Five Total Strangers

by Natalie D. Richards

  I exhale. “I’m so sorry. I just hate the idea of him driving. Maybe Harper will drive again.”

  “Maybe,” he says, sounding a little distracted. “Have you seen my book by chance?”

  “No.” Through the windshield, I spot Brecken coming through the trees with Harper at his heels. He’s striking in that moment, tall and broad-shouldered. Good-looking in a way that has probably turned a lot of heads. Confident in a way that makes me nervous.

  But is that nervousness really about Brecken?

  I don’t know. It could be this trip in general. The weather. The wreck. My mother at home spinning herself into knots. The creepy guy in the hat.

  “How could I misplace a five-hundred-page book?” Josh asks absently. I frown, looking around my seat, though I know it can’t be up here. Josh has been in the back the whole ride, and I’ve seen phone books smaller than the thing he was reading.

  Brecken wrenches open the back door while Josh is still looking for his book. Kayla startles at the blast of air and the sudden cabin light.

  “Cold,” Kayla complains groggily, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Scoot over,” Brecken says, “I’m joining you.” He looks at Josh. “Did you lose something?”

  Josh sighs. “Yeah. One of my books. I don’t get it. It was right here.”

  “Maybe it’s with Harper’s wallet,” Kayla mumbles, not bothering to open her eyes.

  “Not funny,” Harper says, sliding into the driver’s seat. “Can I charge my phone?” she asks, looking at the cord.

  “Yeah, I think I still have decent battery left,” I say.

  “Great. Mine’s dead.” She plugs hers in. “Can you pull up the map on your phone until my battery charges a little?”

  “Oh, sure!” I reach into my coat pocket, but it’s not in there. I check my other pocket and then my jeans, and then I laugh.

  “What is it?” Harper asks.

  “Now I’m the one missing something.”

  Harper frowns. “You lost your wallet?”

  “Maybe she lost a book,” Brecken says, a thin, mocking edge to his tone.

  “Just my phone,” I say. “I’m sure it’s in my bag or something.”

  “It’s probably back here,” Josh says.

  He hands me my bag and starts looking, and I check through each compartment, unzipping zippers I haven’t touched in weeks. Nothing. I double back through my bag and then my coat pockets and then check all around my seat. Panic pushes through me, hot and electric. I was sure I put it in my pocket on the hill. I remember Josh showing me the traffic.

  “Josh?” I ask, turning to the back seat.

  “I’m looking,” he says. “It might have gone flying during the wreck.”

  He’s right, so I check under my seat and between the console and everything else. I close my eyes, trying to remember the last place I saw it. When Josh handed it to me? No. When we got off the highway. I tried to check for traffic, but I had no signal. Did I set it on the seat by Kayla? Oh God, did I leave it at the station?

  “Does anyone remember me having it after the gas station?” I ask.

  “I can’t be sure, but I think you were carrying it when you walked back to the car,” Brecken says. “Check the chips and water bag.”

  I do, and come up dry. “No dice.”

  “Don’t be nervous,” Josh says. “I’m sure you have it. Everybody check your seats.”

  “Let’s just call her,” Brecken says.

  I sigh. “My phone is on silent.”

  “It’ll still light up,” Harper says. “Give me your number.”

  I do, and she calls as promised. Of course, it doesn’t light up. My panic ratchets into something spectacular. I can’t lose my phone. Not out here. Not with a bunch of strangers and not with my mom at home, possibly losing her mind.

  I have to find my phone.

  Everyone is searching, between the seats and inside pockets. There’s nothing. It’s a rental car, so it’s not like there’s much to rifle through.

  “Something is going on,” Harper says. “My wallet and her phone?”

  “And my book,” Josh adds.

  “This isn’t normal,” I agree. “We haven’t gone anywhere. We couldn’t have lost all of these things.”

  “And yet…” Kayla trails off with a chuckle.

