Carry Your Heart

by Audrey Bell

  “Hunter…”

  “We haven’t spoken in a month and you want to talk about Laurel? That cannot possibly be what you missed about me.”

  I smile, laugh throatily, and slouch further down against the door. “No. It’s definitely not.”

  It’s freezing outside the hotel, where I teeter unsteadily in the gusting winds for a few seconds while Hunter signs for the car and slides on his overcoat.

  “What are we doing?” I murmur to him as we cross the lobby, past the white-gloved doormen and the perfectly coiffed concierges.

  The clear bell of the elevator signals its arrival and we step in. “Anything we want,” he says. He stares at me while he says it, like he’s thinking hard about something.

  “What?” I ask.

  He smiles. “Nothing.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You look really nice.” He licks his lips and smiles.

  We get off on the top floor. I kick off my heels, done with the ache in my arches.

  He opens his hotel room door quickly.

  It’s five times the size of mine, a luxurious, three-bedroom suite with a single, unpacked suitcase at the foot of the master bed. The living room is cluttered with snowboards and helmets—gear that he’s deciding between.

  He pushes me down onto the bed with one hand and takes off his blazer and tie to kiss me.

  We’re both drunk, and it’s sloppy, but he hits off the lights, and gets me underneath the sheets. And even though I’m drunk, and he’s not available, and he doesn’t know if he wants this, he takes me so high that it hurts.

  And I dig my nails into his back, like if I could just get them deep enough inside, he’d never want to leave again.

  I’m too drunk and blissed out to leave like I should, when we’re done. I fall asleep, curled into him. He wraps his arm around me, which I love. I want this to last forever.

  What are we doing? Anything we want.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  I wake up before he does, with the kind of headache that Advil was invented for, and a mouth dryer than the desert. I swallow thickly, on a dry and raspy throat and sit up in the sheets.

  He stirs as I do and I run my fingers through my hair, sure I look a total mess. He arches up on his forearms and looks over at me.

  He gives me a big smile. “Hey.”

  I swallow, wondering how many girls have woken up like this since we broke up. Lots. Now I’m one.

  I feel cheap, somehow, even though this was as much my ideas as it was his. More than his idea, it was my idea. I remember how I told him: I fucking miss you.

  “You want to order breakfast?” he asks.

  And he said: I can’t.

  “What are we doing?” I ask.

  He frowns. “I don’t know. It’s the morning. I usually get breakfast in the morning. We can do something else. I also take showers in the morning, if you want to do that with me.”

  I grin. “You’re such an animal.”

  “Hey,” he says. He smiles. “This is a good luck on you.”

  “Hungover with smeared mascara?”

  “Naked and in my bed.”

  I laugh as he rolls over me and I slip further down to cover my mouth. “I have terrible breath.”

  He kisses my forehead and rolls of me, completely oblivious to my attempt at hiding underneath the sheets. I peek out as he rolls out of the bed, ass naked, to the bathroom. “Coming to shower, Speedy?”

  I shake my head and laugh at him, watching him go, burying my head in my pillow. He’s built like…a professional athlete. The door closes to a sliver behind him and I get out of bed quickly. I get a look at myself in the mirror as I slip my dress back on. I’m as much of a mess as I expected, my hair doing things that gravity shouldn’t allow.

  “Shit,” I mutter in the mirror. The silk dress is crumpled up and smells like gin and beer. My heels are strewn on the floor and my feet curl in unhappy anticipation of sliding them onto my abused feet.

  I glance back at the door, slide out of bed, slip into the dress, and start looking for my underwear. “Fuck,” I mumble. I pick up my heels and wait outside the bathroom. I want to talk to him. I also want to get some Advil and wash my face. Go for a run, sweat it out, and debrief with Lottie.

  I sigh sitting on the edge of the bed, not wanting to sneak out and leave him guessing.

  The water stops and he appears. “Aw, you got dressed.” He comes out with a towel wrapped around his waist and sits next to me on the bed as I slide on my shoes.

  “So, I should go…”

  He nods once. “No breakfast?”

  “No, I…” I nod at the door. “I should…get going.”

  He nods. He has a bitter grin on his face. “Right. He licks his lips. “So, that was a mistake.”

  I swallow. “If you say so, Hunter.”

  “I wasn’t saying—I was asking, actually.”

  I get to my feet. “Didn’t sound like a question.”

  “Well, it was.”

  “I don’t know what that was.” I slide my arms into my coat, as if I can conceal the fact that I’m blatantly walk-of-shaming it inside the hotel I’m staying at.

  He seems uncomfortable, rubbing his chin. “So, what should I tell…I mean, like what do you want me to tell Laurel?”

  The name causes bile to rise in my throat. “What do you mean? What should you tell Laurel? You said she had no expectations.”

  “No, I just. Should I end things with her totally?”

  “Do whatever the hell you want, Hunter. I’m not going to make that decision for you,” I say. I run my hands through my hair, trying in vain to smooth my hair back, and I leave.

  What should I tell Laurel?

  This should be easy. Tell her you fucking love me. Or else tell me that you’re not interested. Don’t ask me. Asshole.

