Carry Your Heart

by Audrey Bell

  He leans against the wall separating his living room and kitchen from his bedroom, tall and gorgeous, belt unbuckled, his hair mussed. He looks like sex. He grins at me and takes a long sip of water from a glass cup. “You sure?”

  If there was ever a better-looking man you could walk away from, I don’t know who it would be.

  I swallow. “I’ll just go.”

  “Mm…okay,” he exhales.

  I run a hand through my hair and try to explain. “It’s not you…”

  He laughs, not unkindly. “No, you don’t have to explain. Fake date and all.”

  “I had fun,” I offer.

  He grins. “Yeah. Me too. See ya around, Speedy.

  I close the door behind me, cursing myself for stopping things, cursing myself for letting things go that far. What did you expect when you went to his room?

  I can feel his hands all over me. I needed to be touched badly. Nobody is meant to be alone for as long as I’ve been.

  There’s another part of me that hates the need. There’s the hurt, angry girl who lost her boyfriend and her good friend in an avalanche and swore she would never forget them.

  That part of me rages within, for needing anything living when I had such a good boyfriend whose dead. I can hear her screaming to be heard, until it’s all I hear. What about Danny? What about Danny? You told him forever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Somehow I survive the hangover and training after the fake date. What I’m afraid I won’t survive is the fact that Hunter has gone totally AWOL. I almost always see him at breakfast. If not then, definitely at lunch or dinner. But I don’t see him at all on Sunday.

  It’s a good thing I don’t have Hunter’s phone number, because I wouldn’t have been able to resist texting him something obviously desperate.

  His absence bugs me. I wonder, weirdly, if he’s left for Whistler—done with Laurel and done with me. I don’t know what I expected, maybe that he’d want to ask me on a real date, or that he’d want to see me again. I did leave him hard and alone after being this close to sleeping with him.

  But Sunday turns into Monday, and by Tuesday, I start to give up hope. He’s a professional athlete, with a wicked sense of humor and freakishly good looks. The fact that I ever had any hopes for him is absurd.

  ***

  On Wednesday, he saunters down to the cafeteria in his pajamas, just as I’m finishing up my lunch. He looks ridiculous, like he’s been hung-over for a week.

  In flip-flops, flannel pants, and a big sweatshirt, he’s wearing a sleepy look on his face like a little kid who just woke up from a long nap.

  I smile, in my racing gear and with my shell, sitting alone catching up on my texts and emails, especially with Court.

  He drops his tray with a bang and glares at me accusatorily. “You got me sick.”

  “What?”

  “You gave me the demon flu.”

  “I haven’t been sick.”

  “Then you’re just a carrier,” he grouses.

  He does sound sick. His voice is an octave deeper and raspier than normal. He pulls his hood down and scowls at me. His hair sticks up all over the place.

  “Sorry?” I offer, biting back a laugh.

  “You should be. I’ve been through hell,” he says.

  I laugh—I can’t help it.

  “Don’t laugh at me. I’ve been throwing up for three days because of you,” he mutters. “All I’ve had to eat is ginger ale.”

  “Drink.”

  “Whatever.”

  “You should have told me you were sick.”

  “Oh, are you the carrier for the cure as well?”

  “Dude, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not sick.”

  He frowns. “You’re the only girl I made out with recently. Nobody else will kiss me when I’m throwing up. It’s terrible.”

  I look at him. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Marginally.” He takes a tentative bite of his soup. “I’m not into this fucking chicken noodle bullshit.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Yo. So, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yeah?”

  “While, I was throwing up—I was like, this Speedy character is the fucking devil.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Anyways, I’m kind of evil sometimes, and I’m kind of into this whole thing you have going on, this freckles and the eyes and the not being blonde thing—I kind of like it. And then there was the whole deal where we almost have sex and then you leave and I can’t stop thinking about it…even when I have the stomach bug, which is usually the one time I’m not thinking about sex…”

  I bit my lip. “Is that so?”

  “Yeah. Weird, right?”

  “Totally bizarre.”

  “Anyways, so I had this idea. I think we should go on one of those—what do you call ‘ems—date things.”

  He smiles sheepishly at me for a second, and it takes me another second to realize what he’s asking. A date. A real date.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You think so too?”

  “No, I thought you were asking me out. I said okay.”

  “So, you don’t think we should go on a date?”

  “Don’t be annoying.”

  “Well, I’m just putting it out there,” he says. He leans back. “I’m dehydrated because you poisoned me, so, you know, you’re the voice of reason here.”

  I pause and look at him. He’s kind of adorable. “I think we should go on a date too.”

  “Mm…” he nods. “I don’t normally go on dates, so I also think you might be a witch. Just putting it out there.”

  “I thought I was the devil.”

  “I think you could probably be both of those things. Plus, witches are usually agents of the devil. Except for Hermione. She’s hot. Anyways, I think you weakened my defenses and then planted this idea that I should ask you out in my head so you could tell me to go fuck myself and humiliate me.”

  “I said yes.”

  “Super. When and where?”

  “You asked me out.”

  “No. I asked you if you wanted to go on a date.”

  “I am not planning a fucking date.”

