Page 81 of Sweet Nightmare
Cold doesn’t pretend to be your friend before stabbing you in the back.
People, on the other hand, seem to make a hobby out of it.
I step out and inhale slowly.
The air smells like fresh snow, pine, and the crisp, clean stillness of the mountains.
No traffic.
No horns.
No exhaust.
No crowds.
No one screaming my name from behind a barricade.
It’s almost suspiciously perfect.
I step farther from the SUV, my boots sinking slightly into the fresh snow.
Snowflakes settle across my white coat and catch in my pale hair.
Then I look up and freeze.
An endless valley stretches beneath the estate, blanketed in white as far as I can see. Mountains rise in the distance like sleeping giants wrapped in winter, their silhouettes barely visible beneath the dark sky.
Snow drifts quietly through the air, soft and slow, as though the entire world has agreed to hold its breath.
Everything looks cleaner here.
Quieter and untouched.
For one ridiculous second, I understand why poets exist.
A place like this could make almost anyone sentimental.
Thankfully, I recover quickly.
I’m still me, after all.
And apparently, even in the middle of nowhere, people have found a way to ruin my peace.
My phone vibrates.
Stevie.
I answer without bothering to check the screen.
“What?”
“You sound annoyed.”
“I am annoyed.”
Her laugh crackles through the speaker.
I love Stevie dearly. I really do. If she ever needed a kidney, I’d murder someone to get her one if I had to.
