Roxanne tipped the valet for loading her luggage into the trunk of her car before sinking into the cushy leather driver’s seat of her BMW 430i. She inhaled a lungful of new car smell, appreciating its ability to linger. The car was as alien to her as was a space ship, and Roxanne busied herself with refamiliarizing the various buttons and knobs of the car’s interior. The cockpit was black, silver, and chrome from chair to console, and had more bells and whistles than were useful, much less necessary. She had no idea what half of them did, and she didn’t really care to learn, either.

The car was new and sophisticated, demonstrated as much by its scent and low mileage as its complete foreignness to Roxanne. Her last car had been a small Mazda hatchback with a manual transmission, a dent in the passenger door, and an AUX outlet she’d had to plug her iPod into. This new one was sleeker, shinier, and little more than a status symbol that she hoped reflected her image since moving to New York: Roxanne 2.0. She didn’t really have much use for a car, but, figuring she should have one, she’d bought it, had it delivered to her apartment’s garage, and there it had remained for the better part of the year. Roxanne couldn’t remember the last time she’d been in her own car, or the front seat of any car for that matter, much less behind the wheel. Since moving to Manhattan she had become accustomed to walking everywhere she needed to go. If her destination was beyond the bounds of pedestrian foot traffic, Roxanne was content to be ferried around in the plush backseat of a Vogue company town car or driven courtesy of Uber Black. She’d attempted the subway once, but once was all it took to determine that the underbelly of the New York City transit system was not a place for her. She’d never boarded a bus in her life, and had zero intentions of changing that.

Once she was satisfied with her assessment of the car’s command center and felt she remembered what controlled what, Roxanne buckled herself in and verified the gas tank meter was on full. She checked her reflection as she adjusted the review mirror. A special travel outfit for a solo, six-hour road trip probably wasn’t critical, but she’d dressed for it anyway. A fashion critic could never be caught out of style, after all, even if she were driving out into the woods, and even if she were still working her way up a very tall and very steep corporate ladder. Regardless, Roxanne was a firm believer in dressing for the job you want, not the job you have, and had taken pains to assemble a comfy yet casual road trip chic ensemble even Spencer would have approved of. She’d gone 2016 vintage with her look, pairing leggings with an oversized chenille cowl neck sweater, a fleece lined utility jacket, and cuffed suede knee-high boots. She’d knit her hair into a side swept fishtail and adjusted the beanie so that it was just loose enough not to spoil the braid. A borrowed pair of Hunter’s aviator glasses and a large Citizen watch completed the look. Warmer clothes were packed in her suitcase in the trunk, along with a box of professionally wrapped gifts she’d bought for family members she barely knew well enough to guess at what they’d like. She’d also hidden a bottle of very expensive French wine under the passenger seat, just in case it came to that. Her family wasn’t big drinkers, but she suspected she’d need a glass or two to help her through the next several days. Her sister, Rachel, was bringing her kids. She had a couple, and the oldest had just turned four.

Roxanne had just plugged in the GPS coordinates to the cabin and her hand was poised above the gearshift, ready to move the car from park to drive, when an unfamiliar, ringing noise alerted her that a call was incoming. She fumbled for her cell phone automatically before remembering that she could take the call directly from the car’s console. Unfortunately she hadn’t bothered to program any phone numbers into her car’s phone directory so no name accompanied the number on the screen, and the only phone number she had memorized was her parents landline that she’d committed to long-term memory as a child. She hesitated a moment, unsure of whether she was supposed to push the little phone icon flashing on her navigation screen or press a similar button on her steering wheel, then remembered the car responded to voice commands and went with that instead.

“Pick up,” she directed, and then, when the ringing stopped she asked hesitantly, feeling only a little silly to be talking out loud to herself in an empty car, “Hello?”

“Hey,” a smooth, deep voice slid through the car’s speaker system. It was Hunter’s. The sound was so clear it was like he was sitting in the seat right next to her, but she was glad he wasn’t. After the brief mention of Hunter in the office today, she had been struggling to get him out of her head the rest of the afternoon, like a bad earworm on the Top 40. She knew Spencer was right about their relationship being over, but that didn’t make it any easier.

“Oh,” Roxanne was briefly startled. She wasn’t expecting to hear from her sort-of boyfriend, who was supposed to still be in Europe, “Hey. What’s up?”

His disembodied voice seemed to take umbrage with her less than enthusiastic greeting. “You don’t sound very happy to hear from me,” Hunter said flatly.

Roxanne shook her head, and then remembered he couldn’t see her. “No, sorry, not that at all. I am glad to hear from you; I just didn’t expect to hear from you. I thought you were still on a shoot in Madrid?”

“I am,” he said, a pleased tone overtaking his prior annoyed one. Hunter always liked it when she remembered whatever he was off doing, not that he often returned the favor. “But I wanted to call you. It looks like we may need an extra couple of days here…some issue with the lighting and Andrea Steiner has food poisoning so we’re behind schedule.”

