by Lili Valente
“Speaking of research,” Mitch says, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I may have pitched a stupid article to Bait about women living to please assholes who treat them like shit.”
“You’ve pitched worse.” I let my head fall back onto the couch cushion, wishing I had finished my glass of port. I’m still feeling way too wide awake, and I doubt sleep will be happening for me any time soon. “And some women do like assholes who treat them like shit. Take Monty. He’s a complete dick who doesn’t shower, and he’s practically drowning in pussy.”
“Yes! Exactly!” Mitch says, voice rising. “I was thinking of that toe-rot-smelling bastard when I pitched the piece. I was also thinking that I need money to book a flight out of Paris, and Bait pays promptly, if not well. But then I started texting some random women on this phone I found, and now I kind of feel like shit.”
I frown. “Hold on. A random phone you found? Are you calling me from a stolen phone?”
“No, I found it. It was sitting on a bench in the park. It must have fallen out of this woman’s purse.”
“So you just picked it up and started using it?” I ask, incredulous.
“What was I suppose to do.” He huffs. “Leave it there and let someone else steal it? Someone who would have tried to get into this girl’s bank account and her Facebook page and all the other private stuff I could easily access from this device if I were a bad guy?”
“As opposed to a guy who’s just texting her friends and…doing what? Being an asshole to prove a point for a stupid article?”
“Hey, now,” he says defensively. “You didn’t think it was stupid a few minutes ago. And I’m not hurting anyone. I’m not going to show any of the tit pics I get, I’m just going to mention that I got them.”
“You convinced strangers to send you shots of their breasts by being a dick?” I stand, pacing toward the sliding glass doors leading out onto the balcony. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I only got one actually, and she was ninety and had tits that would scare your balls right off, but that’s not the reason I need advice. I’m also texting with this other girl, who seems sweet, but pretty bummed out. She touched a nerve when we first started texting, and I went kind of hard on her. Now I feel shitty about it. So I’m thinking maybe I should apologize and let her know it was just a stunt. That way she knows not everyone in the world is a douchebag. What do you think?”
I snort. “Only you would call me with a problem like this.”
“Just give me advice, asshole. This phone could get shut off at any minute. I need to act fast.”
“Yes,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Apologize, Mitch. Quit being a dick. Ditch this article and pitch something to Polit-i-spin instead. Something about the rising terrors of populism and how the world is hurtling toward annihilation or something. That’s always an easy sell in these fucked up times.”
Mitch sighs, sounding relieved. “Yeah. You’re right. This isn’t me. I’m a lover, not a douchebag. Okay, one more quick question before I have to go.”
“Shoot.” I slide open the glass and step out into the frigid night, where the stars are putting on a show unlike anything I’ve seen in ages. In the city, the glitter on the ground outshines the stars, tricking you into taking all the drama at eye level way too seriously.
“Oh fuck.” Mitch shouts something falsely cheery-sounding in French before adding in a whisper, “Gotta run. Catch you later, man.”
Before I can tell Mitch to stay out of trouble, the line goes dead.
I slide my phone into my pocket with a shake of my head, sort of wishing Mitch hadn’t had to hang up. Nothing like someone else’s drama to keep your mind off of your own troubles. Now I’m left alone with the cold air, the dark sky, and the stars that stretch out to infinity, reminding me that I’m a speck of dust, a momentary flash of light on the water—there and gone again in a heartbeat.
Usually I like that about the stars, how small they make me feel. Contemplating my smallness gives me courage. My life will be over in a blink of the great cosmic eye. That means there’s no excuse for holding back or giving in or clinging to the lifeboat when it’s time to dive into the ocean and swim like hell toward the next adventure.
But not tonight.
Tonight I’m remembering what it felt like to transcend smallness, to feel invincible because I got to love a girl who made every minute of every day feel soaked through with meaning. With purpose. At eighteen, I was so sure that I’d been made to love her—even when I was so confused about everything else.
