Just Like Fate (21 page)

The first snow of the year starts falling just as we pull onto
the highway. It’s a light dusting: the kind that makes you want
to sip cocoa by the fire, not the kind that forces you to stock
up on supplies. Chris cranks up the heat another notch and I
relax into the headrest. It’s strange how you can meet someone and they can make you feel lighter—the stress I’ve been
carrying isn’t completely gone, but it’s not so heavy right now.

Like someone cut the strap on my backpack of bricks.
I watch the sign that says
CLINTON 43 MILES
float by in
the hazy air. With the full moon so bright, it’s hard to see the
stars, but I search for them anyway.
“See any constellations?” Chris asks quietly. “I have a
telescope in my room if you want to—” He stops and looks
over sheepishly. “Not that I’m trying to get you back to my
room. I just—”
I laugh. “I think I can see the Big Dipper,” I say, touching
my finger to the glass, “and Orion. But now that it’s snowing,
it’s all fading into white.”
“I love the snow,” Chris says, dreamlike.
“Me too,” I say, matching his tone. I look from the sky to
the road and realize that it’s snowing a little harder now as we
start to climb the mountain toward Clinton. The headlights
spotlight the flakes as they fly in diagonally from left to right.
Chris passes a semi with its hazards flashing.
My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my pocket and look to
see who it’s from. Joel. I delete it without reading the message.
Chris goes around another couple of semitrucks, glancing
over.
“Your boyfriend?” he asks, nodding to the phone.
“No,” I answer automatically. Then because it’s not
exactly the truth, I look over at him. “At least not anymore.”
Chris grins. “Well, I am incredibly glad to hear that.”
“Me too.” We settle into a comfortable silence before
Chris gets fidgety and begins to tap his thumbs on the steering
wheel—to “Sweet Caroline.”
“You doing anything exciting for Thanksgiving?” he asks,
changing lanes to go around a car with its hazard lights on.
“No,” I say. “Not really. I’m supposed to go to my mother’s, but I don’t know. I might hang at my dad’s instead. I
haven’t spent a holiday with him in like five years.” I stop, surprised I’m telling this to a stranger, but Chris just nods along
like he doesn’t find it even the least bit odd.
“My parents are on a cruise,” he says with a laugh. “They
invited me, but hanging out on deck chairs while my mother
sips gin and tonics just doesn’t feel festive to me. A few friends
and I are going to hit up Denny’s or something.” He looks
over. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“Uh, Denny’s is gross. Do you want to . . .” I pause, my
cheeks reddening. “Do you want to meet my dad?” I ask,
laughing to myself as I do. He widens his eyes.
“First I’m trying to get you back to my room, and now you
want me to meet your dad? Maybe we should be looking at
engagement rings, Caroline.”
I melt a little at the way he says my name. “Okay, but make
sure the rock is
huge
,” I tell him. “I want everyone to know just
how shallow we are.”
“Of course.” Chris’s brow furrows as we get stuck behind
yet another eighteen wheeler with its hazards on. “Guess Friday night is hot for hauling,” Chris says, nodding to the truck
in front of us. “What do you think that tri-axle’s got in the
wagon, buddy?”
“You speak Trucker?” I ask, laughing.
“I’ve played trucker video games,” he says, “so yes, that
makes me fluent.” Then, glancing in the rearview mirror,
“There’s a tanker yanker in our back door coming in hot.”
I turn to see what he’s talking about. “Tanker yanker. Is
that a truck that hauls tanks by any chance?”
“I have no idea,” Chris admits. “I was just trying to
impress you with my mad trucking skills.”
I cup my hand, pretending it’s a CB, and talk into it.
“What’s your handle, boss man?” I’ve played the video game
in question with Teddy before. I drive a mean triple trailer.
Chris takes a hand off the wheel and cups it over his
mouth. He makes a crackling sound into it, then answers me.
“Ten four. Handle’s Big Daddy; same back atcha. Over.”
I roll my eyes at his ridiculous trucker nickname and rack
my brain for something cooler. But apparently Chris thinks
I’m taking too long because he radios in again. “Don’t spend
our whole flip-flop trying to one-up me. Over.”
I’m about to tell him to get out of the granny lane when I
glance up ahead and see through what’s become much heavier
snowfall a long string of brake lights. It strikes me as odd
because I know this road and there’s no reason to slow down
up there: It’s where the hill flattens out and runs straight for a
few miles before it drops down into the valley where Clinton’s
nestled. We’re coming up on the lights fast, and Chris hits the
brakes, but we skid a little on the snow, so he eases off and
begins to pump them. Never for one second am I afraid that
he’ll lose control. I’m calm.
He’s calming.
“Wonder what’s going on,” he mutters as he coaxes the
car down to forty instead of sixty. The whole line of lights is
in the right lane; he moves into the left so we can go around.
“Mud Flap Madge,” I exclaim as we start to pass one of
the vehicles stopped on the right, proud of myself.
“Good one,” Chris says, squinting a little at the road
ahead.
“I totally bested your handle,” I say, laughing.
“Roger that,” he says with a nod and a quick smile before
his eyes are back on the road.
I roll my head to the right, watching the stopped cars and
trucks go by, then I reach to turn on the radio. An Electric Freakshow song starts playing, and when I hear the song, sadness
wraps around me—reminding me that it was never really gone.

