3. Woodley

THREE

Woodley

You'll be doing alright / With your Christmas of white / But I'll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas.

Wednesday, December 20

Somewhere on I-81 North

1:12 am

My eyes are heavy as I drive, despite popping gummy worms, which I guess aren't known for their no-doze properties. I blink hard, trying to fight the drowsiness weighing down my lids, but it's no use. Soft Christmas music is playing through the radio feels like a lullaby, only making me more tired. "All I Want For Christmas Is You" by Mariah Carey comes on. Ironic, considering that all I want for Christmas is to get as far away from this car and Thorne Chilton as humanly possible.

I nod off for just a second—maybe two—before the car jerks violently, startling me back awake. My heart pounds in my chest, my hands gripping the wheel like it's the only thing keeping grounding me to this earth.

Shit! That scared me to death. Okay, I've got this. Come on, Woodley. You can do this.

I glance over at Thorne, still sleeping soundly in the passenger seat, completely oblivious to the fact that I almost killed us both. Thank God. Of course he's asleep. Of course he gets to doze off without a care in the world while I'm stuck driving through this mess in the middle of the night.

Tightening my grip, I curse under my breath. He got the first leg of the trip, when it was still light out and the snow wasn't coming down in sheets. At that point the drive seemed bearable, with only light snow dusting our windshield.

Now, I'm the one left to navigate through this white nightmare while he snores peacefully beside me. The GPS says we're still more than six hours away from our hotel in Boston. And the sky is dumping snow, blurring the edges of the road, slushing under my tires.

It's a winter wonderland for most, I'm sure. The only thing surrounding us are twinkling lights in the far-off distance, peeking out from the occasional farmhouse that is shrouded in blue snow and darkness.

We pass through tiny towns that seem to have been forgotten by time, towns with Christmas wreaths hanging on lampposts and half-lit decorations in front yards. Normally, this would make me feel nostalgic, getting me in the mood for the holiday.

But not tonight. Tonight, I hate everything about it.

My heartbeat is finally coming down to a normal rate. The adrenaline from nearly crashing is wearing off, too. Which makes me scared I'll doze off again. Next time I might not be so lucky.

Another gust of wind blows across the highway, making the snow swirl like a tornado, and my heart races again.

I can't keep doing this.

I'm not going to make it if I have to drive all night in these conditions.

I can barely see the lines on the road, let alone stay awake.

Out of habit at this point, I pop another gummy worm in my mouth, hoping that will buy me some more time. The sour and sweet make my mouth water.

Thorne shifts beside me, turning in his seat, but he doesn't wake up. Figures. Of course, he'd be able to sleep through this storm. Wouldn't it be nice to not have to worry about anything too much to have to be bothered. No real responsibility, no pressure. He was born with the Chilton name, and that's all he needs to get by.

Some of us aren't so fortunate. I have to remind myself sometimes that I chose this job, this path. What others do or don't do shouldn't matter. I keep my eye on the prize.

I swallow my resentment, but it burns in my throat. I've worked for everything, fought my way up the ladder, and I'm proud of that grit. My fingers grip the steering wheel tighter as the car slides slightly on the snow-covered road.

I need to pull over. There's no way around it.

Thorne snores blissfully. The bastard.

According to the GPS, we're somewhere, just past what I think was Harrisonburg, Virginia. It's remote, and the highway feels endless—just us and the snow.

I've got to find a hotel. Hell, I'll even take a shady motel. Anywhere with a bed and some running water. And hopefully heat.

The GPS chirps, rerouting us onto a side road due to some accident up ahead. Of course. As if this couldn't get worse. We veer onto a dark, narrow road, the snow covering any signs of civilization. There's nothing out here, no gas stations, no restaurants, just endless, empty fields blanketed in white.

Thorne's snoring is escalating.

Surely there has to be a hotel somewhere.

I squint, trying to make out something in the distance. After what feels like hours, I finally spot a small neon motel sign lit up on the side of the road.

The building looks old, the kind of place you'd only stop at if you had no other options. And that is exactly where we are right now: out of options.

"Thorne," I say, nudging him with my elbow. He groans but doesn't wake up.

"Thorne!" I say louder this time, but still nothing. He's completely out, his head lolling to the side. He was talking in his sleep, something about apple cider and teddy bears and I almost choked on my gum. Maybe he still has visions of sugar plums dancing over his head.

Fine. I'm making the decision and he will just have to deal.

I pull off the road, slowing down as I approach the motel. The snow is falling even harder now, piling up in the parking lot. I glance over at him, wanting to shake him awake. To make him go in with me in case a mass murderer is behind the desk. But he isn't budging and I'm making the executive decision.

The Evergreen Motor Lodge

2416 Old Highway 11, Harrisonburg, VA

2:17 am

I can't help but notice how absurdly light the bright orange plastic key feels in my hand… As though it belongs to a time when motels like this were actually considered nice.

