Page 23

I love Colorado.

I’ve lived here my entire life, and unless someone offers to fund a move to Ireland or Italy, I’m staying put.

I really think it’s the best state in America, and I completely understand why the highways are flooded with new residents.

The scenery is beautiful, the people are nice, the food is excellent, and the weed is legal.

Everything about this state is fantastic.

Except for one teeny-tiny little thing: the weather.

And I’m not talking about the cold here either.

Yes, it obviously snows, but it’s not that bad.

It’s usually just a few inches, and the city is really good about treating the streets so they don’t get too icy.

Plus, I really like the occasional blizzard, and I live in an apartment so I don’t have to worry about shoveling.

The storms rarely knock out the power, and I’ll never be mad about a few days of sitting on my couch and binge-watching television shows.

What I do hate is how fast the weather turns and how hard it hits you.

It could be beautiful and sunny one minute and dark and stormy the next.

There’s no time to prepare. Colorado’s flash floods are legendary, and when I was learning to drive, they were one of the first things my mom taught me how to navigate.

Thankfully though, I’ve never been caught in one…

Until now.

When I don’t have a car.

Because of course.

I stare out of the 7-Eleven window, trying to see if I can spot the bike I pulled out of my storage closet last week.

Rain slams against the window; the strong winds whipping it all around are so unrelenting that I can barely see outside.

I know I dropped my bike on the sidewalk when I ran inside, but I can’t remember where, and I’m not 100 percent sure that it didn’t get swept away in the flood waters.

My clothes are sopping wet, and my hair I spent more than an hour straightening for my party today is absolutely destroyed. It feels like I’m standing in a bucket of water—my shoes are so saturated that I fear they’ll never be dry again.

Hell, I don’t know if I’ll ever be dry again.

The small store is packed with stranded travelers who needed shelter or a snack to wait out the rain.

It should be hot in here from all of the bodies, but instead the air-conditioning blowing from the vents feels like it’s going straight to my bones.

My teeth won’t stop chattering, and my hands are shivering as I take another sip of my Slurpee.

“Are you sure I can’t give you a cup of coffee?” the very sweet, very concerned checkout clerk asks me for the fifth time. “I think something hot might be good for you.”

“Thank you, but no,” I politely decline. “I don’t deserve warmth.”

Only responsible adults who handle regular car maintenance deserve warmth. I deserve all the suffering the universe is handing to me. It just would’ve been nice if it handed this to me before I spent a hundred dollars at the grocery store.

I look at the pile of grocery bags sitting on the counter next to the register.

The gourmet cheeses and crackers I bought for the Petunia Lemon party I’m hosting are hanging on by a thread.

The loaf of French bread I got to go with my spinach artichoke dip is already in the trash.

For the death of fresh-baked bread alone, I deserve the sweet suffering only an ice-cold Slurpee can provide.

“Okay,” he agrees, but I can tell he doesn’t want to. “If you change your mind, please go help yourself.”

I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m going to die in his store. And honestly? He might not be wrong. Dying of hypothermia in a 7-Eleven feels very on brand for me.

Luckily for everyone waiting out the storm inside of the store and in their cars hidden beneath the gas bay, the rain begins to slow to a drizzle, and the extreme weather disappears as fast as it came.

Soon the sun peeks out and shoos those pesky clouds away.

The gray sky turns so blue that if I didn’t have the water in my shoes to prove it, I’d think I’d just made the entire storm up.

Customers ring up their final purchases, stockpiling sodas and candy they didn’t need before heading back to the mundane day Mother Nature so rudely interrupted.

I, on the other hand, stay rooted to my spot in front of the window and wait for Keisha to come save the day.

I try not to take offense at the large berth everyone seems to offer as they walk past me.

Even I can admit the vibes I’m exuding are rancid.

I don’t need a mirror to tell me I’m looking more angry, wet poodle than human at the moment.

If I wasn’t stuck inside my freezing body, I’d avoid myself too!

By the time Keisha finally pulls into the parking lot, I’m seconds away from taking Chris (the 7-Eleven clerk I’m now on a first-name basis with) up on the coffee offer.

I lost the feeling in my feet about ten minutes ago, but now my hands are starting to go numb and I’m afraid I’ll face-plant if I try to navigate the crowded aisles.

I don’t have a ton of pride, but even I have my limits.

“That’s my ride!” I grab all of my grocery bags and slip them onto my wrist. “Don’t forget to listen to more Little Mix songs! You won’t regret it.”

We bonded over the truly unhinged playlist coming from the speakers.

He started talking about his favorite British bands—post-punk bands—and I told him mine—pop girl groups.

He’d never heard of Little Mix before, and as an unofficial member of their United States street team, I made him listen to it right then and there.

“I already have them downloaded,” he says. “Don’t you forget to listen to Joy Division!”

“Aye, captain.” I attempt to salute, but my arms are weighed down by the bags. “Thanks again for the taquito.”

I might not have said yes to coffee, but it goes against my fundamental beliefs as a junk food aficionado to decline anything crispy and delicious.

I push open the heavy glass door, and relief washes over me just like the crisp, rain-scented air. My bike, though no better for wear, hasn’t been washed away by the rain and I won’t have to walk to school tomorrow.

