Carry Your Heart

by Audrey Bell

  I was wondering if you had an agent we could get in touch with to discuss sponsoring you. Let me know!

  Best wishes,

  Julia

  “Holy fucking shit,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Spyder wants to sponsor me,” I say breathlessly. “Oh my god.”

  “Oh my god, that is huge,” Lottie says. She smiles. She’s already sponsored. “I’ll give you my agent’s number right now.”

  “Okay. Okay. Gah.” I smile ridiculously wide and Lottie sends him an email from my inbox.

  “Let’s celebrate, girl,” Lottie says.

  I text my dad. Skiing is exactly what I need right now. I’m a bundle of nervous excitement.

  There’s no fear when we get up there. I watch Parker go. I take a deep breath, and the second I feel the powder under my feet, I let it rip.

  We’re all four of us flying—free, letting out war cries, just skiing for the hell of it, no question of first or last place, nothing but the insane rush of adrenaline in our veins as we swoop down the mountain.

  I turn back and see Lottie, small and compact, zigzagging ferociously.

  She comes to a stop by Joe, giggling uncontrollably. “Why don’t we do this every day?” she asks.

  “It’s amazing out here,” Joe turns to look down the mountain. We have more snow to tear through and we’ll end up down on a remote corner of the mountain’s base with a long walk back to the lodge. We have time to stare at the view.

  I see how Joe grips Lottie’s shoulders affectionately, and am grateful for these three friends. They’re not Hunter, they don’t make my heart beat faster, they don’t drive me wild, but they put me at ease. There’s such value in that. It’s more important than love, ease. Feeling secure. Like there are enough things binding you to the world so you don’t have to worry about falling again.

  I’m going to be okay, I breathe. I touch the ring at my throat. It’s going to be fine.

  Chapter Forty

  “We want to fly you to the X-Games,” Julia says. “Good Morning America is going to do an interview with you.”

  “You know I’m a downhill skier?”

  “We do. But this is a huge media event for winter sports—we don’t get much else like it,” Julia says.

  “And the interview?” I ask cautiously. I’m not sure that I’m ready for that.

  “We’ll talk over the details when you get there.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m ready to talk about all the avalanche stuff.”

  “We can make sure they don’t ask specifics.”

  “Okay,” I bite my lip. “Okay.” I smile. I can do this.

  “You can bring friends if you want,” she suggests. “We can get you four or five tickets and a few hotel rooms?”

  “Just one,” I say. “For my friend Lottie.”

  “Alright, email me her full name and all that.”

  “I will,” I say.

  Hunter will be there. Swarmed by attention and by woman and possibly with Laurel, if he is dating her, as all Facebook evidence suggests. It pisses me off that it was so easy for him to stop talking me. So easy to just write me off.

  Well, my sponsors were flying me there. It wasn’t like I was flying out there to get him back. If I were desperate I would do that, I think dismissively.

  Then I admit, if I were a braver person, I would do that.

  ***

  Spyder throws a big party a few days before the X-Games in Aspen, the glitziest winters sports town in America.

  They tell me to dress up and Lottie and I have a thrill buying dresses and sky-high heels in town.

  “If nothing else, Hunter is going to die when he sees you in that outfit,” she says, adjusting the necklace so it was centered. We’re not even sure he’ll be there, but I’m preparing for the night like he’s going to come.

  “Do you really think I should wear this?” I ask, toying with the ring, which I haven’t taken off.

  I mostly kept it hidden, taped during training, which consumes my life, or tucked underneath a t-shirt. The last time I wore a dress was to my fake date with Hunter. So, there haven’t been a lot of opportunities to people look at the engagement ring around my neck and ask me what it is.

  “Absolutely,” she says. “Hunter is going to die when he sees you.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want that,” I say mildly.

  Lottie looks amazing too, in a royal blue mini dress and wedges that made her slim legs look like they belonged to a runway model, not a skier.