  “It’s not funny,” Josh snaps.

  “Come to think of it, you’ve been pretty quiet through all this,” Brecken says.

  Kayla’s eyes narrow to slits. “I’m not the only one who hasn’t lost anything, rich boy, so don’t start with me.”

  “Both of you need to knock it off,” Harper says.

  “She’s right,” Josh agrees. “Maybe we should check outside? Could you have dropped it running around with Brecken?”

  I perk up. “Good point!”

  “We should check under the car and near the doors, too,” Josh says. “Maybe it fell out of your pocket.”

  We all make our way into the snow, forming a circle around the car, inching our way out around it. I search every inch of my path down the campground driveway, stepping directly in my own footprints on the way there and back. It’s nowhere.

  Brecken checks his path, too, which feels stupid, but I’m desperate. I’m at the place where you look for car keys in the fridge. It has to be somewhere.

  “Any luck?” Harper says, appearing at the top of the driveway.

  Brecken shakes his head.

  I take a breath and a strangled noise comes out when I release it. “Oh my God, it’s really gone. I must have left it at the station.”

  “Don’t say that,” Josh says, leaning heavily on his crutches. “It has to be here. Let’s check the car again, okay?”

  “We need to go,” Brecken says. “This sucks, but it’s just a phone. You can use mine if you need to call anyone.”

  Harper touches my arm again, leaning in. “I know this is scary, but I promise I’ll take care of you. You can call from my phone whenever you need.”

  “Yay, we’re a giant support group,” Kayla deadpans. “Can we go now? I’m freezing.”

  “Look, I can’t just leave. I have to try,” I say. “I need my phone.”

  It’s my only tether to the real world—my world. The one where Christmas is happening, and Zari and I might be okay, and my mom… I just need to get there and all of this will make sense.

  “Let’s just look a little longer,” Josh says.

  “We’ve already looked. Maybe it’s time to see the writing on the wall on this one,” Brecken says. Harper gives him a look that could wilt lettuce.

  He takes the hint and we keep searching. Kayla’s efforts are cursory at best once her space is checked over. As soon as we stop paying attention, she curls up in the middle of the back seat and watches everyone else—everyone who’s still outside in the cold, mind you—in silence.

  In the end, Josh and I are the only ones who won’t give up. Even with his leg immobilized, he manages to awkwardly search under the driver’s seat and all three of the back seats. Twice.

  He even makes Brecken check the back, where our bags are, and, to Brecken’s credit, it sounds like he’s doing a good job of it back there. He wrestles every bag in and out, searching every possible inch of space.

  And then there’s nothing left to check. Everyone has retreated to the warmth of the car, and it’s just Josh and me, staring at each other over the open back passenger door. Josh’s flashlight turns off and he frowns.

  “Sorry. I think my battery’s still low.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. And then I look at the car, where Harper is checking her watch. My stomach squeezes. “Maybe we should go.”

  “Maybe,” Josh says. But when I move to pass him, he touches my sleeve, taking a little breath.

  I shiver, either from
the cold or the strange feeling I’m having—danger or interest or some other emotion I’m too wrung out to identify. “What is it?”

  “It feels weird, right?”

  “Getting into the car knowing my phone is lost?”

  “No, the fact that we’ve all lost something,” he says. And then he leans in, his eyes bright as he whispers, “It’s scary.”

  I look at him, but he’s distant, pensive, his fingers on my sleeve seemingly forgotten. If I were to paint this scene, I know how the canvas would take shape—stark white and gray lines of snow-covered hills, his face turned away. But his strange grip on my sleeve—that’s what matters here. That’s the focus.

  He shakes his head like maybe he’s rethinking it. “I’m sure it’s coincidence. But Harper’s wallet. Your phone. My book. Are we really all so clumsy that we’d lose these things and have no memory of it?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but I’m not sure what to say. My pulse is suddenly racing, tendrils of dark possibility unfurling in my mind.