The plastic tag attached to it, rounded by years of life, says Room 6. The gold numbers are faded, and I half wonder how many hands have held this exact key over the last one hundred years. Or, how many copies are floating out there in rural Virginia. I can almost hear the banjos playing in the distance.

At least our rental car is now parked directly in front of our door and yes Thorne is still in it, sleeping. I think about my pathetic 1992 Honda Civic and I'm grateful we rented. There is no way it would have survived this.

I slide the key into the lock and hear the distinct click of the door unlocking. The hinges creak loudly as I push it open, stepping into the room with a mix of dread and curiosity. I didn't know places like this still existed. I glance around the small, musty room and imagine this being a movie set for a spooky, winter mystery.

The first thing I notice is the orange, brown and green color scheme, and then the pungent smell hits me. It's a strange mix of stale air and cleaning products. Not exactly comforting. The carpet is an ugly shade of brown, matted down from decades of use, and the walls are covered in a faded floral wallpaper that was probably once considered chic.

The bedspreads on the two full beds are the same brown-and-orange plaid that seems to have been left here since 1978. A small TV sits on top of a wooden dresser, the kind with a tube screen that looks like it might flicker to life if you bang the side hard enough.

I take a step further in, eyeing the vintage lamp with a crooked shade on the bedside table. It's barely hanging on by a thread, like everything else in my life right now.

I've never seen it in person, but I'm thinking the Bates Motel might be nicer than this place.

Home sweet home. "You get what you get," I mutter, taking it all in, steeling myself for telling pretty boy out there this is his home for the night. I'm guessing anything less than The Ritz is a dump in his world. It might actually be entertaining to see his face when I manage to wake him up and break it to him.

It's better than ending up in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. I doubt his Italian silk socks would keep his feet very warm.

There's only one room available, of course. So not only does he have to slum it for the night, but he has to share the experience with me. Thank God at least there are two beds. I curse softly under my breath, grateful for that small mercy.

I turn back toward the door to head outside to get my bag and wake up Thorne and tell him about our very own Christmas miracle. The moment I turn on my heel, I walk straight into him. He's standing in the doorway, looking irritated and exhausted, same way I've looked for hours.

I jump back, startled. "You're awake."

His eyes narrow. "You weren't planning to just leave me in the car to freeze, were you?"

I open my mouth, but he cuts me off, stepping into the room and glancing around, his lip curling in mock disgust. "What, you didn't think I'd want to stay at this five-star establishment with you? Really, Woodley, I thought you'd at least spring for something a little more luxurious for our first night together."

The sarcasm is dripping off him, and for a moment, I can't help it—I laugh. It's quick, sharp, more from the exhaustion than anything else, but it breaks through the tension hanging between us.

"Oh, yeah," I say, walking over to the bed and throwing my phone down. "I chose the fanciest place in town. Really thought I'd treat myself. I wonder if we can snag a massage at the spa before we take off in the morning."

Thorne lets out a snort, and the corners of his mouth twitch into something that might have been a smile. "In all seriousness, I thought we agreed to drive through the night so we would have tomorrow to go over everything rested. Why didn't you just wake me?"

I shake my head, crossing my arms. "You wouldn't wake up, and I wasn't about to kill us both trying to drive through that storm. We need to sleep if we're going to make it the rest of the way tomorrow. Trust me, I'm not thrilled about stopping either."

He finally stops, turning to look at me. For a second, he seems almost humble. It must be the fact that I'm delirious. "Again, you could've woken me up."

"Again, I tried," I snap, the fatigue creeping into my voice. "But you were out cold. What did you want me to do, shake you violently while I was trying to navigate the blizzard with one eye closed?"

He sighs, rubbing his hands over his face. "Fine. Whatever. But next time, never mind, forget it."

"Say it."

"I don't need you making decisions for both of us, okay?"

I raise an eyebrow. "Well, maybe if you hadn't been so quick to claim the easy leg to drive you would be more understanding. I had to make an executive decision while you got your beauty rest."

He shoots me a glare, but it's half-hearted. "Executive decision, huh? Oh, okay. So you're in charge here? Got it. Great c-suite level decision-making there. I'll make sure to leave a review on Yelp. ‘Charming décor, perfect for lovers of the 1970s.'"

I roll my eyes, but there's a small part of me that appreciates the sarcastic banter. For a moment, it cuts through the irritation, and it almost feels, dare I say, friendly.

"Well," I say, glancing around the room, "it's Christmastime. Consider this part of your Christmas bonus."

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Some gift."

We stand there for a moment, the tension easing just slightly. I can still feel the weight of the trip, the snowstorm outside, the looming pitch meeting in Boston. But for the first time since this nightmare started, there's a flicker of something lighter. It doesn't last long, but it's there.