  We buy our dresses and retreat to the fancy lodge that Spyder had put us up in. Which was packed with gear that Spyder had given me.

  “I could definitely get used to this,” I tell Lottie, who smiles knowingly. She’s been sponsored by Spyder for eight months now. She knows all about the perks of a sponsorship.

  We eat voraciously in the dining room, laughing with excitement over the party, and talking about what I should say on Good Morning America.

  He walks in. I’m not the only one who turns my head. There are a lot of big snowboarding fans out here, and more than a few women who simply appreciate the view. He’s alone. I’m sure he’s alone. He sits at a table in a corner and orders and eats quietly. I hold my breath, waiting for Laurel, for any woman to join him, but no one does. They bring him an appetizer and he’s still alone.

  I can’t focus at all with him there. I get up to go to the restroom, clear my head, catch my breath. I wash my hands slowly and push through the door. It swings behind me, and I see him waiting. He looks at me cautiously.

  “Hey,” I say after a second. I take a shaky breath, my stupid heart pounding like he’s Romeo and I’m Juliet. Who do you think you are, Pippa? Taylor Swift?

  “Hey,” he replies.

  “Following me?” I ask archly. I don’t know why I’m so quick to jump down his throat. It’s amply clear he hasn’t been stalking me, considering he moved out of Utah and disappeared after we broke up.

  “Yeah, kind of.” He looks at his feet and then steals a glance up at me. “Sorry. You don’t want to see me. I get it.” He smiles sheepishly. “I just wanted to say hi.”

  I look at him. His green eyes are soft, dewy.

  “Well,” I swallow thickly. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he whispers back, taking a tiny step to me, and I want to kiss him. I almost do. I step forward to him and reach for his shoulder.

  “Hunter,” I whisper longingly.

  He grabs my hand. “Don’t,” he says seriously. “I can’t, Pippa.”

  I nod. “Right. Laurel.” I drop my hand. So he’s faithful to her now.

  “No. Not Laurel. It’s just I can’t,” he says, his voice clearer, sturdier. He bites his lip. “What are you doing here?”

  “My sponsors flew me out,” I say. “I’m doing some Good Morning America interview.”

  “Yeah, you’ve really been killing it,” he says.

  “You’re competing? Obviously, you’re competing. Stupid question.”

  He laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I am.”

  “Well, good luck,” I say. “Good to see you. All that jazz.”

  He grabs my wrist as I turn away and the contact is like a flame on my skin, tight and intense.

  I burn with a need to be held by him. To be his, for him to be mine, for him to not go do things like run off to Canada for no reason, and then just disappear. I need him to fight for us instead.

  “I never cheated on you,” he says throatily.

  “I…”

  “I don’t want to fight. But you should know that. I didn’t cheat.”

  He lets me go and turns into the bathroom himself. I stand there, half of me wanting to barge right after him into the men’s room. But I don’t. He said I can’t and whatever that means, it was a pretty clear rejection of my advances.

  “Did you talk to him?” Lottie asks when I get back to the table. “He got up as soon as he saw you leaving.”

  “Yeah,” I say dreamily.

  “What di
d he say?”

  “That he never cheated on me.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  I hesitate. Looking at her. “It was never about sex. I never thought that he slept with her. I thought that he went to see her, to make sure. Or something…”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Pregaming in high altitude isn’t something I’ve done in a while. So the fact that the minibar-sized alcohol bottles turned out to be lethal when mixed with my lightweight bloodstream takes me by surprise.

  “Ooh. You are definitely drunk,” Lottie giggles, pleased with this development.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Stop trying to do your make up,” she says, sitting me down and taking over.

  “How are you so sober?”

  “I’m not that sober.”

  “You are the size of a peanut.”

  “Thank you?”

  “Fun-sized.”

  “Close your eyes,” she orders, gently doing my eyeliner and mascara.

  “Pint-sized.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says.

