by Nicole Deese
Patrick would be here tomorrow. Along with all the butterflies that went along with his name and face and smile.
With one last lingering look at Mr. Ballroom Dancer, I opened the lid to the old dusty board game and slid the card back inside.
If my parents hadn’t taken off after breakfast to run up to the lodge and visit with old friends, my mom would be scrunching her nose at me, shaking her head in disapproval when I poured my third cup of coffee.
Patrick would be here within minutes. He’d texted me on his way up, and though my fingers itched to respond and reply with a big smiley face, I stared at the screen for a full ten seconds before it darkened.
And then I pushed the phone out of reach.
I inhaled the cloud of coffee steam, hoping caffeine would lift the confusion circulating inside me, provide me the strength I needed to let go—of the bravery challenges and of Patrick.
I’d passed all his tests, memorized his favorite one-liners, and cut my peppermint addiction by half. The only thing left to be gained from more time spent together . . . was heartache.
Tires crunched over the snowy driveway and a blur of gray pulled my gaze to the window above the sink.
“Mom! Look what Dr. Patrick brought!” Savannah tugged open the front door and padded down the porch steps in her purple snow boots.
“Wait—”
Weston was slapping Patrick on the back when I rounded the corner to stop my little blond pixie. Too late. My brother scooped her up in his arms and plopped her down on the black snowmobile seat.
“Morning, Willa.” Patrick’s tone was easy, expectant in a way that made me reevaluate my earlier resolve.
I spared the briefest of glances and nodded his way. “Morning.”
“I want to ride this! Please, Mommy!”
“No, baby. That’s not for you.”
Savannah stretched her arms wide and gripped the handles. She leaned from left to right. The girl’s love for speed was bound to give me a heart attack before my thirtieth birthday.
“Hop off, sweetie. Let the big boys have a turn.”
“But, Mooommmy,” she said, stretching the word into a classic Savannah-whine. “I want to play in the snow, too.”
“Then I’ll play out back with you in a little bit.”
“But that’s not fun. Not like Uncle Wes’s kind of fun.”
Weston’s flippant chuckle caused my chest to heat. No matter how many bravery tests I passed or how many times I stepped out of my comfort zone . . . it would never be enough. My family would never see the me I wanted them to see.
“She borders between Classic Bore and Wound Too Tight.” Alex’s statement from the other day echoed in my head like the ringing of a gong.
Weston plucked Savannah off the seat. “Go on, kiddo. I’ll build a snow den with you this afternoon.”
Sulking, she rounded her shoulders and kicked the top layer of snow with the tip of her boot.
I heard the front door latch and turned to follow her, offering Weston and Patrick a small wave without eye contact. “See you guys later.”
Tucking my frozen fingertips back inside the pockets of my jeans, I stepped in Savannah’s shallow footprints.
“You want the first ride? I’ll take you up.”
I stopped midstride. A tangled feeling of hope and dread wove through my rib cage as I glanced back at Patrick. The answer was already forming on my lips when Weston interrupted.
“Ha! I’d give you a hundred bucks if you got her on that thing.” There was no backbone in Weston’s words. He knew the risk to his pocketbook was minimal, if not obsolete. He unlatched the trailer to remove his new toy.
My gaze locked with Patrick’s and in that moment, my fear hardened into something firm and fierce and fiery. Something that whooshed in my eardrums and marched in my chest. Something that wouldn’t allow me to walk away.
“Pay him.”
Weston whipped his head around. “What?”
Patrick’s patient facade broke into a heart-shattering grin.
“I said, ‘Pay him.’ Just give me a minute to suit up.”
Chapter Twenty-One
One might think that accepting a sibling bet would provide the kind of adrenaline boost that could trump even the strongest wave of nausea. Not so. I clung to the handlebars below my section of seat. While trapped inside a giant helmet, I focused on my Darth Vader breathing.
We idled in the driveway for what felt like a month. What on earth is he waiting for? My pride and common sense were engaged in a battle, and in approximately one minute a white flag would be waved if Patrick didn’t squeeze that throttle.
Ducking his head as if to obscure my brother’s view, Patrick’s muffled words rang clear through the vent near his mouth. “Wrap your arms around my waist.”
“But I’m holding on to the bars.” He couldn’t see the ghostly shade surrounding my knuckles through my thick gloves, but I was sure my grip could rival Samson’s.
“It will make our turns easier. And you’ll feel safer.”
If I hadn’t been straddled to the back of this death machine, I would have laughed. Touching Patrick was anything but safe. Yet, ever the abiding rule follower, I obeyed.
The white-flocked pine trees in the distance held my focus—at least for the moment—but the millisecond Wes and the cabin were out of sight my plan was to close my eyes and keep them closed until we slid to a stop. I could only hope that Patrick’s idea of a “ride” was something comparable to the kiddie coasters at the fairground.
The motor engaged and the muscles of Patrick’s stomach flexed under the strain of acceleration. My boa-constrictor hold tightened. I guessed it would be weeks before the imprint of the helmet faded from my left cheek—and weeks before the imprint of my helmet faded from Patrick’s upper back, too. Eyes squeezed closed, hair a tangled whip behind me, I swallowed against the reflux creeping up my throat.
