delicious sensation.
I want him to kiss me again. I snake my hands into his coat, feel his warm back against my cold hands.
“You’re freezing!” He shudders. “We should go.”
This was not what I was thinking. Not even close. “I’m fine.”
“No, hypothermia’s not fine. I can’t freeze you to death on our first real date.”
“But—” I try to protest. He kisses me again, and now I’m shivering uncontrollably. I can’t tell if it’s the weather, to be honest. It could be pure physical exultation. But he’s made up his mind.
“We’re going. You’re an ice cube.” He kisses me one more time. Then he takes my hand and takes me home.
14: Short Goodbyes and Long Distances
T HE R OAD I N F RONT of us twists just in front of the headlights. There are banks of snow on both sides, and tall pines climb into the pitch black night. Peter pushes the tiny sports car through the curves, revving the engine to a high whine.
We don’t night ski. I don’t recognize this road. I can’t tell where we are, and it feels like with each curve, Peter races faster. The tires squeal and skid.
I look at him, but he looks out at the road, oblivious to me in the passenger seat. I open my mouth, and no sound comes out, but noise explodes outside the car—a deer comes up on the hood. The front windshield shatters, and everything goes black.
I sit up. I’m somewhere near the car, still in the cold night, still on the mountain road. My legs are splayed out in front of me. They won’t move.
I see the wheels of the car over the side of the road, downslope. One wheel is still turning, and smoke rises from the car.
Andrew is at my side. He picks me up, carrying me in his arms, carrying me away from the crash.
I start to cry. I yell as loud as I can. “No! Peter’s still in the car! Peter’s in the car!”
Andrew can’t hear me. He keeps walking.
I wake up, startled. I’m clutching my pillow for dear life. I sit up, listen to see if I’ve woken the kids. It’s quiet. I can’t help but look at the picture of Peter and me on my nightstand. I don’t know what to do, and my heart pounds. I lie down and cover my head with the pillow, closing my eyes as tightly as I can. I don’t know how long I stay frozen like that, but I finally fall asleep again.
The next morning, I’m up and dressed before it’s light out. After the nightmare, I slept terribly, convinced I would oversleep and Andrew would leave without me. I think part of that comes from an underlying disbelief that he actually exists.
I sit at the kitchen table, trying to focus on the newspaper, when he shuffles in. His hair’s messy and sticking up in the back. He looks tired.
“Good morning.”
He nods a little. “Morning.”
“Did you sleep okay?” I don’t know why I’m asking—it’s clear he didn’t. I’m an expert at ignoring the obvious.
“Okay, I guess. I started thinking about work, and then it was hard to get settled.”
I have a hard time imagining what he could be troubled by. “What’s worrying you?”
He’s into the cereal, pulling out a box and looking for a bowl. “Aw, nothing big. I have a ton of stuff to do to get ready for my next role. I’m worried about the way my last project is getting handled in post-production. There are a lot of hands on a movie before it’s done, and sometimes it doesn’t end up looking anything like how it felt when you shot it.”
“What do you like least about acting?”
“Doing press. It’s three or five minutes at a time with people you don’t know who ask the same questions over and over. And some of them are out for blood, or a scoop, or some sort of slip-up from you.” He pours milk into the cereal and almost overdoes it—this subject distracts him. “But it’s not a hard day’s work at all. I hate to say anything bad about it because one summer in high school I helped my uncle with his roofing business. And I can tell you I would much rather have to talk about a movie
I want him to kiss me again. I snake my hands into his coat, feel his warm back against my cold hands.
“You’re freezing!” He shudders. “We should go.”
This was not what I was thinking. Not even close. “I’m fine.”
“No, hypothermia’s not fine. I can’t freeze you to death on our first real date.”
“But—” I try to protest. He kisses me again, and now I’m shivering uncontrollably. I can’t tell if it’s the weather, to be honest. It could be pure physical exultation. But he’s made up his mind.
“We’re going. You’re an ice cube.” He kisses me one more time. Then he takes my hand and takes me home.
14: Short Goodbyes and Long Distances
T HE R OAD I N F RONT of us twists just in front of the headlights. There are banks of snow on both sides, and tall pines climb into the pitch black night. Peter pushes the tiny sports car through the curves, revving the engine to a high whine.
We don’t night ski. I don’t recognize this road. I can’t tell where we are, and it feels like with each curve, Peter races faster. The tires squeal and skid.
I look at him, but he looks out at the road, oblivious to me in the passenger seat. I open my mouth, and no sound comes out, but noise explodes outside the car—a deer comes up on the hood. The front windshield shatters, and everything goes black.
I sit up. I’m somewhere near the car, still in the cold night, still on the mountain road. My legs are splayed out in front of me. They won’t move.
I see the wheels of the car over the side of the road, downslope. One wheel is still turning, and smoke rises from the car.
Andrew is at my side. He picks me up, carrying me in his arms, carrying me away from the crash.
I start to cry. I yell as loud as I can. “No! Peter’s still in the car! Peter’s in the car!”
Andrew can’t hear me. He keeps walking.
I wake up, startled. I’m clutching my pillow for dear life. I sit up, listen to see if I’ve woken the kids. It’s quiet. I can’t help but look at the picture of Peter and me on my nightstand. I don’t know what to do, and my heart pounds. I lie down and cover my head with the pillow, closing my eyes as tightly as I can. I don’t know how long I stay frozen like that, but I finally fall asleep again.
The next morning, I’m up and dressed before it’s light out. After the nightmare, I slept terribly, convinced I would oversleep and Andrew would leave without me. I think part of that comes from an underlying disbelief that he actually exists.
I sit at the kitchen table, trying to focus on the newspaper, when he shuffles in. His hair’s messy and sticking up in the back. He looks tired.
“Good morning.”
He nods a little. “Morning.”
“Did you sleep okay?” I don’t know why I’m asking—it’s clear he didn’t. I’m an expert at ignoring the obvious.
“Okay, I guess. I started thinking about work, and then it was hard to get settled.”
I have a hard time imagining what he could be troubled by. “What’s worrying you?”
He’s into the cereal, pulling out a box and looking for a bowl. “Aw, nothing big. I have a ton of stuff to do to get ready for my next role. I’m worried about the way my last project is getting handled in post-production. There are a lot of hands on a movie before it’s done, and sometimes it doesn’t end up looking anything like how it felt when you shot it.”
“What do you like least about acting?”
“Doing press. It’s three or five minutes at a time with people you don’t know who ask the same questions over and over. And some of them are out for blood, or a scoop, or some sort of slip-up from you.” He pours milk into the cereal and almost overdoes it—this subject distracts him. “But it’s not a hard day’s work at all. I hate to say anything bad about it because one summer in high school I helped my uncle with his roofing business. And I can tell you I would much rather have to talk about a movie
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