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Greg was in the car with the woman he’d once thought he’d marry, and she was driving him bananas. First she’d been late, and now she was talking. A lot.
Truth be told, he’d liked that about her before. He’d always found it difficult to string together more than a couple sentences and had admired how easy it was for her. He’d liked how she could keep the conversation going without too much effort on his part, and if he’d wanted, he could always kiss her to make her stop talking.
But not now. Because he was driving.
Plus, that wasn’t the way things were between them anymore.
It had been over a decade and he was totally over Tasha. Of course he was. But since they hadn’t spent any time alone together since breaking up, it was weird to be in his car with her, just the two of them.
His car.
When they’d dated, they hadn’t owned cars. They hadn’t had careers. Now, they were proper grown-ups.
Yeah, this was just plain weird.
It was a blast from the past, and it felt all wrong.
“...anyway,” Tasha was saying, “let’s liven things up a little.”
Those were some of Greg’s least favorite words in the English language, right up there with any phrase involving the word “party.”
The absolute worst? Surprise parties.
Greg liked to prepare himself for long periods of forced socialization. He’d had only two days’ notice for this driving-Tasha-back-to-Mosquito-Bay business. It wasn’t enough, and his careful plans to get to his hometown before the snowstorm hit were crumbling. There was already a snowflake on his windshield, even though the snow wasn’t supposed to begin for another hour.
The radio was telling him about the many traffic problems around the city and warning of the impending storm and—
Wait a second. Why had “Deck the Halls” started playing in the middle of the forecast?
“Fa la la la la,” Tasha sang, “la la la la!”
No. This couldn’t be happening. Where was his beloved CBC Radio One?
“Come on, Greg!” she said. “Where’s your Christmas spirit?”
He growled in frustration.
“‘Tis the season to be jolly...”
It was impressive, really. She still knew exactly how to push his buttons.
“Did you pair your phone with my car’s Bluetooth?” he asked in horror. “I need to listen to the traffic report.”
“No, you don’t. The traffic sucks. You don’t need a report to tell you that.”
“I have to know which route to take.”
“I’ve got Google Maps open on my phone. The 401 is still moving, it’s just slow.”
“If you hadn’t been twenty-seven minutes late, we wouldn’t have hit such heavy traffic.”
She shrugged. “Don’t worry so much.”
She was right. He did worry too much at times. But he couldn’t help being afraid that he’d have to spend twice as long in the car with her, and by the time he arrived, the last bite of his mother’s roast would have been eaten.
That would be terrible.
Of course, it wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. The worst thing, God forbid, was that they couldn’t make it home. Tasha wasn’t thinking about that possibility—she’d always been an optimist—but he was already picturing them dead in a ditch, having slid off the icy road and down a cliff. Not that there were cliffs along any of his planned routes, but still.
His imagination was running away with itself. Most people probably thought Greg had a terrible imagination, but it was really quite active.
He took a few deep breaths, but with the noise in the car, it was impossible to calm himself down. The current song was “Holly Jolly Christmas,” which he thought was incredibly stupid.
The next song was no better: “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Who would willingly listen to every verse of this song?
His ex-girlfriend, apparently. She was singing along and seemed to be enjoying herself.
Alas, she didn’t have a good voice. It was unfortunate, given how much she enjoyed singing. She was smart and talented, skilled at many things, but this was not one of them, and her voice hadn’t improved over time. He couldn’t help a fond smile but quickly schooled his features into a frown.
“Can we please go back to CBC?” he asked.
“So you’ve become a CBC Radio junkie,” she said. “Isn’t their average listener, like, a sixty-five-year-old white man in a sweater vest?”
“It’s informative. I learn lots of things by listening to the radio.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“What? I do.”
Why, the other day he’d heard a fascinating twenty-minute segment about snails on Quirks and Quarks.
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said. “Listening to CBC Radio seems like the sort of thing you’d do. You were always a bit of an old man, even when you were sixteen.”
He shrugged.
She didn’t seem to intend it as an insult—Tasha wasn’t a mean-spirited person—and there was lots of truth to it.
Just wait until she found out about his model railway.
“I have refined tastes,” he said, lifting his nose in the air for effect.
She snort-laughed, and—against his will—his lips twitched.
They twitched again when she sang about maids a-milking, loud and out of tune. It hurt his eardrums, but it was kind of adorable and—
No! What was wrong with him? He didn’t like this, not one bit.
Finally, the horrid song about turtle doves and swans a-swimming was finished, but the next song was even worse.
“All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
He couldn’t take it anymore.
“Shut that off,” he said through clenched teeth.
“What’s wrong, Mr. Grinch?”
“I don’t like Christmas music.”
“I seem to recall something to that effect.”
Dammit, this woman drove him mad.
“Please?” she said. “You know I love Christmas music. Things have been so busy at work, and I haven’t gotten to listen to it much this year.”
“Fine. But not this song. Anything but ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You.’”
