Page 53 of Claimed By My Biker Daddies

I sing every song I know without a verse about poor choices.

Gabe giggles at a chorus he likes.

Luca frowns at the snow as if he can reason with it.

The Subaru climbs.

Dotted lines vanish into white wash.

The slope lifts its chin.

I tap the brake and the pedal answers with a grumble.

“Not far,” I tell the car and the boys and the universe. “We are not far.”

Cell service drops without a goodbye.

The GPS stares like I betrayed it.

The mountains shrug.

Nonna said these hills are older than our pride; they do not bend for anyone who forgets humility.

I slow.

I consider turning back.

I consider the tote on the seat, six loaves that smell like Christmas and chances.

I consider two small boys who deserve to see their mother try when no one is watching.

Snow thickens until the air feels like wool.

Wipers sing their tragic opera.

I let the tires find the ruts left by braver wheels and follow their story up the road.

“Almost,” I say, because sometimes saying it makes it true. “Almost there.”

We are almost nowhere.

We are in a white room where trees are ghosts and the road is memory.

A curve appears without warning.

The incline asks a question.

The tires kiss something slick and decide to dance.

The car jerks left, then right, then left again.

My stomach drops.

I steer into the slide like a woman who took one winter lesson at nineteen and once drove a delivery van on a dare.

The Subaru fishtails.

The nose kisses a drift.