  Josh shakes his head. “Forget it. I’m probably imagining it.”

  He ducks to get back in the car and the wind gusts, whirling my hair around my face. I push it back when the wind dies, but the chill running over my skin remains.

  April 8

  Mira,

  I thought you’d write by now. I believed in that. In you. I’d hoped my letter would give you time to admit your feelings. To accept what we are. But even if you won’t write about it, I know the truth. I know what’s in your heart.

  It’s my turn to play shy, sweetheart. I have a confession, too. I found your painting. The new one. I saw it online. I knew right away it was yours, even before I saw your name. I understand the shadows and sadness in your work, Mira.

  The clock tower reads 3:30 p.m. That’s exactly when we met in the coffee shop. And the woman you painted in front? In a white sweater and dark jeans. Just like you wore that day.

  But of course, you know these things. And now, you know that I see them too. I only hope that you’ll find it in yourself to put down your paintbrush and pick up your pen. Write me real words this time.

  We can’t deny this thing between us any longer. You can’t keep me waiting forever.

  Yours

  Chapter Eleven

  Josh and I settle into the back, and his face is red from the exertion of the search and the discomfort of getting into his seat again. Guilt surges through me. It’s my fault he was up moving around. I take his crutches and feed them back into the cargo area.

  “I’m so sorry, Mira,”’ Harper says.

  “It’s okay.” I take a breath, trying to steady my voice. “It is just a phone.”

  “You’ll be home with a new one before you know it,” Brecken says. Of course he does. In his neighborhood, he’d probably end up with an extra Christmas gift over a lost phone.

  “Maybe we’ll find it when we’re unloading in Pittsburgh,” I say. “Josh, do you want me to plug your phone in again?”

  Brecken pulls out his phone. “We can use my phone while theirs charge. I’ve got like twenty percent and a backup battery in my bag.”

  After plugging in Josh’s phone on my two-cord charger, Harper turns back to touch my arm. “Do you want to use my phone to call home?”

  “I’m okay for now,” I say, waving her off. “We should get going. I’ve held us up long enough.”

  “All right,” Harper says and then she shakes her head. “No, you should come up here. Brecken can move to the back seat.”

  He scoffs. “You want the two biggest people in the back?”

  “I want the person who’s carsick and upset about losing her phone up here. And I’m still not thrilled with the fact that you committed a crime while driving a vehicle rented in my name.”

  Brecken moves, but it’s clear he isn’t happy about it. When Harper asks about directions, he offers a vague “Head south and west” and refuses to engage in more detail. So Harper pulls out, turning south on the road that brought us here.

  Five minutes into the drive, I’m not sure if it matters that I’m in the front seat. Brecken gets over his silent treatment and embarks on an endless journey of back-seat-driving commentary. His constant nagging is making me just as sick as the drive did earlier.

  “You need to watch that hill,” he says.

  Harper nods. “I’ve got it.”

  “Try tapping the brakes. Just light taps.”

  “We’re fine,” she says.

  “Maybe you’re fine. I feel like I’m being driven around by a fourteen-year-old.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Brecken thrusts his hand between the front seats between us, gesturing back and forth at the windshield and the road beyond. “You’re all over the road here.”

  “I am not.”

  “You’re hugging the outside of every corner and accelerating into the turns. We’re going to wind up in a ditch.”

  “You’re going to wind up in a ditch,” Harper mutters.

  Josh and I laugh, and Brecken bristles. “Yeah, ha ha ha.”

  “Ease up, man,” Josh says. “She’s not the one who’s already been in a wreck.”

  “What are you talking about? Do you seriously think what happened on the bridge was my fault?”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Harper says quickly. “It could have been worse.”

  “It could be better, though,” I say, a sigh slipping out with my words. “Like if we were home. That would be better.”

  “What would you be doing if you were home right now?” Josh asks.

  “Kayla would be sleeping,” Brecken mutters. “You?”