But now I’m not sure of anything except that I have to do something to make things better with Adeline. Life might be short, but even one blink of the cosmic eye is too long to live with the knowledge that I helped make a good person like Addie so fucking sad.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adeline
Pervert in Paris was wrong about Nate, but maybe he’s right about getting out and meeting new people.
I have five contacts on my phone—Shane, Catherine, Penny, Eloise, and the sandwich shop on the corner of 87th where Eloise likes to get Ruebens on Sundays. And I should probably delete Eloise and the sandwich shop, since Eloise is no longer my boss and I’ve never been a fan of sauerkraut. That takes me down to three contacts, and Cat and Penny are really Shane’s friends. Sure, they’re sweet to me when I manage to sneak away for book club or coffee, but if Shane were to drift out of my life, the other girls would follow.
So when morning dawns bright and sunny, and the snow is sparkling like sugar on the slopes outside my window, I decide against staying inside hiding out from Nate and the world.
I’ve done enough hiding. It’s time to get out and live, and maybe make some new friends while I’m at it. There’s at least one group of girlfriends here for the Valentine’s Day weekend. I saw them checking in yesterday. Maybe I can convince them to take pity on me and let me join them for girls-only V-day dinner tomorrow night.
I wasn’t always an anti-social hermit, after all. There was a time when I had lots of girlfriends, an entire crew of fellow book nerds and band nerds and drama geeks who understood my love of good stories and tolerated my enthusiasm for math.
I can learn to be that person again.
“Not every relationship has to end badly,” I say to my reflection as I finish wrestling my hair into braids and push my glasses up my nose. “Just because your mom and dad and brothers and extended family and Nate and Eloise all decided they would be just fine with you dropping off the face of the earth into a pit that has no end, that doesn’t mean the rest of the world is anti-Adeline.”
For a second, I almost start laughing hysterically—again with the laugh or cry! Ba-dum-dum—but instead I tug on my new red knit cap with the fluffy pom-pom on the top and march determinedly out the door.
Early this morning, long before the rest of the lodge was stirring, I’d dropped four hundred dollars I couldn’t afford to spend in the ski shop downstairs. But thanks to a killer end of season sale, I managed to score a pair of red ski pants, a base layer shirt, an ultra-insulated, water-repellent black hoodie, my spiffy new hat, and an outfit to wear around the lodge, which I’ll be able to swap out with my sweater dress.
It has warmed up to just above freezing so I should be fine to head out for an hour or two without my wool coat, which won’t fair well if I end up getting tossed off my sled into a snow bank. I haven’t sledded since I was maybe ten years old, and I’m not sure I’ll remember how, but I’m still excited.
The day is truly gorgeous. The air is clean and sweet as I step out of the lodge and start up the trail to the sledding hill, and there’s no sign of Nate or his very nice boyfriend. As I walk, it occurs to me that Eduardo seemed to like me just fine—he certainly had no trouble chatting with me non-stop on the way up to the lodge yesterday—and would probably make a good friend.
But I can’t be friends with someone who’s dating Nate. Like it or not, there are still feelings there. Feelings and longings and an aversio
n to being close to someone who is in love with Nate and has an intimate relationship with the only penis I’ve ever touched.
So I mark Eduardo off my potential friends list and get in line for a sled. The equipment manager sets me up with a shiny silver disc with handles on either side, a helmet I decide not to wear because it won’t fit over my hat, and a scarf he says someone left a few weeks ago that I can have free of charge.
“Thank you so much,” I say, grinning as I wrap the cozy black fleece around my neck.
“No problem.” The manager returns my smile, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges as he tucks his long blond hair behind his ears. “Glad it fits. Let me know if you need anything else, okay? Anything at all. I’m Chase, and I’m here until noon.”
“Adeline, and thank you. Will do.” I wave and turn to go, my sled clutched in one hand, wondering if Chase was flirting with me. I glance back over my shoulder to find him watching me go, and wave again, feeling a little fizzy when he waves back and his grin goes goofy on one side.
He was flirting with me!