All Greg wanted for Christmas was a little peace and quiet and some roast beef.
Not Tasha.
She skipped ahead to “Silent Night,” which wasn’t so awful. He still didn’t like it, but it didn’t make him grind his teeth.
“I remember now,” Tasha said. “Why you hate Christmas music, especially that song.”
He grunted.
She touched his shoulder. “I still have the necklace. I don’t wear it anymore, but I never got rid of it.”
In high school, Greg had worked in the summers—once pollinating corn, and once at the nearby provincial park—but he hadn’t worked much during the school year, aside from a little tutoring.
Except for December of his final year of high school.
He’d gotten a seasonal job in Sarnia so he could buy Tasha something nice for Christmas. He’d hated every minute of that retail job. The worst part was that Christmas music was playing all the damn time, and every third song, for whatever reason, had been “All I Want for Christmas Is You.”
He hadn’t minded the song before that. He really hadn’t. But when you were subjected to it every ten minutes during an eight-hour shift...well, it got to you. You started fantasizing about strangling Santa Claus and Rudolph and stuff like that.
But despite the temptation, he hadn’t quit that job, and he’d saved up enough money to buy a necklace from The Bay, the one he’d had his eye on. She’d adored it—as he’d known she would—and he’d thought it was all worth it.
To be honest, he missed feeling like he would do anything for a woman because he loved her so much.
They’d been young, but he’d loved her.
It had been quite a while since he’d felt like that about anyone. Tasha, however, wasn’t the solution to his lack of love life. They’d already been together, and it hadn’t worked out.
Besides, despite some common interests, they were too different.
Case in point: he’d prefer to spend their road trip listening to CBC like an old fogey, and she’d prefer to play “The Twelve Days of Christmas” and sing off-tune at the top of her lungs.
And sure, he could admit that she looked nice in her sweater and had a lovely smile, but he refused to admit that her enthusiastic singing was even a little bit charming.
No, he would most certainly not do that.
* * *
Tasha sighed and reluctantly turned CBC Radio One back on, though she couldn’t suppress a small smile as she recalled Greg’s reaction to her singing “Deck the Halls.”
He hadn’t changed at all, and yet at the same time...he had.
As he focused on the road, she snuck a glance at him. There were fine lines at the corner of his eye—those hadn’t been there before. Earlier, she’d noticed two lines between his eyebrows. His features were a little more angular, and now that they were in the car and he’d thrown his winter coat in the back seat, she could get a better look at the rest of him. He was definitely more solid than before. His bicep looked rather nice actually, and she wondered how it would feel if she wrapped her hand around it.
Stop it, Tasha!
Sure, she still found the man attractive. They’d dated for a long time; that was hardly surprising. But it was nothing more than that.
“Thank you again for driving me home,” she said.
He grunted.
“It’s really nice of you. I guess our moms ran into each other at the grocery store and—”
“Yeah, I know.” His voice was clipped. “And my mom called me this morning and made a point of saying you’re single. She’s clearly hoping we’ll get back together.”
“What? No.”
“Trust me. That’s what she wants.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” Tasha said. “First of all, I don’t believe in second chances at relationships. Getting back together with an ex never turns out well. Second of all, we dated a long time ago. Fifteen years.”
He grunted again. “Yes, I’m aware of that.”
“I’m surprised you’re not married, actually. I can imagine you cuddled up by the fireplace with a woman, each of you wearing a sweater vest and drinking a single glass of wine while you listen to CBC. Sensible presents wrapped under the Christmas tree. Maybe a French press or a fancy screwdriver. A model train if you feel really daring.”
His gaze was focused on the road. “It might interest you to know that I have an elaborate model railway in my den.”
She couldn’t tell if he was joking. Greg’s sense of humor did occasionally make an appearance. He’d say something ridiculous in such a calm voice that you’d believe it.
“Really, I do,” he said. “I’ll show you pictures and you can laugh at me.”
She chuckled. Now that she thought of it, a model railway wasn’t ridiculous at all. It fit him—and his detail-oriented brain—perfectly. She imagined this sweater-vest-wearing lady buying him tiny buildings and trees to go alongside the railway, and Greg being so overcome with love that he gave her a single peck on the cheek.
No. Greg hadn’t been that restrained as a lover. He’d been passionate. Thorough.
Tasha’s cheeks heated and she pushed those thoughts aside. She was probably misremembering a lot of things. After all, it had been many years.
For five minutes, she listened to someone on the radio talk about the weather, but dammit, she kept thinking of him kissing her, and that wouldn’t do. They didn’t suit each other, and sure he was handsome, but there were other handsome men, ones who grunted less and actually liked Christmas music. Crispin, for example.
Tasha always looked forward, never back. She tried not to think too much about the past, and Greg was firmly in her past. The only time she’d broken her own rule and given an ex a second chance, it had failed spectacularly. She’d seen it fail many times for her friends, too.
Nope, no matter what his mother thought, nothing was happening between them.
