Rachel Blanchard
Not here. Anywhere but here. For the first twenty miles between his mom’s house and the airport, Jack had successfully inched over the glistening blanket of snow coating the abandoned highway. But in front of her house, Jack’s tires hit a pocket of ice. He fishtailed to the right. Inhaled, corrected. He fishtailed to the left. Yanked the wheel back to the right.
One terrifying slide later, and he’d turned a full 180, his headlights shining the wrong direction in the dark. Carefully, Jack eased the rental sedan to what he figured was the side of the road. He opened the door to face his final option. A narrow roadway wound through the forest, ending at a little house belonging to his ex-girlfriend, Ren Calvin.
Jack entertained the idea of freezing to death in his car before grasping the thick handle of his leather suitcase, winding his plaid wool scarf around the lower half of his face, and setting off to meet a different type of storm.
By the time he reached the front door, Jack’s feet were blocks of ice. He knocked twice, pulling his scarf beneath his chin so Ren could see who it was through the peephole.
After a few shuffling sounds, Ren opened the door. Her chestnut hair, now shining with blond streaks, blew back from the winter wind which pinked her pale cheeks. “Jack?”
“Hey, Ren. Any chance a stranded drifter could crash on your couch for the night?”
She yanked him inside and slammed the door shut. “That’s all you have to say to me? After running away to New York for four years?”
Jack plucked his gloves off, considering his mere entrance a victory, despite the chilly reception. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t safe to drive any farther.”
She was pacing now. “So, you came here by accident?”
“Why would I come here in the middle of a snowstorm?” Jack snapped his lips closed, as they sometimes worked faster than his brain.
Ren’s eyebrows lifted. She huffed, and busied herself with hauling pink sheets out of the hallway closet.
“You don’t have to do all that,” he said.
She ignored him, slipping a fitted sheet over the same beat-up maroon couch cushions he remembered watching movies on together. Photos of Ren’s parents and brother still spanned the mantel on top of the fireplace. Nothing here had changed, except for her trust in him.
She fluffed a pillow to complete his makeshift bed, then fiddled with the ends of her sparkly red sweater. Jack felt the urge to wrap his arms around her and settle her skittishness as he used to do. They were a good team, with his bravery and her steadiness mixing like sharp peppermint and smooth chocolate.
Jack ran his fingers through the waves of his hair. “Listen, Ren. I’m sorry for what happened.”
Ren’s busy hands balled into fists. But she met his eyes directly with her gray ones for the first time since he’d arrived. “Are you enjoying your new job?”
“Not as much as I thought I would,” Jack admitted. He’d been enticed by the hefty salary offer. He’d passed off Ren’s unwillingness to move as proof that they weren’t meant to be. But the truth was, Jack’s priorities had been off-kilter. And he hadn’t realized that until he was half a country away, with no courage left to repair the mistake.
A ferocious gale rattled the walls of the charming, entirely-too-small house. Then, the lights flickered off.
Ren gasped. Her slippered steps padded back in the direction of the closet before a small candlelighter blinked into life. “Hold this,” she commanded. Jack took the lighter from her chilled hands, and a thrill rushed through him.
Ren cleared her throat and ripped open a grocery store fire log, positioning it in her tiny fireplace grate. He lit it while she retrieved two handmade afghans from the linen closet.
“You know,” Jack remarked, “if you had a place closer to civilization, you might not have to be so prepared.”
“Civilization isn’t everything,” she replied, even as a tiny shudder shook her shoulders.
“All right, Laura Ingalls, you’d better sit down and get warm.”
“When your insults are already boiling my blood?” she muttered, but did as he said. They sat on either end of the couch, and the dim firelight thickened the tension in the silent room.
“I’ve missed you,” Jack finally said.
“I’ve missed you too,” she whispered.
Why had he been in such a hurry to return to his work? Its demands never ended, but the all-expenses-paid conferences didn’t make up for the emptiness inside. Jack could program software anywhere. He couldn’t be with Ren anywhere.
He stared into the flames. “Do you think we could try again?”
“Our problems haven’t changed.”
“No, but I’ve changed, and I’d like to work through them.”
“Work through them from New York?”
He took a deep breath. “I’ll have to wrap up some loose ends, but I don’t want to be in New York, missing you. I could find a place here.”
He snuck a peek at Ren, who crossed her arms, though a smile graced her face. “With how high rent is out there, you can probably buy a mansion downtown.”
They relied on the fire’s heat through the night, catching up until their eyes grew heavy. Jack made his bed on the floor so Ren could sleep more comfortably on the couch. Soon, her breaths deepened, but Jack spent a few more minutes watching her, marveling at his new reality.
The power had died, but new hope burst alive, and Jack thanked God for a second chance—even if it blew through in the form of a winter storm.
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Spark Flash Fiction 