By Vic Winter
The drive up had been hell; we'd run into a snow squall on the way, and Richard had insisted on driving through instead of pulling over and waiting it out. He claimed that if he stopped, he risked someone going off the road behind us and ramming us. I pointed out that the only people who might do that were stubborn assholes like him who wouldn't stop and wait the squall out.
"Yep, but given that I drive and you don't, Davey? I think we can trust that I know the mind of a driver more than you do. We'll keep going."
Well, he had a point. I didn't drive. I used to, but that was before the breakdown.
So the drive up had been hell, but it was only as we trudged through three feet of loose snow and opened the front door to find the place dusty and musty and obviously not aired out as we'd paid Dom Gorner to do that I started to think that maybe coming here to try and repair our relationship had been a bad idea.
Richard was growling already, and I was tired and feeling strung out, and not really capable of dealing with the stuff that suddenly needed doing.
"I thought you paid someone to take care of this place?"
I sighed. "I do."