No right answer; perfect marks . . . It’s no big deal; it’s just
your heart . . . Falling stars and lightning sparks . . . This will
only sting a bit . . .

“God, I hate this song,” Chris says absently, still focused
on the road.
“It used to be one of my favorites,” I say, thinking that Joel
may have ruined EF for me forever. I click off the radio, earning a quick look from Chris. What was fun and carefree is suddenly heavy and suffocating. It’s like a shift in not just mood
but . . . everything. I glance once more at the moon, feeling
unsettled, and then lean forward to watch the road intently.
And then just as we crest the hill and start down into the
valley, I suck in all the air in the car—all the air in the world.
Perfectly obscured by Mother Nature and its sideways
positioning is a jackknifed tractor trailer blocking the entire
two left lanes of the highway. There’s no doubt in my mind:
We’re going to hit the truck. Instinctively, I know we have to
turn.
I reach over to grab the wheel, hoping it’ll be enough.

I climb out of Chris’s car in the visitors’ parking lot—the student
parking was full—and he looks me over with a serious expression as he gets his crutches from the backseat. When I start to
apologize again for breaking up with him, he shakes his head.

“Not that,” he says coming to a stop right in front of me.
He reaches to zip my Clinton hoodie up to my neck. “I can’t
believe you own one of their T-shirts.”

I laugh, unzipping it a little so that I can breathe. “You’re
such a hater,” I say. “What is your deal with them, anyway?”
“Electric Freakshow is mediocre,” he says. “And you are
better than mediocre. Even if I’m still a little pissed at you.”
He doesn’t smile because he means it; he doesn’t smile, and I
miss that part of him so much that I lean forward and put my
forehead on his chest, my arms around his waist, and whisper
again that I’m sorry.
Chris puts his warm hand on the back of my neck protectively, running his thumb gently over my skin. “I know
you are. And I can love you and be pissed at the same time.
They’re not mutually exclusive.”
I straighten and his hand falls away. I think about that
statement, that he can love me and be angry, and I realize that I
never thought of it that way. All the time I spent feeling like my
family hated me, was disappointed in me—they still loved me.
I was too stubborn—scared—to see it. I’ve wasted so much
time.
“I’m going to stay at my dad’s,” I tell Chris. “At least until
I go to college. I like it there.”
“I’m glad you’ll be close. Easier for me to stalk you that
way.” He leans down on his crutch to give me a soft peck,
reminding me of the first time he kissed me over orange
chicken. We start walking, commenting on the bright white
snow that’s started to fall. I nearly slip once on a patch of ice.
“Be careful,” he says, reaching out to steady me. “Both
of us on crutches would just be too pathetic.” We stop at the
crosswalk, and I push the button for the walking man to tell
us when to go.
“By the way.” I turn to him. “I can’t believe you set my
brother up with Maria.” I feel a small pinch of jealousy, but I
decide this time to trust him—to let myself be vulnerable so
that I don’t lose him.
“They’re good for each other,” Chris says, rubbing his
hands over my arms to warm me up. “I’ll set up your sister
too, if you want. Ed needs a new—”
“Gross,” I say with a laugh. “Ed is done licking my
friends.” Apparently Simone and Ed met up after dealing with
Teddy that day. Her retelling—charades style—was cringe
inducing. Just then the light changes, and Chris and I start to
cross the street.
“Are we still on for Thanksgiving at my mom’s?” I ask. “I
neglected to tell her about our breakup.”
He glances over. “Is it because you were secretly hoping
we’d get back together?”
I shake my head but then smile. “Actually, yeah. I probably
was. Either way, I’m sure she’ll find you adorably obnoxious.”
“Tell me again how crazy you are about me,” Chris says,
his eyes narrowed in a way that makes me think our fighting
has come to an end.
My stomach flutters, and I stop to turn to him. “Christopher Drake,” I call out dramatically, loudly so that other
people can hear me. Embarrassment will make it count more.
“I’m totally crazy in love with you—”
I notice the light slide across his face, setting off the bright
blue of his eyes. I furrow my brow, not sure where it’s coming
from, when Chris’s expression falls. He’s about to shout as he
reaches for my arm, and I turn to look over my shoulder. A car
is gliding in our direction—fishtailing on a patch of ice as it
tries to brake for the light.
Chris pulls me to the side, but it’s not soon enough. He’s
standing still, but I’m flying: first onto the metal of the hood
and then, when the brakes finally work, into the air. My limbs
fling out in zero gravity; my arm connects with concrete, the
pain sharp and blinding. Then my head hits, sending me into
darkness.