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” Roxanne said, twiddling with the air conditioning presets. Even with the cold temperatures outside, it was still too warm in the car for her fleece jacket and beanie. Andrea Steiner was a tall, wiry blonde who’d recently been signed to the agency and who—according to Hunter—was struggling to fit in. She’d come into the scene the perfect All-American girl with lovely pink skin and sparking blue eyes, but both had become sallow over the past six months. It was more likely that she was battling a bout of anorexia than suffering from food poisoning, and Roxanne had remarked more than once that the poor girl needed help. She made a mental note to check on her once they returned from the shoot. Vogue had excellent in-house resources, and she was pretty sure Amanda would qualify. Besides, nothing was more disheartening in the fashion industry than seeing women destroy themselves just because they didn’t think they were beautiful enough. It was one of the things about the industry that Roxanne hoped to one day change the most.

“So, I don’t think I’ll be back for Christmas,” Hunter continued, his voice miffed again that Roxanne hadn’t preempted the question and asked herself. “If I’m lucky we’ll make it in Christmas Day. Sorry babe.”

He sounded courteous. Strained. Perhaps a little disappointed, or nervous, maybe, that she wouldn’t take the news well. But he didn’t really sound sorry.

Roxanne was relieved. She hadn’t yet told Hunter that she wouldn’t be home for the holidays either, and now she didn’t have to feel guilty about ditching him at the last minute. “That’s okay, babe,” she said, trying to sound reassuring and ignoring the weird way the word “babe” felt as he crossed her lips. “My family asked me to join them in Vermont to give my Grandma Myrtle a last good Christmas. At our family cabin, remember the one I told you about visiting when I was a kid?”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. Then, Hunter made a sound like he was clearing his throat and repeated, “Vermont?”

Roxanne almost wished she hadn’t said anything, and had simply pretended to be disappointed the Hunter wouldn’t make it home in time for Christmas. “Yes, Vermont. I am just about to head out of the City.”

“Oh,” he breathed, obviously considering this new information. There was a time that his deep rumble would have made her weak in the knees, but that effect had long since lost its potency. Now she just waited impatiently for him to process and respond, like pushing a button on her computer. “Well, that’ll be…fun, right? Christmas in the Smokies, and all that?”

“Christmas in the Green Mountains,” she corrected him, feeling strangely proud of herself for having known the difference. “But, sure. Fun.” She waited through another round of uncomfortable silence before adding, “I left the address for you on the kitchen counter, just incase.”

“Just in case what?” Hunter sounded puzzled.

“Just in case…I don’t know,” Roxanne admitted. “Just in case, is all.”

“I could come up to Vermont, you know, when I get back,” he offered. It sounded even less sincere than his version of sorry had. Roxanne knew she shouldn’t be irked, but she was. It wasn’t like they’d really put much effort into spending the holiday together, or had made any actual plans to do so. They hadn’t gotten a tree or decorated the apartment—nothing so tacky as that—but at least she wasn’t going to have to spend the holiday alone. He could have simply wished her a good trip. He didn’t have to play this game about meeting up later. They both knew he wouldn’t come, even if she’d invited him.

Roxanne forced herself to sound pleasant, smiling so that it would lift the tone of her voice—an old trick she’d learned in college. “Oh, no, you don’t have to do that, babe. I’ll only be gone a few days.”

“Okay,” he confirmed. “If you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh, hey, babe,” Hunter asked, “did you happen to hear back on any of those designs you submitted—the sketches you sent up to Valerie?”

A wave of nausea rolled up her stomach—the kind that tastes like defeat. In fact, she hadn’t heard anything. Nothing. Not even a thanks, but no thanks. “No. I haven’t heard anything.” She fought to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

“Well, don’t give up hope just yet. You know how slow things can move in this industry,” Hunter paused as Roxanne nodded her head in an agreeing gesture he’d never see. “And hey, when I get back…we should…we should talk about things, yeah?”

A weight like a cannonball dropped in the pit of Roxanne’s stomach. There was only one thing “talking about things” could mean, and she was not sure she was ready for that conversation. Again, she tried to sound cheerful and unaffected. That was just like Hunter to drop some bomb like that when he was a safely thousands of miles away on another continent. Drop it and hang up, leave her to squirm it out until he decided to come home. “Sure thing, yeah.”

“Okay. Merry Christmas, babe.” Hunter’s voice suddenly sounded far away. The line was mumbled for a moment as he spoke to someone on the other side of the line.

“Yep, you, too,” she said as merrily as she could mange. “Babe.” Then with a decidedly grumpier voice she instructed, “End call,” and the low hum of the radio filled the place where Hunter’s voice had been.

Roxanne stretched her neck, popping out the tension, shifted the car into drive, and pointed the nose of her BMW toward the Green Mountains, all the while thinking about that mountain man Spencer had teased her about.