And he’s cute, in a surfer dude who got lost on a ski slope kind of way. And he seems nice and generous with the Lost and Found stash!
I’m considering doing something crazy (for me) like going back to the shed a few minutes before noon and asking Chase if he would like to get coffee, when I reach the turn off to the sledding hill to find Nate leaning against a tree near the trail. Immediately, my heart starts pounding the way it does every time I lay eyes on the man. He’s wearing what looks like a cross between a motorcycle jacket and a ski coat, gray ski pants, black boots, and reflective glasses, and looks hot enough to catch the snow on fire.
He belongs on the cover of Snobby European Skiing, Sex God Edition. His silky brown hair is tousled, and his unshaven morning stubble makes his mouth look even more sexy and dangerous. He lifts a hand and smiles in greeting, and my stomach does a swooping back flip, reminding me that normal men might make me fizz, but only this pretty devil has ever knocked me off my feet.
The bastard. I am ruined for other men, and it’s all his gorgeous fault.
I scowl at him, preparing to storm past without saying a word, but he steps into the path, blocking my way.
“Please, Addie.” He shifts his glasses to the top of his head, pinning me with that infuriating soulful gaze of his. “Five minutes. Give me five minutes, and then if you decide you still hate my guts and want nothing to do with me, I’ll leave you alone. I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
I bite my lip, teeth digging in deep. I don’t want to give him five minutes, but it would be unreasonable to refuse.
And I am reasonable, logical Adeline Klein, who always does her best to be polite and friendly and put other people at ease, even when other people are being huge jerks. I have spent my entire adult life bending over backward for a tyrant boss who treated me like an unwanted orphan from a gothic novel and will probably spend the next however many years bending over backward for cranky New Yorkers while I’m serving coffee or schlepping drinks or cleaning toilets or whatever job I can get with no references, no resume, and very little experience.
But right now, I’m on a vacation, damn it. My first vacation since I was a kid going camping with this asshole, and I’m not in the mood to be reasonable.
Screw reasonable.
And screw Nate Casey.
“No.” I smile as I bounce lightly on my toes. “You can not have five minutes. And your promises mean nothing to me. Less than nothing, in fact. So take your promises and your stupid sexy face and go eat about a pound of rotten eggs!”
Before he can reply, I dash past him, boots crunching in the lightly packed snow.
I don’t stop at the top of the hill. I keep going, getting a running start before tossing my sled onto the snow and jumping onto the disc. And for a few moments, everything is amazing.
I’m zipping away from Nate, who has no sled—ha, ha! Take that, P.D.!—making my triumphant escape down the hill toward the lodge. But just as I’m starting to enjoy the zing of the cool breeze on my face, I hit something hard hidden under the snow and my disc spins in a dizzy half circle.
Suddenly I’m hurtling down the hill backward, which is not nearly as much fun as being able to see where I’m going and know that I’m not going to ram into a tree and kill myself. I lean into the spin, hoping to take myself the rest of the way around, but instead, my shiny silver disc veers wildly across the slope, into the path of oncoming sleds.
I scream, holding a hand out in front of me, as if that will somehow magically keep me from a head on collision. I avoid getting slammed by a man three times my size on a steerable sled, who jerks his Flexible Flyer off course in time to miss me, but I hit a tube full of kids, sending tiny pink and orange-coated bodies bouncing into the air as my sled careens into the trees.
Faster, faster, I zip through the shadows, past tree trunks and over more bumpy things hidden beneath the snow as thin branches slap at my back and shoulders, but do nothing to slow my slide. I’m guessing I’m travelling at something close to the speed of light, so fast I’m afraid to stick out an arm or leg for fear that it will be snapped off and I’ll continue my plunge down the mountain with a bleeping stump where a limb used to be.
I’m praying for a snow bank, or maybe a rotted tree—surely colliding with a rotten tree will hurt less than hitting a healthy one—when the ground suddenly disappears beneath me. I gasp, my heart lurching into my throat as I look down, realizing there’s a good fifteen-foot drop to the snow below me. The sled hangs tauntingly in the air long enough for me to get psychotically scared before falling hard and fast toward what I hope will be a drift deep enough to break my fall.