  “Halfpint-sized. iPod Mini. I mean Nano. Nano. You are Nano-Sized.”

  “All done, you little alcoholic,” she says. “Have some water or soda.”

  I drink another gin and tonic instead.

  “Well, this is going to be interesting,” she pronounces.

  “You know what I like about Hunter?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. He’s just so annoying. And like, why is he so tall? Nobody needs to be that tall. Plus, I thought he had this really great hair and when I saw him at dinner last night, I was like he doesn’t even have that great of hair anymore. I don’t know if he changed conditioners or if he stopped using conditioner altogether…”

  “Pippa.”

  “Yes?”

  “Get your shit together. You sound like an idiot. Hunter has amazing hair.”

  “Well, it’s still stupid to be that tall.”

  She laughs. We clatter through the lobby and jump into the limo which will take us to the swanky restaurant they’ve transformed into a winter wonderland party.

  Every big extreme athlete is here. Skiers, snowboarders, snow mobilers, the tattooed, death-defying adrenaline seekers of the world. People paid to be reckless with their own lives, but who would do it for free anyways.

  People like Hunter.

  My eyes go to him right away, signing autographs for a young woman, who I think evil thoughts about based on nothing but the alcohol. And my pathetically jealous personality.

  I catch his eye across the room, wondering if I look as drunk as I feel.

  We stop on the miniature red carpet for a few pictures, our hands around each others’ waists. And I see him taking a beer. Maybe he’s as drunk as I feel.

  Maybe we can black out, hook up, and get each other out of our systems.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere,” I say, leaving her to go over to Hunter.

  He puts his hand on the hip of the snowboarder he’s talking to, excusing himself and stepping to me.

  “Pippa,” he smiles. “How are you?” Friendly polite.

  “Drunk,” I say flatly. He laughs.

  “Alright, I can work with that.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you can,” I say. I stare at him. “Do you want to know something?”

  He glances around, like he’s nervous I’m going to do something crazy, before he looks back at me with an uneasy smile.

  You’re a fucking asshole for doing this to me. I don’t say that though. You broke my heart and it was already broken, but you broke it worse.

  He reaches out and grabs the ring around my neck. “Nice rock.”

  My anger dissipates in a rush. Danny gave it to me. I want to tell you about him, but I can’t because we broke up. “I said do you want to know something?” I’m fighting tears.

  “You okay?”

  “Do you want to know something?”

  “Sure. I want to know something,” he says, in a placating voice.

  I swallow. “I really fucking miss you.”

  He looks at me, his face changing. “Pippa, you’re drunk.”

  “I already told you that,” I say. I swallow, tears brimming in my eyes, which I fight ferociously, because I cannot cry in all of this make up.

  “I told you I can’t do this.”

  “Because of Laurel?”

  “That’s not—she’s not my girlfriend.”

  “What is she?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “You always think I have all of the answers to all of this shit, Pippa. I don’t know anything. Don’t you get that?”

  “Did you miss me?”

  “Jesus, Pippa,” he whispers. “You have no idea.”

  He presses his forehead to mine, a shocking gesture for how public this event is. “Then what can’t you do?”

  “This. I can’t do this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re drunk and you don’t mean it. And you’re wearing an engagement ring.”

  “I’m wearing a necklace. To remember someone I love,” I say. I look at him. “I know he’s not here, Hunter.” I say it fiercely. “I’m not confused.”

  “If you were sober…”

  “I’d be too scared to say this,” I say. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  “Pippa…I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  I swallow. I should have known that what he was trying to say is I don’t want to. I nod. “Right, well.” I bit my lip. “I told someone I’d try to…never mind. I tried.” I turn, trying to pretend I didn’t just hand over my heart and he didn’t take it.

  I retreat back to Lottie’s side.

  “Hey,” she says uncertainly. “Are you…”

  “I’m okay,” I say gamely. I laugh. Try to laugh it off. “God, you must be fucking sick of needing to ask me that question. I’m okay, Lott.”