  “Well, I don’t really know how to go on a date. It’s not my style,” he admits. “And I’m dehydrated so it would be poorly thought out…you’d probably end up with a concussion.” He looks at me. “So…”

  “Hunter, it was your idea. You have to plan it.” I try to pretend that this is cool—that my heart isn’t racing a little because Hunter Dawson is asking me out.

  “You’re a high-maintenance piece-of-work, Speedy.”

  “I thought I was a witch.”

  “You’re a multidimensional witch demon.” He sighs. “I’m going to Google some shit and then I’ll get back to you.”

  “Great,” I say.

  He looks up at me with a big grin on his face. “Don’t get your hopes up. I have no idea how to date anyone. Plus I’m sick. This is probably the worst decision of your life.”

  “I’m okay with that.”

  “Well,” he says. “You have poor judgment.”

  “Add that to the list.”

  “Demon witch with poor judgment.”

  “Multidimensional and high-maintenance.”

  “Oh, yeah,” he nods. “I’m gonna go put it all in my diary.” He stands up. “Well…”

  “Well?” I say.

  “I don’t have you phone number, so I had to come all the way down here to ask you that, and I’m now totally drained.”

  “Do you want me phone number?”

  “I mean, if you gave it to me, I wouldn’t object. It’s not like I’m dying to get my hands on it, but I might put it in my…”

  “It’s 720…”

  He fumbles for his phone quickly. I give him a smile. “Shut up,” he growls.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “What’s your phone number?”

  I recite the
digits and he types in the numbers. He slides the phone away. “Can’t believe you got me sick.”

  “Feel better.”

  “That’s such a passive aggressive thing to say, Speedy. You obviously planned this.”

  “What?”

  “This whole thing is a trap.”

  “What kind of trap is it?”

  He gives me a quizzical look—he looks a little delirious. He cocks his head to one side. “I think I need to lie down. I have to brainstorm before I answer that question.”

  He trudges off with his tray of uneaten food and heads for the door. I smile broadly.

  I have a huge crush on Hunter Dawson.

  And we’re going on a date.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Get up,” Mike shouts at me. My skis are twisted underneath me awkwardly and my poles have slid halfway down the slope. “You have got to watch your angles, Pippa! You’re going to wipe out every time you try that.”

  I curse under my breath and stand up gingerly, testing my poor, abused knees before I slide down to pick up my warped ski poles.

  “Honestly,” he says, huffily. “Do you want to tear your ACL before Jackson?”

  “Yeah, I came here because I wanted to tear my ACL.”

  “Well, ski like that, and you will.”

  “Jesus,” I say. “I used to be able to make that turn.”

  “You never could make that turn—it’s a bad turn, nobody makes that turn! Stop hallucinating about what you used to be able to do, and control your speed!” He turns away and looks up towards Lottie. “Come on, Lott, let’s see it.”

  Lottie gets down the grand slalom course quickly, almost effortlessly. Sometimes, it looks like she hardly has to turn on her spindly legs. It’s as though her body is immune to the gravitational forces that knock me halfway down the slope.

  “See,” Mike says, annoyingly.

  I roll my eyes.

  “You should pay attention to her technique.”

  Lottie rolls across the finish line.

  “Tuck through your ending,” Mike reminds her.

  She nods and glances at me. “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I say tersely. Hearing the bitchiness in my own voice, I sigh heavily. “Sorry. I really am fine—just pissed about my turns. I feel like I should get this by now.”

  “It’s only been two weeks.”

  “I know. It’s just…frustrating,” I sigh.

  She nods sympathetically. “I can help you if you want.”

  “I don’t…” I don’t want to need your help. Totally different from not needing help. I glance at her. I’m pissed that she’s still better than me. “Yeah,” I change my answer. “That would be great, actually.”

  She smiles. “Cool.”

  “Can I try again?”

  “It’s getting dark,” Mike says.

  I exhale.

  I hate ending on a crappy run. And I hate that my mind’s racing because I’m having dinner with Hunter tonight. I hate, even more, that I thought more about Hunter Dawson than I did about my turns today.

  I have to focus on skiing. That’s what I’m here to do.

  I pull on my parka and check my phone. And even though I’m annoyed, I see his name and melt a little.

  speedy, do you like pizza?

  dumb question everyone likes pizza. come to my room when you’re done snowshoeing

  ***

  I take a shower and actually blow-dry my hair before I pull on jeans and a long-sleeved, tight t-shirt. Cute clothes might be worth a try in November, but by early December on a mountain, I wouldn’t last five seconds in a dress.

  I head up to Hunter’s room. I’m surprised that I still get butterflies before I see him. Surprised that he makes me so nervous.

  He opens the door before I knock and steps out into the hallway.

  “You better to be ready to go. I’m fucking starved.” He looks me over. “Can’t believe you got me sick.”

  “I didn’t get you sick.”

  He grins. “Whatever.”

  “Oh, now it’s whatever.”

  “I haven’t had real food in three days,” he says. “We’re going to have a feast.”

  “I’d have brought you food.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d have just thrown up on you. Not that you don’t deserve it. This is definitely your fault.”

  “Maybe Laurel gave it to you.”