  “Reading probably.”

  “Reading on holidays?” I ask him.

  Josh shrugs. “On all days.”

  “We watch holiday shit,” Brecken says. “Old ones. National Lampoons, Elf. If it’s got jingle bells or Yule logs or anything like that, Dad will force us to sit through it. Which is ridiculous.”

  “Why is it ridiculous?” Harper asks.

  “We’re Jewish.”

  “Wait, don’t you celebrate Hanukkah?” I ask.

  “Hell, we celebrate everything. Mom has decorations for Saint Patrick’s Day. She’d invent holidays if she could.”

  Harper laughs and Brecken nudges her seat playfully. “All right, what about you?”

  “I’d be writing cards and letters. I do it every holiday.”

  “Like real letters?” Brecken says. “Handwritten?”

  “The best kind,” she says.

  I chuckle. “I hate to break it to you, but they’re probably not going to get there in time for Christmas this year.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Harper says. “People don’t write letters anymore and they should.”

  “I’ve written letters,” Brecken says softly.

  Stunned silence descends, and Brecken’s face shutters, his shoulders going back like he’s been caught admitting to collecting doilies. “What? Hasn’t everyone?”

  Josh holds up his hands. “Sure, I mean, a few.”

  “Because girls like them, right?” Brecken asks. He looks at me and Harper and even Kayla, who’s either asleep again or still ignoring us. “Am I wrong?”

  Harper’s smile is small but genuine. “You’re not wrong.”

  “It’s overrated,” Kayla says, her voice unexpected. She’s got her thin arms crossed over her chest, and it makes me wonder how long she’s been listening.

  “Mine weren’t too successful,” Josh says, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ll take it you had a different response?”

  Brecken’s face goes red. He pushes a hand through his hair. “I didn’t say they worked. I said I think girls like them.”

  Kayla shifts in her seat. I don’t turn, but I imagine her burrowing h
er head against the window again. “I just think most people don’t mean it. I think if you write a letter like that, you should mean it.”

  “I meant every word of mine,” Brecken says seriously.

  “Me too,” Harper says.

  “Well, yeah,” Josh says. “That’s the point, right?”

  “So what’s your verdict on letters, Mira?” Brecken asks, bumping his chin at me. “Overrated or extra special?”

  I shrug. “I wouldn’t really know. I mean, unless you count cards from my parents, I’ve never gotten one.”

  There’s a lengthy pause in the car, a silence that makes my neck go hot. This time I can feel everyone’s eyes on me because they are on me.

  “Never?” Josh asks softly.

  “Not that I can remember,” I say. “And it seems like something I would remember.”

  “You would,” Harper says, reaching to stroke my arm. She looks stricken. “The right letter can stay with you for a long time.”

  “Maybe you’ll get one this Christmas,” Brecken says with a smirk. “If we ever manage to get home to a mailbox.”

  “Maybe,” I agree, though it doesn’t seem likely.

  Still, the idea of it sounds a little bit wonderful. I try to imagine someone writing a letter on thick, white paper. Folding it up and sliding it into an envelope like the words mean something. What would I say in a letter like that?

  I turn to look out the window, where the snow seems to be slowing. It’s beautiful out there, the entire world dipped in a thick, white glaze. It looks the way Christmas should look. Except that I’m in a car, and my mother is alone. This will be another awful Christmas and why? Because I just couldn’t miss the last day of my art show? I couldn’t fly home on the 22nd like I always do, but instead had to push it until now.

  I should have known better. I tempted fate, and fate is making me pay.

  “Watch your—”

  Whatever Brecken is going to say is cut off when the car shimmies to the left, snow spraying around the left tires. Harper lets out a little shriek that feels a beat late, and my pulse jumps into overdrive at the same moment.

  Harper steers right but overcorrects. The right tires bobble out of their lane and into the trail of plowed snow at the side of the road.