I leaned through every turn with him, doing my best not to resist or react when my backside left the seat because of a bump in the trail. Blind as I was, the two of us worked as a unit.
A hand gripped my knee, squeezed three times, and then disappeared. And for the briefest of seconds, disappointment overshadowed every other sensation that coursed through me.
Our speed downshifted into a sluggish crawl. And then we stopped.
Vertigo swirled my vision as I blinked and lifted my head. Even so, I could see we weren’t back at the cabin. Instead, we’d reached a clearing. A flatland of sparkling white with patches of dense forest on either side. Pulling the key from the ignition, Patrick swung a leg over the front of the snowmobile and tugged off his helmet.
“W . . . what are we doing?”
Nose pink, breath white, he reached for my helmet and lifted it from my head. “I figured you could use a break.”
Static tingled through my scalp as I finger-combed my hair. “Oh, uh . . . nope. I’m doing fine—having a great time.” Stupidest lie ever.
“Oh, really? Burying your face in the center of my back is you having a great time? Come on, Willa. I know you better than that.”
I scrunched my shoulders. “Well . . . at least you made a hundred bucks, right?”
He stared, unblinking. “I’d take a genuine smile from you over a hundred bucks any day of the week.”
His words punched straight into my chest.
With a strong tug, he guided me off the seat and onto the snowy ground. He gripped my arm above my elbow, strong and steady, as if to stabilize me from the outside in.
One shallow breath led into the next, and I knew this was my chance—that I should tell him now that our lessons needed to end. That our time together needed to end, too.
But something about the way he stood, something about the dip in his smile, something about the intensity of his gaze made my knees buckle. He pulled off his glove and reached his hand out toward my face, his fingertips skimming the side of my knit hat before pushing into the curtain of my hair.
The
pulse point in my throat was hammering the Morse code of my most secret desire. Could he hear it?
He tugged gently on my shortest lock of hair, the one that incessantly curled under my chin no matter how many times I tucked it behind my ear. It became our tether. His fingers slipped down the strand, freeing a pine needle that spiraled in the wind like a pinwheel.
Neither of us watched it land. Neither of us willing to be the first to look away.
He didn’t drop his hand or take a step back. Instead, he corkscrewed the ornery piece of blond around his finger like golden thread, and the space between us shrank to nothing.
His breath swept across my face in cloudy patches. “You trust me, Willa?”
I nodded without hesitation.
He uncoiled my hair. “Then take the keys.”
“What?”
“I want you to drive.”
Two beats, and then three. “The snowmobile?”
“Yes. The snowmobile.” His smile felt like a sedative for the overworked neurons in my brain. He pressed his thumb against my bottom lip to prevent the most commonly used word in my vocabulary from slipping out—no.
“What would happen if you said yes before you thought of all the reasons to say no?”
The lump in my throat swelled. What would happen?
He dropped his hand and reached into his jacket pocket for the key. “I’ll teach you—this is the ideal place to learn. Mostly flat with a wide, clear path.”
A thousand what ifs entered my mind, yet amazingly I shut each of them down and took the key from his palm.
“I’ll be right behind you, okay?”
“Okay.”
The triumph in his smile spread through me like a virus, and soon I was smiling, too.
Stiff-legged, I climbed back onto the snowmobile. Patrick clipped the safety pull to the front of my jacket and pointed out the hand brake, the throttle, and the kill switch. He scooted on behind me and patted my thigh, my cue to start the engine.
His arms wrapped around my sides at the first squeeze of the throttle. And for a moment I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and relax against him, to relish this rare feeling of security for as long as possible.
I accelerated cautiously.
The twin skis at the front of the snowmobile pointed in the direction of the flat, snowy plane before us, and a billow of smoky exhaust tinged my nostrils.
How quickly perspective could change.
The difference between the passenger seat and the driver’s seat was like the difference between reading about the taste of chocolate and eating it.
I scanned the scenery the same way I had scanned every minor detail of the panoramic photograph that hung on my dining room wall, courtesy of Patrick McCade. Only the landscape in front of me wasn’t a piece of art.
It was real life.
And I was living it.
The sun, the sky, the trees, each and every dip and bend and peak in the mountain range—all of it was another layer of freedom exposed.
I pressed the throttle harder.
My body vibrated from the powerful pull of the engine. I inclined into another turn and Patrick followed my lead.
“You’re doing great!” he called over my shoulder.
My smile felt wider, bolder, freer than it had in years. Patrick had given me a gift today.
After I made one last pass, I released the throttle and rounded back toward the cabin.
He patted the outside of my right thigh and leaned closer. “You sure you don’t want to go any farther?”
I wasn’t sure of anything anymore, but I nodded anyway. I’d promised Savannah some fun in the snow today, and I needed to relieve Georgia and Weston of their babysitting duties so they could have some fun of their own.
I eased the hand brake back and glided us to the side of the house where Patrick had parked the borrowed truck and trailer.
Only something was different.
