect.”
Ammy makes fun of about half of the songs on my phone. I’m not afraid to admit it: I can be a pop guy. I like The Hunger Games, I dig some Taylor Swift songs. I didn’t used to always be that way. Quite frankly, I used to be a snob. But Rina taught me not to be. Rina liked everything: highbrow, lowbrow, middlebrow, what have you. I came to love that about her, as much as I defended my snobbery in the beginning.
I still love that about her.
Don’t I?
Ammy settles on this synth-y thing Bryson put on my phone for the drive to Lake George. I cringe, but I don’t ask her to change it. It’s upbeat enough for driving, at least. But it’s also a whole album that reminds me of the trip where everything went wrong.
“Music okay?” Ammy asks.
I look at her, and aga
in I think about that hug, only minutes ago. Did she jump into my arms, or did I lift her? For a moment, it was like I wasn’t even thinking, the way I spun her around, held her close, the way our eyes locked together.
It felt so . . .
I push it out of my mind. It was just a hug.
“It’s great,” I say.
She turns to me. “Are you okay to drive in this?” she asks.
“Do we have a choice?” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. But we both know it’s true: we don’t.
She shakes her head. “Not really.”
We’re quiet for a moment as the windshield goes white and then clear, white and then clear, with every swish of the blades. As the lead singer of the indie band croons in his uniquely weird and completely annoying voice. As the crest of a hill leads us to another valley with snow-covered trees on either side.
“Should we continue our game of questions?” Ammy asks finally.
I glance at her. She’s smiling, more relaxed than I’ve ever seen her. I look back to the road, and as soon as I do, I feel the car swerve just the slightest bit beneath me. So there is ice, after all. It’s okay, I tell myself. We’ll be home soon. Well, I’ll be home. She’ll be . . . who knows?
Ammy rests her feet on the dash and taps her toes to the beat of the song. She’s fully embraced the spirit of the red Mustang, even though we’ve only been in it a few minutes, even though hell would have to freeze over (and at this rate, it could) before we took the top down. “It’s perfect for car rides,” she says. “I used to play it on lacrosse road trips.”
“You play lacrosse?” I ask. There are so many things to learn about this girl. A part of me wants to know every single one, wants to read her like one of her big fat Murakamis, word after word, sentence after sentence, every last page of Ammy.