She let him enjoy the rest of the scintillating weather report, then put on “Wonderful Christmastime.”
Greg’s lips thinned, but he didn’t speak.
“Come on, get in the spirit!” she said.
“You know me. ‘Spirited’ is the last thing anyone would say about me.”
She suppressed a laugh.
She couldn’t help wanting to needle him. She wouldn’t play “All I Want for Christmas Is You,” but she’d play all the other songs in her Christmas folder. And to annoy him further, she started singing along.
He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like, “Damn infernal racket.”
It was snowing quite a bit now—more than a snowflake here and there. Perhaps it would take five hours to get home rather than three, but that was okay. Greg might be a Grinch, but she was having a grand old time with her Christmas music, and once she got home, there would be hot chocolate with her parents in the living room, accompanied by the fragrance of the Christmas tree. Though she couldn’t imagine living in Mosquito Bay—and not just because there were no jobs for aerospace engineers—she enjoyed going back to see her family. It was nice to have a small town to visit, away from the bustle of the city.
“Jingle Bell Rock” was next, and she sang along to that, too, until a memory popped into her brain.
She’d once stripped to this song for Greg.
They’d been in their first year of university, home for the holidays. Her parents had gone out for the day, so she’d taken advantage of that and asked Greg to come over. She’d only gotten about halfway through the song before she’d burst into laughter. He’d tackled her, and they’d laughed together before having sex on the floor.
Tasha couldn’t listen to this song anymore.
She flipped to the next one: “Do They Know It’s Christmas?”
“Yes, Goddammit,” Greg said a minute later. “I know it’s Christmas. I don’t know how I could bloody forget it’s Christmas, what with all the music I’ve had to endure on this trip.” He shook his head. “Do you remember that movie with the green ogre? We watched it together once.”
“Shrek. You two have a lot of similarities. The resemblance is rather uncanny.”
He shot her a look. “You’re like the sidekick in that movie. The donkey. The one who’s very annoying.”
“Gee, thanks. Why can’t I be the princess instead?”
They’d been moving slowly, but now they came to a stop on the highway. They hadn’t even gotten to Waterloo, and it felt like they’d been in the car for hours. It was already dark.
“People drive like idiots in the snow,” he said. “If only you hadn’t been late, we could have gotten out before the heavy traffic.”
“I think the traffic would still have been bad if we left at three.”
“Not as bad as it is now.” He gestured to the windshield with one hand. “The snow wasn’t supposed to start until later. Why couldn’t the meteorologists have done a better job predicting this? Why couldn’t the snow have waited until we were closer to Mosquito Bay? Dammit, I’m not sure we’ll even get home tonight.”
“You’ve sure spoken a lot in the past minute. What a novelty.”
He didn’t reply, just tightened his grip on the steering wheel.
“It’ll be fine,” she said.
“Nothing is going according to plan.”
“When does life ever work that way? Don’t worry, we’ll get home tonight.”
“Nick will have already eaten all my prime rib,” Greg grumbled.
“Such a tragedy. Why do you have to be so negative?”
“I’m looking at the situation realistically.”
Tasha turned off the music and let him listen to the radio in peace. She sent a text to her best friend, Monique. My ex is annoying me. Trust me, there’s no chance of us falling in love again.
Thank God, Monique said. But still. Be careful.
Monique had been concerned when Tasha had told her that she was going back to Mosquito Bay with her high school boyfriend. Last year, Monique had hooked up with her boyfriend from grad school, and it had ended even worse than the first time. He’d promised he’d changed, but he hadn’t.
I won’t do anything stupid, Tasha said. I promise.
She closed her eyes for a few minutes and listened to the news.
And that’s when she really started to worry.
The top news story was the snowstorm, which was packing much more heat—or, err, snow—than meteorologists had predicted earlier. The list of delays, road closures, and accidents was alarming. She checked Google Maps on her phone, and it was showing nearly their entire route in red.
Perhaps Greg had a point.
This wasn’t simply driving back to Mosquito Bay in a little snow.
This could be bad.
And she was trapped in a car with her ex.
On the plus side, Greg had always been a careful driver. Though he might freak out, he was actually good at performing under stress and he prepared for everything.
So while the situation was less than ideal, and she didn’t look forward to spending several more hours with him, she acknowledged that it could be worse.
She could be in a car with a different ex-boyfriend. Like Lance.
She shuddered at the thought.
“Cold?” Greg asked.
She shook her head. “I’m fine.”
“Alright.” He didn’t sound convinced, but he let it go.
“...particularly bad near London and Strathroy,” said the voice on the radio.
Great. That was exactly where they were heading. London, Ontario was about two hours from Toronto—on a normal day—and Mosquito Bay was to the northwest of it.
After sending her parents a quick text to let them know where she was and that she would be late, Tasha closed her eyes once more and leaned her head against the door. She tried to think of sugar plums and shortbread cookies.
It didn’t work. Her mind kept coming up with pictures of blizzards instead.