Over the Line (EBOOK)

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“Drive to Tahoe, they say,” I mutter, squinting through the snow that is falling so rapidly the entire world has been reduced to flecks of swirling white. “It will be fun, they say.”
A gust of wind pushes my car on the icy road, and I gasp, my fingers tightening on the steering wheel as I continue driving forward.
The conditions are worse than any I’ve ever driven before.
Which isn’t hard.
I’m a California girl, born and bred—I barely survive driving in a light rain.
Snow? Ice? Sleet—
What is sleet, anyway?
I don’t know, and I really don’t want to find out, though I’m fully aware that may be something I experience in the coming minutes.
Anyway, the point is that snow, ice, and the aforementioned sleet are way out of my driving skill set.
And it doesn’t help that I don’t know where I’m going.
I’m used to that—to being free and loose and going off without a lick of concern to what lies on the road behind me. Moving toward the beauty and excitement in front of me without any plan or purpose or direction.
Just forward. Always moving forward.
Only the road is usually absent of snow.
Which is somehow falling even more heavily now.
“You’re fine,” I whisper, even as I squint and clench the steering wheel tighter. I’m practically crawling along the road, inching toward my destination, and hating the feel of my tires slipping on the pavement, the tension creeping into my shoulders, the way my jaw aches from grinding my teeth so forcefully together.
Normally, I love a drive up to Tahoe.
Winding roads.
Huge conifers.
A snaking river that follows me along the side of the highway, its water broken up by fallen logs and chunks of granite in every size, from pebbles to boulders.
I love getting away from the city and into the fresh air in the summer or spring or fall.
Not the winter.
And not today when it feels like I’m running from the hounds of hell (aka the hounds of my lame, pathetic, miserable life).
“Woof!”
I blink those thoughts away—forward, always forward!—and risk a look over to the passenger’s seat, where Steve is buckled into his puppy harness. Safety first for my baby boy.
“You’re okay,” I reassure him before refocusing on the road, and slowing down even further.
No one is behind me.
I can move slowly and carefully for a change, rather than headfirst into disaster.
Plus, the turnoff has to be soon and I don’t want to miss it.
I exited the highway what felt like hours ago, so it has to be soon—
“Woof?” Steve asks in a concerned bark, his doggy eyes so wide they are almost bugging out of his face.
Or, okay, fine, so that’s his normal pug face—smooshed nose, goofy ears, bug eyes, and a penchant for snorting and sneezing and snoring.
So, basically, Steve is the cutest puppy in the history of all puppies.
He just also looks like he ran into a wall.
Small details.
“We’re going to be okay,” I reassure him, knowing we have to be. Because no matter how bad the last twenty-four hours have been, we are going to be okay.
Mostly because I am always okay.
Even if I have to fake it until that’s true.
And anyway, Steve has plenty of food, his entire collection of squeaky toys and fake bones, and his hoard of cozy beds all stuffed into the back seat, so he’ll be well-fed and entertained.
He’ll be better than okay.
He’ll be content and snotty and sneezy and well, fucking perfect.
While I, on the other hand, will be—
Thunk.
I gasp, jerking at the steering wheel and nearly sending us off the road. A quick maneuver has me back inside the lines and I hold my breath as I flick a brief look in the rearview.
A huge branch lies in the middle of the road behind me.
Not a person.
Not an adorable puppy with bug eyes and goofy ears and a tendency to snot in my face when I bend over to kiss him on the head.
Just a branch.
“Thank you, universe,” I whisper, clamping one hand to my chest, gaze returning to the road as I resume squinting through the sideways falling snow for the street sign that will indicate our turnoff.
It has to be close.
It has to be.
“There,” I whisper, finally spotting a green sign that is nearly invisible in the furious swirling whiteness. “Forest Bend.”
Thank. Freaking. God.
I point at it as though Steve knows how to read. “See? It’s right there, buddy. We’ve made it. We’re going to be okay.”
I slow to a snail’s pace, prepare to make the turn—
“Woof!”
Steve’s bark is so loud, so sharp that I jump, jerking the steering wheel hard to the right.
My tires start to skid.
My car starts to slide.
But this time my attempt at getting us back between the lines is the wrong one—too rough, too jarring, too damned quick…and the skid doesn’t slow.
The slide doesn’t halt.
“Shit,” I whisper, pumping the brakes hard.
Note to non-snow-driving self, this is also the wrong move.
I might as well be hitting the gas for all that does to slow me down. In fact, it seems to increase our speed, and though the snow is starting to fall even more rapidly, I can see my future with crystal clear accuracy.
The snowbank.
My car.
Me.
Steve.
“Shit,” I hiss as the side of the road sweeps up toward us.
Slow motion, but not.
Warp speed, but not.
Inevitable, absolutely.
I throw my arm out to the right in true dog mom fashion, as though that action will protect my pup from any and all threats as I wrestle with the steering wheel, still trying to avoid the inevitable even as the inevitable is coming closer.
I pump the brakes to no effect.
I push my arm into Steve, pressing him deeper into his doggy seat, hoping it will keep him safe.
I—
Run out of time.
My car rattles and bumps and lurches forward…
And then it’s sliding off the road.