Our helmets off, Patrick’s upbeat words and positive affirmations pinged against deaf ears as I scanned the property.
A cold hard panic scratched at the base of my throat, my heart punching bruises into my rib cage.
I pushed off the snowmobile, my legs stumbling into motion.
I broke for the cabin.
“Willa?”
He ran after me, yanked me to a stop. “Why are you—”
“The other one,” I panted out, pointing to the blank space near the truck. “It’s gone.”
He craned his neck, registering the missing snowmobile for the first time. I ripped away from his grasp, and with each harried stride I muttered a chant I wished I could believe.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t.
I threw open the front door to the cabin. Georgia sat at the dining room table, flipping through her wedding planner. Alone.
“Where’s Savannah?” I demanded, breathless.
Confusion crossed her face. “Weston took her on a ride. Up the mountain. What’s wrong?”
Bile lurched up my esophagus.
I let the door swing shut without offering a reply and flew down the porch steps, my boots sinking into the snow like anchors.
Georgia called after us and Patrick answered. “It’s okay. I got her.”
Only he was wrong; it wasn’t okay.
Stride for stride, Patrick matched my frantic pace. “Your brother isn’t reckless. They’ll be fine, Willa. Slow down.”
I halted at our snowmobile.
“Take me up there—I need to get her.” I pointed up at the mountain, and a dizzying pulse pounded behind my eyes and in my temples.
“No.”
My attention snapped back to his face.
“What?” What didn’t he understand? “I have to get to her.”
“No, Willa. You don’t. You need to stay here and wait for them to come back.”
Tears blurred my vision but I pushed past him anyway. Curling my numb fingers around the handlebars, I planted my left foot onto the running board and prepared to swing my right over the seat.
Patrick gripped my waist and pulled me back.
I squirmed free, pushed him away again. “This. This is the reason I can’t say yes, Patrick.”
“What is?”
I sidestepped him, no time to explain, and dove again for the snowmobile.
Only it wasn’t Patrick that stopped me this time, it was a cramp in my stomach.
As I crumpled to my knees, an all-too-familiar pain spread through my abdomen and radiated north. Restricting my lungs. Tightening my airway.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
Patrick dropped in front of me and ripped off his gloves. Rough, warm fingers lifted my face and forced my gaze to his. My eyes widened and a desperate wheeze sliced from my throat.
I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.
“Listen to me, Willa. Take a slow, deep breath—”
But not even the smooth tenor of Patrick’s voice could make my panic obey. I tore from his hold and dry-heaved in the snow.
A steady pressure remained on my back until the last spasm subsided, and then he cradled the back of my head into his chest, his mouth against the tip of my ear.
“Breathe with me, Willa.” There was a new sternness in his tone. “Inhale through your nose.” He lifted my hand and pressed it to my abdomen. “You should feel your breath expand here. Not in your chest. Now hold it.”
I nodded, the technique a forgotten kind of familiar.
“Good. Now exhale through your mouth. Slowly.”
I did as he said, fighting against the burning sensation inside my lungs and the hysterical voice in my head screaming for more air.
“Again.” He coached me through my next few breaths, a continuous rhythm of holds and releases. “Now, picture that sunset. Focus on the colors, the tips of the trees, the way it makes you feel. Good.”
The back of my head rubbed against the front of his jacket, the sound like the peeling o
f Velcro. But breath by purposed breath, the buzzing in my head and my body quieted.
The sunset canvas had been my go-to place for peace and calm since the attacks had come back, the only image that seemed to stop my spiral of worry and—
The whistling hum of a motor catapulted me forward.
“Willa—stop,” Patrick called after me, getting to his feet. “You don’t want to do this. Not here. Not now.”
Adrenaline fueled each wobbly stride.
Weston parked and dismounted and then removed their helmets. Savannah’s giddy laugh echoed throughout the carved-out space between the cabin and the forest line beyond.
“Hi, Mommy! Uncle Wes took me almost all the way to the tippy-top.”
A metallic taste filled my mouth.
Patrick flung his arm out like a barrier, stopping me only a few feet away from the duo. “Wait.”
The word stretched like a taut rubber band inside my head as Patrick called for Georgia. Immediately, she was there. Had she been watching us, waiting for an opportunity to help—to make up for my brother’s stupidity?
She grabbed Savannah’s hand and took her inside.
Patrick lowered his arm and Weston scanned my face, a crease formed above his brow line.
He’d always thought of me as the weaker one. The quiet one. The delicate one. The fragile one. But not today.
“How could you?” I lunged at him, ramming the center of his chest with my open palms.
His eyes rounded and I wanted to shove him again, but Patrick’s hand, the one clamped to my right shoulder, assured me he wouldn’t allow me a second chance.
“It was one ride. Calm down. An inchworm could have traveled faster than the speed I took her.” Weston had the audacity to throw his arms up in the air, as if my words, my worry, my role as Savannah’s mother meant nothing to him at all.
“I don’t care! It wasn’t your call to make.” My finger slashed through the air. “It was mine. You knew I’d never give my permission. And yet you did it anyway.” The words tipped the scale away from a panic relapse into a powerful rage.