  I collapse back into my bed when I get there, kicking off the devil shoes and sliding out of the dress. I think I like being naked and alone in my own bed better than I like being naked in Hunter’s bed. At least nobody is going to talk about Laurel when I’m alone in my own bed.

  What a douchebag, I think hitting the pillows hard, geared up for some sleep. I flip through my texts, trying to get comfortable. Lottie left with that cute kid she’d been dancing with. Mike.

  You get home okay?

  She texts me right back. Still with Mike ☺

  I relax, reading that. Relax as much as I can with Hunter’s question reverberating in my head. What should I tell Laurel?

  I grip the ring around my neck, frowning. I take it off for the first time since I’ve gotten it and roll over in bed. The sleep I’ve been looking forward to doesn’t come.

  Instead, Laurel does. And Hunter’s face. The way he says my name. The way he can’t commit. The way that he asked me, because he didn’t know the difference between the two of us.

  ***

  After I go for a run, I’m tired but I don’t feel like I’ve been hit by a truck anymore. I still look that way, but I feel marginally less shitty. I sit down at the hotel desk with a small journal to write down what I’ll talk about on Good Morning America when they do their piece on my comeback.

  I make a short list:

  -ryan

  -danny

  -leg/sadness

  I look down at it, surprised by the bullshit I come up with. Leg/sadness? I crumple up the piece of paper and throw it away. There’s a reason I’m not majoring in English.

  I walk over to Lottie’s room and rap on the door. No answer.

  I walk back to my room, restlessly. I pace back and forth and pick up my phone to call Courtney. No answer.

  I need someone to talk to.

  Dad?

  To say what?

  Oh, hey dad. I got really drunk and slept with my ex-boyfriend last night, and all he had to say was whether or not he needed to stop seeing this skanky ho who created a series of online blogs to spread vicious, untrue gossip about me.

  Also, I
don’t know what to say during my interview.

  I could go for another run. Or go ski?

  I sigh, deciding on that, because there aren’t any other options. My phone lights up:

  Hunter:

  so what’s your deal?

  Me:

  deal?

  Hunter

  I’m just confused, I guess

  Me:

  sounds like it

  Hunter

  ?

  I pocket my phone, not wanting to respond to a simple question mark. I’m insulted by it.

  What are you trying to say with that question mark, Hunter?! Why? How? Where? Is that what it’s supposed to indicate? Is it something else? Are you confused? Trying to show off what you can do with your fucking iPhone? I’m not worth tapping out an actual question, is that it?

  I take a deep breath. Keep things in perspective, Pippa. It is just a question mark.

  I’m really on a roll today. One-night stand with ex-boyfriend, hangover, walk of shame, lost underwear, misplaced best friend, nobody in contacts to call…I need to ski. I didn’t ski yesterday, and I feel like I have way too much energy coursing through my body. It needs a way out and the best way I know is skiing.

  I hit the slopes decisively. Actively avoiding thinking of Laurel and of question marks.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  When Lottie finally returns from Mike, she looks like she never went out. I still look like I got hit by a truck. I hate everyone.

  “I’m in love.”

  “Isn’t it hell?” I say dryly. I smile at her. “Tell me about it.”

  “So, his name is Mike,” she grins. “And, um, he is an aerial skier from Norway.”

  “Mike from Norway?”

  “I know! I thought that was weird.”

  “Are you sure his name isn’t Sven?”

  “Yes. He definitely said Mike, and we are going to dinner tomorrow,” she smiles broadly.

  “Awesome.” I’m genuinely happy for her. I’m sorry for Joe, too, because I thought those two would get together. But I can’t blame her for not wanting to invest too much in it. Joe gives off a lot of mixed signals, and hasn’t made a move.

  “How was Hunter?” she asks.

  “A mistake,” I say.

  “Oh, really? I’m sorry. You seemed…”

  “His words, not mine,” I shake my head and swallow a gulp of water. “You know what he asked me when I woke up? So what should I do about Laurel?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Like, I don’t know what he should do about Laurel,” I say. “Can you imagine?”

  “Well, maybe he was just confused.”

  “He shouldn’t be confused. I told him I missed him. Lottie, I practically proposed. And he just said, I can’t. And then he saw me dancing with some guy and he decided, maybe he could. And then I slept with him, because I’m a drunk idiot and he’s worried about Laurel.”

  She frowns. “That’s weird.”

  I huff. “Let’s talk about Mike from Norway. I am totally over Hunter from Utah.”

  She smiles.

  “Mike from Norway is twenty-seven. He has two sisters. I’m obsessed with his abs.”

  “Nice.”

  Her voice softens. “You okay?”

  “Fine.”

  She smiles.

  “I’m an idiot for getting involved with him. I didn’t think I would get so involved, or that he would be this noncommittal. You’d think if someone ignored you for six weeks, you’d get the idea, you know?” I say. I shake my head. “I need French fries.”

  “We can order room service?” she suggests.

  “I’m too embarrassed just to order plates of French fries to our room.”

  “Well, get a grilled cheese and French fries or something.”

  “Lottie, you’re a genius. I would starve to death without you.”

  “Get me one, too.”

  I pick up the phone and dial.