"Since you got your panties all twisted because I made a decision without consulting you, please feel free to pick your bed. But it better happen quick, because I'm about to fall out."

"That one," he points to the one closest to the door. Good, that is the one I didn't want. If Norman Bates is coming in here to get us, he will get Thorne first.

"Go to sleep, Thorne," I say, finally turning toward the bed. "We've got another nine hours to go in the morning."

He doesn't argue. Instead, he sighs and drops his bag next to the other bed. "Yeah. Merry Christmas to us."

2:41 am

I should be asleep. I'm so tired that my entire body feels like lead sinking into the lumpy mattress. Might as well be driving through the Alaskan tundra out there if I'm awake like this.

Instead, I'm lying here, staring up at the dingy ceiling, eyes wide open. It's ridiculous. I wanted nothing more than to collapse in this bed and pass out, but now, with the dry heat blasting through the room and the faint hum of the old heater vibrating against the walls, sleep is the last thing my body will submit to.

I turn onto my side, adjusting the thin pillow beneath my head, and hear a quiet groan from the other side of the room.

"You can't sleep either?" I ask, my voice breaking the silence.

Thorne lets out a heavy sigh, shifting in his bed. "No. This bed feels like it's made of bricks, and it's so damn hot in here. What the fuck, are we inside of a kiln?"

I laugh softly, pushing my hair out of my face. "I know. I think that heater is stuck on full blast." The heat is oppressive, making the air feel thick and dry. I glance toward the bathroom, remembering seeing something that looked like an ancient thermostat on the wall outside. "Maybe I can turn it down."

"Good luck with that," Thorne mutters, still tossing and turning in his bed. "This place looks like it hasn't been updated since the 70s. If you can figure that thing out, I'll be impressed."

I slip out of bed, the only cold air in this room hits my bare feet as I walk across the room as it drafts in from under the door. That's comforting to know there is an icy breeze coming from somewhere low.

The worn carpet feels like sandpaper under my toes, and the dim lighting makes it hard to see the ancient thermostat by the bathroom door. I squint at it, turning the little wheel on top, but nothing seems to change. The dry heat keeps blasting, filling the room with a stifling blanket.

I fumble with the settings, twisting the dial and flipping random switches, but it's like the thing is stuck in permanent sauna mode. "I don't think this is working," I say over my shoulder. "I'm pretty sure it's just blowing hot air whether I touch it or not."

Thorne groans again, and I hear the creak of the bed as he gets up. "Here, let me try," he says, his voice close behind me. He holds up his iPhone with the light on the thermostat.

Before I can move out of the way, I feel him brush past me, his hand grazing my arm as he reaches for the dial. The moment his skin touches mine, it's like a jolt of electricity shoots straight through me. My breath catches, and for a second, everything in me reacts in a way I wasn't expecting.

Suddenly, the room doesn't feel hot from the heater—it's him. The brief contact, the graze of his hand against my arm, sends a wave of heat coursing through me, compounding the hot flash I'm already experiencing. My heart pounds in my chest, and an unfamiliar flutter deep in my stomach begins to rise.

I blink, trying to focus on the ancient dial, but all I can think about is the way he smells, so close to me, suddenly un-repulsive. It was just an accident, just a light touch, but somehow it's set off every nerve in my body like a live wire. All my senses are on high alert. I can feel his presence behind me—too close, too overwhelming—and I have to remind myself to breathe.

He leans in closer, squinting to see the non-digital thermostat's tiny slashes and faded gold numbers. I'm wondering if people's eyes were better in the olden days.

The faint scent of his cologne is suddenly the most heavenly scent I've ever encountered. It's warm and clean and makes my head spin. Now that I know that this archaic box on the wall that is supposed to control the temperature has no significance to me, I have no use for it. The only thing that matters is him.

My pulse races, the energy between us crackling in the air. This is ridiculous. It's Thorne. The thorn in my side is more like it. I've barely been able to tolerate him this entire trip. The guy who drives me crazy in all the worst ways.

Standing here in the dark, with his arm brushing mine again as he adjusts the spiky little wheel protruding from the top of the thermostat. and insomnia keeping me awake, all I can think about is his electric proximity. How my entire body is reacting to him in this dark, run-down motel room in the middle of nowhere—days before Christmas, too—is beyond me. But the truth of that notion is unavoidable.

I swallow hard, my breath shallow as he turns to look at me, his face only inches away. Whatever the reason, there's something different in his eyes now. A flicker of something that tells me I'm not the only one noticing the shift.

I try to say something, anything, but the words get stuck in my throat. All I can do is stare at him, the tension between us suddenly thick, palpable. The air between us is charged, like something is about to happen, and I don't know if I can stop it.

I'm not sure I want to.