“Well, well, well.” Keisha cranks down her window and doesn’t even pretend to attempt to help me with my bags or my bike. “Who knew all it would take was a little rain before you came begging for Big Ben’s help.”

Big Ben is Keisha’s 1990-something Ford Bronco. It’s massive and ugly and if it has too much junk in the trunk (literally) she makes me rock back and forth in the passenger seat to give it momentum up hills. Simply stated, I hate Big Ben and it’s the reason I always drive when we have plans.

“Don’t get too cocky. A broken-down car, soggy shoes, and pure desperation forced my hand.” I pull open the trunk door and toss whatever’s left of my grocery haul next to the pile of blankets, two umbrellas, and four ice scrapers strewn across the back. “And I’m still not sure it was worth it.”

I round the car and pick my old bike up off of the ground and walk it to the back.

I attempt to lift it into the trunk, but my fingers are still trying to regain full feeling and I fail three times.

Each failure is more spectacular than the last, but it isn’t until I almost fall to the ground with it that I finally fold and give Keisha the words I know she’s looking for.

“Fine!” I throw my hands in the air and stomp one foot into a puddle. “Big Ben is the best and I can only dream of driving a car like him. You have the superior vehicle and I only disparage him because I’m jealous you get to drive him.”

“Oh my god! I had no idea you felt that way!” She opens her creaky-ass door that I swear could be heard from the moon and meets me at the back of her truck. “Thank you for opening up. I know how hard it is to admit jealousy.”

“Oh please,” I scoff as we shove my bike up and into Big Ben.

She makes me recite the same speech anytime I need her to drive anywhere. I’m sure I have it in our text thread somewhere, but I’ve said it enough times that it’s ingrained in my brain.

“I don’t know why you make it so hard.” She tosses her long dreads over her shoulder and lifts up the circle lens sunglasses that only she can pull off so she can level me with her knowing stare.

“You don’t have to pretend you don’t like something when you know you do.

It’s okay to open yourself up, to put yourself out there. ”

I have a feeling we’re not talking about Big Ben anymore, and I know where she’s trying to go with this. It’s a conversation I avoid on a good day, let alone while I’m soaking wet and standing outside of a 7-Eleven. So I do what I do best—play dumb.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I slam Big Ben shut and march to the passenger’s side door. “I talk about my feelings all the time, you’re the one that likes to keep to yourself.”

“Bullshit and you know it,” she shouts over the car before she climbs into her driver’s seat and leans across to open my door.

“You talk to your students about how it’s okay to be happy, mad, and sad, but you don’t give yourself that same permission.

You’re so afraid of feeling anything that’s deemed bad that you bottle everything up. ”

“That’s not true at all!” I lie through my fucking teeth, because it’s so true that I almost shatter with the weight of it.

“It is true.” She doesn’t even attempt to soften the blow. “Have you even talked to your mom about your car yet? Your student loan stress?”

“Why would I do that? I’m an adult. I don’t need to run to my mom with all of my problems.”

“Or…” She drags out the word, and I brace for whatever she’s going to say next. “Is it because you’re so afraid of being a burden that you hold everything inside and now you’re about to explode from the pressure of it all?”

Well fuck me. Is she an art teacher or a psychologist?

It’s not that I think I’m a burden, per se, but I saw my mom go through a lot.

If she never has to worry about anything ever again, that’s what I want for her.

Plus, even if there were some truth to me not showing every single emotion—which is not a bad thing, by the way, not everything needs to be made into a big production—I’m not anywhere near exploding.

Things might not be the best they’ve ever been, but I’ve been through so much worse.

“I love you for caring, but I’m okay.” I reach across the console and grab her hand, grateful to have a friend who cares about me. “I promise.”

“And I love you for thinking you’re okay.

” She squeezes my hand. “But you’re wet and stranded at a gas station because your car is broken down.

You’re stressed about bills, but you’ve already spent what?

Two thousand dollars on Petunia Lemon crap even though you’ve only been a member for two, maybe three months?

And last, but certainly not least, you fucked one of your student’s parents and now not only does he know where you work, volunteer, and live… he’s basically your neighbor.”

“Fucking hell, Keisha! When you say it like that, of course it’s going to sound bad!” Any gratitude I was feeling toward her seconds ago flies out of the stupid, crank-down window. “I mean, attack much?”

“How am I attacking you?” On the surface, this seems like an innocent enough question, but the tone she uses has me regretting every single life choice that led me to this moment. “Are those not the things happening in your life right now?”

“You know they are.” I don’t even know why I answer; we both know damn well that was a rhetorical question.

“Exactly, babe. The cracks aren’t just starting to show, they’re shattering.

And if you don’t stop trying to make everyone else happy instead of focusing on yourself for once, I’m worried you’ll never be able to put yourself back together again.

” She turns her key and Big Ben rumbles to life.

“Just think about what I’m saying, okay? ”

“Fine.” I roll my eyes and lean my wet hair against the headrest even though I know it’s going to cause it to tangle. “But I’m not doing it because I agree with you, I just liked the Humpty Dumpty reference.”

“I knew you’d appreciate that one.” She smiles and keeps her eyes on her rearview mirror as she reverses out of the parking spot. “Now let’s go set up for this stupid party.”