  She slouches back into the room, jumping on the bed. “I think you need to talk to Hunter.”

  “I can’t. It’s too fucking humiliating.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like him more than he likes me,” I say. “Plus, we both said I love you and I think he regrets it.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “You told him you loved him?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know it was that serious.”

  “Yeah, well, neither did he.”

  She’s quiet. “Do you still love him?”

  “I think I’m confused,” I say. I smile and shake my head. “I think…I don’t know.”

  She looks at me sadly. “Well, if you don’t talk to him…”

  I bite my lip. “I just can’t.” I shake my head.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Laurel is here. I don’t see her. Lottie tells me at breakfast, when she gets back from the bathroom. She’s here. For Hunter, I assume. And she probably thinks I’m here to try and get him back.

  “Don’t freak out,” Lottie says.

  And then she walks through the lobby into the dining room, in dark jeans, clinging tight to her lean legs, her blond hair down nearly to her elbows in perfect, straight strands.

  Hunter follows her, a few seconds later. We need a new hotel. I can’t stay here with the two of them. I just can’t. But he doesn’t go to sit with her. My wild heart slows and I allow myself to breathe.

  He goes to sit with another woman, a brunette, about my age. Bile rises in my throat. Somehow, it’s not as bad as Laurel, but it’s still awful. There are three of us in one breakfast room. Maybe I’m the only one stupid enough to be looking for anything more than a one-night stand from him.

  Lottie lifts a glass of orange juice to her lips. “I’m starting to want to kill this Dawson kid.”

  “Tell me about it.” I swallow. The fact that he’s with her makes my skin crawl. He chose that over me. And he chose Laurel over me. And all of that wasn’t enough for me to get the fucking idea—that he’s just not into me.

  He sees us. We see them. We don’t acknowledge each other, aside from stolen glances that last a second too long to be merely passing.

  I lose my appetite completely. I’d expected that to happen today, but not at breakfast. And not because I felt physically ill with jealousy.

  I’m meeting with the producers of Good Morning America today, to talk briefly about the kind of questions they’ll ask and so they can film me skiing.

  “Don’t let it get to you,” Lottie advises, pointlessly because I’ve already been got. That charade is long over.

  When I get up to leave, I glare at him, but he doesn’t bother to watch us go.

  It’s not as bad as I think. The producers are professionals at putting people at ease, and it’s exactly what they do with me. No specifics, nothing too personal, nothing invasive about Ryan or Danny.

  I smile and nod. They’ll air a brief segment on the avalanche and on my career since. Then they’ll conduct a short interview, mainly discussing what I’ve overcome.

  They make it sound so painless and so quick that I hardly allow myself any time to freak out.

  What freaks me out, instead, is Hunter. I see glimpses of him everywhere, exiting the elevator in the lobby, turning around a corner at the snow center, dropping to one knee with a small fan for a photograph.

  Aspen’s got to be the smallest mountain in the world, because I can’t seem to avoid him.

  Lottie and Mike go to dinner, and I take the opportunity to lounge in the bathtub and put on one of the softer than a cloud robes that hangs on the back door of the massive bathroom. I order am obscene amount of food from room service. I leap up to answer the door.

  I swing it open to see Hunter.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Hello to you, too,” he says, a wry little grin on his face.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Um, sure?”

  He walks in.

  “I’m guessing you don’t have a
n internship with the room service department.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” he says. “Want to order me something?”

  “I already ordered.”

  “What did you get me?”

  I look at him. “You don’t want to have dinner with your breakfast date?”

  “My publicist?” he says, raising his eyebrows. He chuckles. “You know, it’s a good thing that I’m not nearly as jealous as you. Joe would be toast.”

  I exhale. She was his publicist.

  “Can I order something or are you going to throw me out?”

  I shrug. “Room service is pretty quick.”

  He chuckles. I pick up the phone and hand it to him. He gets a cheeseburger.

  “I want to talk to you,” he says.

  “Well, that’s all that you’re getting,” I say meaningfully.

  “Good, that’s what I’m here to do.”

  I sit down on my bed and he sits down at the desk, putting his feet up and looking at me hungrily. He’s always had this way of looking at me, like he could see through to my beating heart and know all of my secrets before I said them out loud.

  “What’s up with you?”

  “That’s what you want to talk about. Nothing is up.”

  “I mean, why are you here?”

  “To do an interview on Good Morning America,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes.

  “I’m serious.”

  “About what? The avalanche?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great,” he says it sarcastically. “Look forward to hearing about the most traumatic experience of my ex-girlfriend’s life with the rest of the country.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “Nothing, sorry.” He bites a fingernail, a habit I’ve never noticed before. “So, what was the other night? Because you’re not answering my texts. Just a mistake? You were drunk and alone and I was around?”

  “No. I missed you,” I say. “I told you that.”

  “I missed you, too.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “And then you just stormed out…”

  “Because you started talking about Laurel…”

  “Well, I’m confused!” he says, annoyed. “Jesus, Pippa, you expect the absolute worst from me. I just…” he swallows. “Look, you did a real number on me. I think you might have actually broken my heart. And I didn’t even know I had a heart, so that was disturbing.”