“What are you, pain intolerant?” Chris jokes as the nurse sews
another stitch into my forehead. The spot is numbed from
painkillers, but still, I’m sure it looks nasty. I don’t move my
head, but I let my gaze fall on Chris’s face, and when I do, I see
in his blue eyes concern so true it’s painful.

“It could’ve been so much worse,” I say. He’s on
crutches—he dislocated his knee when the car impacted with
the mile marker right outside his door—and he shifts to lean
on the left. Finally his eyes find mine again.

“I’m sorry for trying to kill you,” he says, looking sheepish.
“Was it because I like Electric Freakshow?”
“Yes, you got me,” he says, laughing a little. “I am trying to
off their fans, one member at a time, until the band is forced to
stop touring. It’s my evil plan, but I’ve been thwarted.”
“I’m an excellent thwarter.” The nurse laughs quietly at
us. We stop talking for a moment.
“If I promise not to try to kill you again, will you go out on a
real date with me?” Chris asks. He looks adorably pathetic.
I open my mouth to respond when my parents—both of
them, together—rush in.
“Oh my God, Caroline,” my mom says, seeing the blood
on my shirt. Chris crutches away a few steps so they can get
close to me—they’re too focused on me to notice him at all.
“It’s just a scratch,” I say. “Head wounds bleed a lot, even
if they’re nothing, right?” I look at the nurse expectantly.
“That’s right,” she says, smiling. “She only needed ten
stitches.” Then, repeating what I said to Chris, she adds, “It
could’ve been much worse.”
“I should have checked the weather,” my dad says. “I
should have gotten a hotel room for you and your sister in the
city so you wouldn’t have been out on the roads.”
“Dad, come on,” I say. “It’s just a scratch.”
“But what if . . .” His voice cracks and his words trail off.
I watch as my parents look at each other—really look at each
other—both of them probably envisioning losing a child.
I glance over at Chris as he hobbles to the window. “Oh!”
my mom says, seeing him for the first time. “Who’s this?”
In the moment I realize that I don’t know his last name,
Chris steps in. He makes his way over and, when he seems stable, offers my parents a hand in turn. “Chris Drake,” he says.
“It’s very nice to meet you.”
“You look familiar,” my mom says, smiling. “Have we met
before?”
“It’s possible,” Chris says, darting a playful look at me.
“Caroline and I go way back.”
Maybe way back to another life—maybe that’s why I’m so
comfortable with you
, I think.
My parents pump Chris for information about his life—his
major, where he grew up, his hobbies—and I listen, taking mental
notes for later. After a while, a friend comes to get him and we’re
forced to say good-bye—in front of his friend and my parents.
He comes over for a hug.
“Our meeting tonight, it feels a little like fate, doesn’t it?”
he whispers into my ear.
“Well, you did say you stalked me,” I say. “So maybe it
feels more like . . . perseverance? And of course, there was the
attempted murder.”
He chuckles, pulling back so the hug doesn’t linger into
the inappropriate-in-front-of-parents zone. “Well, whatever
the reason, I’m glad we met.”
“Me too,” I say, meaning it. And when Chris crutches
away, I realize that I wish he didn’t have to. I wish he’d stay.

Late at night, I’m in bed at Mom’s when my cell buzzes. I
wasn’t asleep—the painkillers have worn off and my head is
throbbing. I reach over and read Joel’s text in the dark.