If I Could Hate You

Chapter 9: The Road Between Us

The morning after the storm cleanup, I told myself that I would not see Michael again for a while. Not because I was angry, but because I needed space. What had happened at the storage unit was efficient, professional, and productive. It was also too close. Every time he looked at me, I felt like I was being asked a question I did not know how to answer.

But fate, or something like it, had other plans.

By midday, another problem surfaced. The relief trucks that were supposed to take the supplies to the inland distribution points were delayed indefinitely. Flooding had washed out the main route, and smaller roads were blocked by fallen trees and debris. Volunteers were working double shifts just to keep the supplies safe, but it was not enough.

We needed someone with connections to get clearance for a new transport route, someone who could make calls that would actually get answered. Unfortunately, that someone was Michael.

When I saw his name pop up on my phone, I almost ignored it. Almost.

“I heard about the trucks,” he said when I answered. “I can get clearance to move them on an alternate route, but I will have to be on site.”

I hesitated. “We have people who can manage.”

“You mean the same people who were nearly trapped in the docks yesterday because they did not know the building’s safety code?” His voice was calm, but there was an undercurrent of challenge. “You want this done, I will come. If you do not, say the word and I will stay out of it.”

I exhaled slowly. “Fine. Be here in thirty minutes.”

When he arrived, he did not waste time with greetings. He moved through the site with brisk efficiency, speaking to the drivers, making calls, and coordinating with the port authorities. It was infuriating how easily people listened to him. Within an hour, we had clearance to use a military service road that bypassed the worst of the flood damage.

But it was not just a matter of getting the trucks moving. The road was rough, and the cargo fragile. Someone had to oversee the delivery to ensure nothing was lost or stolen. The inland site was two days away, counting rest stops.

“I will go,” I told him.

“So will I,” he said without hesitation.

“That is not necessary.”

“Yes, it is. You want those supplies to arrive in one piece, and you want your drivers to make it back without delays. I can make that happen.”

There was no point arguing. The convoy was leaving at dawn the next day, and if he wanted to be in it, there was nothing I could do short of locking him out of the compound.

The next morning, I stood beside the first truck, clipboard in hand, ticking off each loaded crate as volunteers stacked them inside. Michael arrived a few minutes later, dressed in dark jeans and a heavy jacket, his hair still damp from the early shower.

“You brought coffee?” he asked, glancing at the thermos in my hand.

“For me.”

He smirked, then called to one of the drivers. “Check your side mirrors before we roll out. The road is narrow in places.”

The first leg of the journey was uneventful. The military road was steep in parts, but the drivers were careful. Michael sat in the passenger seat of my truck, his presence filling the small space even when he was silent.

By midday, we stopped at a small roadside shelter. The air smelled faintly of damp earth and smoke from a nearby cooking fire. Volunteers stretched their legs, drivers checked their cargo, and Michael disappeared for a moment to speak with one of the soldiers stationed at the checkpoint.

When he returned, I asked, “What was that about?”

“Making sure we do not get turned back at the next junction. The floodwaters are higher there. If the soldiers think it is unsafe, they will send us back.”

“And what did you tell them?”

“That we know the risk and are willing to take it.”

I frowned. “You decided that without asking me?”

He met my gaze evenly. “Do you want these supplies delivered or not?”

The tension between us lingered as we set off again. Hours passed in the low rumble of the truck’s engine and the occasional crackle of the radio. I focused on the road ahead, refusing to be drawn into another argument.

That night, we stopped at a way station used by long-haul drivers. The building was old but sturdy, with a wide porch and a view of the valley below. The air was cooler here, carrying the faint scent of pine.

Inside, the station manager offered us two small rooms. Michael glanced at me before saying, “We will share one. It is safer.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Safer?”

“The locks on these doors are laughable. You want to risk someone walking in while you sleep?”

I wanted to argue, but the truth was the station’s reputation was not spotless. So I agreed, though not without a warning. “Fine. But stay on your side of the bed.”

He only smiled faintly.

Later, in the dim light of the single bedside lamp, I lay awake listening to the distant hum of the generators. Michael was silent beside me, his breathing slow and steady. I wondered if he was asleep or just pretending.

“You were reckless today,” I said softly, not looking at him.

“I got us through.”

“That is not the point.”

“It is exactly the point,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You think you can protect everything by controlling every variable. But you cannot. Sometimes you have to take the risk.”

The words lodged in my chest. I wanted to tell him that risk was exactly what had cost me before. That letting someone else make decisions for me had once left me with nothing. But I could not make myself say it.

We made the delivery the next afternoon. The inland team was grateful, their relief almost overwhelming. Watching the crates unloaded, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction — and a sharper awareness of Michael standing just behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him even without turning.

The return trip was quieter. Neither of us spoke much, but the silence felt different this time. Not cold. Not hostile. Just… full.

When we reached the city again, he helped me unload the last of the paperwork and supplies into the main office.

“You should get some rest,” he said.

“So should you.”

He hesitated at the door, as if there was more he wanted to say. But in the end, he only gave a small nod and left.

I stood there for a long time after, staring at the empty doorway.