Seconds later, I land flat on my back with an oof that’s echoed by the sled as it slaps down a few feet away and shivers across the snow to spin in a lazy circle near a very large rock. I’m staring at the rock, thinking about how much worse things would be right now if I’d fallen on it instead of the snow, and silently thanking the gods of sledding that I’m alive, when I hear a male voice shout—
“Fuck! Shit! Shit!”
—from somewhere overhead.
A moment later a steerable sled shoots off the ledge, soaring over my head to ram into a tree, splintering to pieces.
I flinch and cough, the breath rushing back into my lungs. I’m trying to roll over, figuring I’d better get up before my luck runs out and someone lands on top of me, when Nate’s head pops up above the snow bank. “Adeline! Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
My eyes narrow. “You.”
“Stay there, I’ll be right down,” he says, clearly not realizing that he’s the last person I want to see while I’m lying in the snow in a defeated heap.
“I don’t need help,” I call out, but I don’t try to get up again. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough in front of Nate. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me wallow around in a snowdrift like an artic walrus.
In what feels like no time, he’s found his way down to the scene of my humiliation and fallen to his knees beside me. “Just lie still.” The concern on his face as he tugs off his gloves is almost funny. Too bad I’m not in the mood to laugh anymore. “I have first aid training. Not a lot, but enough to see if anything’s broken. Can you tell me where it hurts?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” I insist, still making no move to rise. “I’m fine. You can leave.”
He scowls, and his eyes flash the way they do when he’s angry. Or turned on. Or maybe angrily turned on, though I’ve never personally seen him in that state. “You just sledded off a goddamned ledge, Adeline,” he says, voice rough. “And you’re not moving.”
“I don’t feel like moving,” I say stubbornly. “I’m enjoying a rest in the snow. So go away, Nate. Go, go, go away, and don’t come back another day.”
His breath rushes out. “That’s mature.”
“Yeah? Well, screw mature,” I say, the heat in my tone surprising me. “I did mature. I did
all the mature while you were off hitting keg parties. I don’t have to do mature right now, and I don’t have to talk to you. So go away!”
Nate’s jaw clenches and I’m pretty sure he’s about to lose his temper in a fashion unlike anything I’ve seen from him before.
Instead he leans in, wrapping his hands around my wrists, pinning them to the snow. “I’m not going away,” he whispers inches from my lips, making my pulse spike. “Not until you let me get through to you, one way or another.”
“If you kiss me, I’m going to bite you,” I warn, heart racing.
“Fine by me. I like it when you bite.” And then he kisses me. He kisses me hard and deep and my stupid body lights up like a California brush fire.
My nerve endings ignite, and fireworks launch behind my closed eyes, and I moan into his mouth like he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to my lips. And he is, the bastard. He tastes so good, so incredibly good, like the first drink of water after hours spent boiling in the summer heat—fresh and clean and explosively delicious.
His tongue lays claim to my mouth and I feel it everywhere, in every secret place that’s been dark and shadowed since he went away. The kiss rips through me, pulling the curtains from the walls, throwing open windows, letting the sun shine in, leaving me no place to hide from the knowledge that I have missed his kisses like I would miss air. Like I would miss books and music and art and waking up every morning knowing there are still more beautiful things in the world left to discover.
But none of them are as beautiful as Nate’s lips on mine or his groan as I nip his bottom lip or the way his thigh presses between my legs as he shifts on top of me.
He kisses me, and the years melt away, and suddenly I’m sixteen, young and fearless and drunk on my first taste of how wonderful it is to get this close to someone. So close that his breath is my breath and his heart is my heart and his hunger is all the food I’ll ever need.
“You feel so good, Ad.” He drops a hand to my hip, gripping me tight through my ski pants. “It was always so fucking good with you.”