  She nods. But I’m not that okay. I’m not that shattered either. I’m just sort of shocked. All this time I’d been holding out hope that it wasn’t over, but it is for him.

  We meet dozens of people. I shake so many hands my arm aches. And I can’t stop my eyes from finding those shoulders, that hair, the green eyes if he’s close enough. Can’t stop hoping he’s watching me too. Considering what I said.

  It’s a long party. There’s dinner, more drinks, loud music. There’s an elegance to the place, even as it devolves into sloppiness—big name snowboarders jumping up and down and screaming along with the blasting music, people spilling drinks, a frat party in a five star restaurant.

  Lottie and I go to dance as the debauchery begins, and I find myself spun into the arms of a snow mobiler named Shawn, who has a Mohawk and tattoos and is not at all my type.

  But he’s funny and he makes me laugh and given that I more or less just was flat out rejected by Hunter Dawson, things don’t seem so bad.

  Lottie is in the arms of someone who has her swooning. “So, are you an athlete or here for the fun?”

  “Both,” I say. “I ski. Downhill. Not competing.”

  “Nice.”

  “Mind if I cut in?” Hunter’s voice is deep and serious. He’s not trying to be cute, he’s not trying to flirt. He wants Shawn gone.

  “Sure,” I say before Shawn can protest.

  He seems annoyed, muttering as he spins away, and there’s Hunter, smoldering, quiet, taking my wrist and my hand. He’s tall. I like how tall he is. I don’t know why I ever said I didn’t. Everyone should be this tall.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Dancing with you,” he says simply, pulling me close. He’s a good dancer. He takes control; I just have to lean into him, feeling the heat of his body, the warmth of his hands on my waist.

  “How many drinks did you have since I last spoke to you?” I demand.

  “Lots,” he says. He spins me and pulls me back to him tight. I like being held by him, knowing that he’s drunk and I’m drunk and that this is a terrib
le idea.

  “Hunter, I’m sorry for…” I say softly.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” He whispers it harshly, like he needs me to say yes as much as I want to.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Yeah, let’s go.”

  Lottie gives me a worried look when he takes me hand and pulls me out of the crowd. We’re both hot and sweaty from the dance floor. He’s walking seriously, like we have a flight to catch.

  He holds my hand. We walk away from the noise and pick up our coats quietly.

  The coat attendants are sleepy and bored. It must be a strange job, working at parties with all these drunk strangers. Handing over their coats. So quickly forgotten by the people they work for.

  Hunter leaves them twenty dollars, and pulls me through the door. He spins me outside the, his hands tight on my waist, and presses me against the cold wall of the building to kiss me hard. It’s like I’ve never been kissed before. Not like this. Not like it was keeping us alive.

  I reach out and touch his face. The day-old beard bristles against my hand, and he nuzzles closer to me, with deep, biting kisses, and one hand pressed firmly against the brick exterior wall of the restaurant.

  “Hunter,” I breathe.

  “You keep saying my name,” he says with a smile. He takes a strand of my hair and tucks it behind my ear. He kisses my neck once and softly.

  “It’s because I can’t believe you’re with me.”

  The limo pulls up and we slide in. He pulls my legs sideways into his lap, so I’m sitting against the door and he runs his hand up and down my calf, curiously.

  “You are fucking wasted,” I say as he inspects my calf.

  “Yes,” he says. He glances at me. “So are you.”

  “Just a little.”

  He smiles.

  “So, what’s your deal with Laurel?”

  He throws his head back. “Oh, come on, Pippa.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s sex,” he says. “Someone to have breakfast with. Someone with no real expectations. She has never been my girlfriend and she will never be my girlfriend. And I have told both you and her that more times than I care to count.”

  “And what would she say if she knew about this?”

  He sighs. “She knows we’re not exclusive.”