Winter Wonderland

six: sleepover

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I can hardly see through the rain that starts to fall as soon as we hit the road. Storie drives at a snail's pace, her wipers going furiously to keep the windscreen clear, but there's only so much they can do when the downpour is so sudden and so torrential. Rain bounces off the glass like bullets, a deafening clatter on the roof.

"This is why I hate winter," she mutters as she drives. "I'm so done with all the rain and ice and snow."

"At least it's cozy," I say, but I'm with her. I hate the long nights and short days, the cold that sinks in and chills me to my bones until spring eventually lifts its head some time in March. I must have Mom's southern genes, because I'd much rather have year-round sun. I can't stand the cold and dark. I hate the seasonal sadness that clouds my brain, the lack of light ruining my mood.

"I guess," she says. "Not much space to make a snowman out here though. I miss having a garden."

"Me too."

"Maybe I'll go home just to make snowmen with Jasper. Make the most of the weather." She comes to a steady stop at a red light and lets out a sigh. The car hasn't warmed up yet and her breath fogs the air. The sight alone makes me shiver. She catches sight of me and says, "Don't worry, my apartment's a lot warmer than my car."

"Good to hear. I can't say the same about my place."

She looks at me, pity in her eyes. "Your place sounds sad," she says quietly. I can't argue there. My place is sad, with its sloping walls and pathetic bathroom and dodgy window, and everything else that makes it a crappy place to live, but I don't want to sit here and beg her sympathy.

"It's fine. It does what I need it to do," I say. It's a roof over my head. It could be worse.

"Mmm," she hums to herself, and it seems like she's about to say something else but traffic starts moving when the light goes green and she sets off. "Well, as long as you're ok. You seem..." Trailing off, she shrugs, and I'm glad. I don't really want her to finish that sentence. I don't want to hear her tell me how I seem when I know how I feel.

"You seem kind of sad," she says after a moment, when I thought we were out of the danger zone of her finishing her thought. "You don't seem like yourself."

"I'm fine," I say. "Just, you know, trying to figure out my life. Turns out it's something I should've done in college. Who knew?" I laugh. She doesn't. But she does put her hand on my knee. Maybe to comfort me, maybe to shut me up. It does both.

For a couple of minutes, anyway, until I open my mouth again. But I don't know what to say. I can't tell her I'm fine, else it'll seem even more like I'm not, and I am, in the grand scheme of things. The past year or so has been a wobble, sure, but things will get back on track. I've just been temporarily derailed, but I can't shake the feeling that Storie is the rescue service.

I've never believed in fate. It seems like a load of crap, a way to blame stuff on the universe and destiny, but what were the chances of us meeting again like that? I don't know the odds, but they feel pretty slim.

"Home sweet home," she says when we pull into a lot beneath an apartment block ten minutes after leaving Kris's building. "I wasn't expecting to have anyone over, so please excuse the mess."

That's the kind of thing my mom says to visitors. The kinds of people who are only a step closer than strangers or acquaintances.

We come to the elevator that serves every floor of the building from the garage to the penthouse. Storie pauses. She lets out a quiet laugh.