  “No jokes about Laurel. Too soon.” He hits the elevator door and looks at me. “How was the mountain?”

  “Cold today.”

  “Oh, you’re not familiar with winter in Utah?”

  I shrug. “Can’t be much worse than winter in Colorado.”

  “Freezing. Jackson is even worse.”

  “Yeah, I remember,” I say.

  “So, are you going to try to win this weekend, or are you aiming for third?”

  I laugh.

  “What?”

  “I’m trying to win,” I say. “I probably won’t.”

  “Shitty attitude right there.”

  “Well, I’m just being realistic.”

  “You’re being a defeatist.”

  The doors to the elevator open and we ride down quietly. I steal a glance at him and he catches me and laughs. “I’m still here, Pippa.”

  I roll my eyes and follow him out to the parking lot. “Did you call a cab?”

  “Nah,” he says. He walks out to a BMW sedan. “Went home and picked it my car.”

  “Where’s home?”

  “Nowhere really.” He shrugs. “Whistler, I guess. I have a house in Washington. This was at my, um, stepmom’s house.”

  “She’s that close by?”

  He nods. “Yeah.” He smiles. “I actually went to see my brother this morning. I felt like I’d faint if I tried to board so…”

  I laugh. He opens the door for me.

  “Wow,” I say. “For someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing…”

  “I read about this on Google. It’s supposedly an aphrodisiac.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  “Listen, it’s on Google. Those people are very smart.”

  “Not everyone on the Internet is smart.”

  “It’s the 21st Century. Everyone is a genius now.”

  He closes the door and walks around the car. I like the way he walks—slouching and relaxed and athletic. I like the way he does almost everything.

  “I hope you like cars better than planes,” I say.

  “I do. They have four wheels and all of them touch the ground almost all of the time.”

  “Almost?”

  “Almost. Unlike a plane, which has four wheels, two wings, and a total disregard for the laws of motherfucking physics.”

  He glances at me backing out of the space quickly.

  “I think it’s cute that you’re afraid of flying.”

  “It’s not cute and I’m not afraid of flying,” he mutters. “I just don’t trust planes.”

  I bite back a laugh.

  “There’s got to be some kind of Harry Potter, Twilight bullshit going on there, right? I mean—a five gazillion pound machine in the air?”

  “It has wings.”

  “Oh, really—the wings? Let me tell you something about wings. Penguins have wings. They can’t fly.”

  I giggle.

  “Hunter.”

  “I’m serious. Wings do not equal flight. Penguins weigh less than planes. Gravity is—you know what? Let’s not talk about things I’m afraid of.”

  “I thought you weren’t afraid of planes.”

  “I show you one weakness for five seconds…”

  I grin. “Sorry.”

  He smiles and stops joking around for a second. “Nah, I don’t know where it came from.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I was fine with them and then one day, when I was eight or nine—I was flying back to my dad’s from my mom’s. She used to be on the East Coast, and—I just, I don’t know what happened. I think there might have been bad turbulen
ce—or maybe even normal turbulence. But I realized that the whole thing could fall out of the sky. That some people were sitting in a plane, thinking everything was fine, the odds were so tiny, but everyone thought the odds were so tiny…and then they crashed…” He rubs his chin again and puts his hands back on the steering wheel. “Just feels like Russian roulette for some reason. I dunno. I know it’s irrational, but, hey…tell that to my idiot brain.”

  He drives fast—maybe too fast. And I turn out the window looking down to the city, which at night looks like a glowing grid.

  He rolls down a window, slightly, and the air chills the car.

  “So, can I ask you a personal question?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say.

  He turns and looks at me. “You can tell me to fuck off.”

  “I haven’t done that yet?”

  He grins. “Seriously, you can. I won’t care if you do. It’s personal.”

  “Okay. Ask. I’m not that sensitive.” I say. He looks at me carefully. “Watch the road, Hunt.” More so he’ll stop looking and I’ll be able to catch my breath.

  He turns his eyes back to the road. “Do you remember the avalanche?”

  I wasn’t expecting that. I bite my lip. Yes. I remember everything about it. “Yeah.”

  He’s quiet.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, just wondering about it,” he rubs the back of his head. “I feel like—I don’t know. Just seems wild. Not in a good way—just like, one of the crazier things that can happen to a person.”

  I nod. “Yeah—no, I-I remember it. Most of it. I started to black out when they came for us.” Because Hunter and Danny were so obviously dead and I was so alone and… I swallow. “It’s really heavy.”

  He looks at me. “Yeah, no, I get that.”

  “No. I mean. The snow. It’s really heavy. Literally. It’s like being crushed,” I say. “I never thought of snow that way before—like it had so much weight. You never think that the earth can do that to you. That the ground’s not permanent. That snow can crush you…” I swallow and stop talking.

  I sneak a glance at him. I feel like I’ve already said too much, and I stop talking.

  “How long were you stuck for?”

  “Not long. Half an hour. I got out. I wasn’t buried that deep. And I tried to find them,” I say. “We hadn’t told anyone where we were going. Which was stupid.” And then I found them. I close my eyes against the memory. I will never say that aloud.