by Sunniva Dee
“You’re not my girlfriend, though.”
“Right, but I’m your best friend.”
I pull out of our embrace again, enough to really take her in. Red nose, watery blue eyes with heavy black eyelashes. Natural eyebrows and that rocker-girl short haircut. She purses her mouth at me, waiting for me to rebuke her statement.
I sigh and nudge her in against me with an elbow between her shoulder blades and my hand cupping her head. I keep her close. Almost shielding her. “Yeah. You are my best friend. I dig you, Inga.”
“I dig you too.”
“Don’t let him come here.”
She angles up to meet my stare. “You want to hug somewhere warmer?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” I reply without a second thought.
This is crazy. I’m dropping Cameron off in Leon and Arriane’s car. He’s heading off on his Whistler trip, and even though his friends, Dan and Marek, drove to the airport in a truck big enough to take Cam’s snowboard gear too, I didn’t feel good about him leaving without me seeing him off. I’m having a mom moment.
It’s Friday morning, and after my little breakdown at the club yesterday, we ended up back at my place. Sure, we turned on the TV to some late night show, but heaven knows what went on there. All I focused on was being cozy in the crook of Cam’s arm and the way he nuzzled my throat with no thought of what we are and what we aren’t to each other. We were easy. Nice.
When you’re close with someone the way we are, you’re close and that’s it. No strings, just lots of nearness. So near, in fact, that he ended up whisking me out of the living room and into my bedroom so my roommate Maria wouldn’t surprise us.
Cam wasn’t as playful as usual, though. He didn’t mention it—and I didn’t either after my outburst on the promenade—but it was as if he too was worried we wouldn’t see each other again. Goddamn, I wish he weren’t leaving today. I have a bad feeling about this trip.
Returning from the airport, I think of how it was to sleep—sleep—in his arms. We were in my bed, with no dorm buddies of his freaking inches away from us, and I wasn’t even drunk.
Yeah. It was different. Cameron has this sweet way of sleeping. When he’s completely relaxed, he lies face up with his head tilted backward and nose pointing at the ceiling. The back of his hand covers his forehead and part of his eyes, and pink lips separate a little with each exhale.
All last night, he had me laid out partly on top of him. My brain didn’t fret over Bo’s and my issues, maybe due to the slow, steady thud of Cameron’s heart beneath me.
I woke up once to go to the bathroom. By the time I came back, he’d flung one massive thigh out to cover my part of the bed too. I tried to lift it, but it was too heavy so I had to sneak in on the other side.
By lying down on the arm he’d sprawled over my nightstand, I triggered an unconscious chain reaction. He pulled me in against him, sighed heavily into my ear, and then he rolled us both over until I was completely covered by him. Turns out, Cameron is impossible to move without his conscious help. I ended up laughing out loud from underneath the mass of hard muscle and weighty limbs until he woke up, puzzled.
I drop Leon’s car off at Smother and take the Silver Line to campus. Suffer through a never-ending lecture of bullshit. As in philosophy. I don’t get this crap at all. It’s an elective. Arriane tricked me into signing up for it saying it’d be an easy A. As it stands, I’ll work harder for a B in philosophy than I will for an A in any of my regular classes.
Back at Smother, I still worry about Cameron. I visit with Arriane before work, and she offers me decaf in her kitchen. “Why don’t you drink regular coffee? Leon isn’t twisting your arm now that you’re done being pregnant, right?”
She rolls her eyes. “He never forced me to do anything—it just wasn’t good for Lyric while he was growing inside me.”
I snort. “Sure, tell yourself that. I remember Leon’s face vividly. He got all surly whenever you as much as eyed a Starbucks.”
She laughs and pets Lyric’s head before he vrooms off on his plastic tractor. It’s his favorite means of transportation within the apartment. The concentration he exudes while maneuvering the thing rivals that of a grownup. Men will be men, even at one and a half.
Arria lifts her gaze to me and quirks her lip. “What’s wrong, Inga? You don’t look so good.”
“Geez, thanks. At least, I’m wearing my bar pants already. What more can you ask for?” I stretch the fabric out from a knee, showing her.
The reaction I get is not what I expect, though. Arria’s violet eyes widen with shock before she frowns. “Okay. This is not good. What. Is. Going. On.”
“You’re not happy I’m properly dressed?”
“Yeah. Inga. Cut the crap. Leon told me you started crying at work last night, and now you’re being strange. You’re not your funny self—you don’t look happy. What’s up?” She’s standing, hands on hips like a schoolteacher or something. Jesus. “Are you sad over Cameron leaving?”
“No. Maybe. Fuck, Arria—he’s not going to survive that trip,” I say, and then I start crying.
“This yours?” Dan hands me a used washcloth from the en suite of the dingy motel room we just checked into. All three of us sleep in the same room to save money. Marek is out scavenging for roasted chicken and bread while Dan and I take the first turns in the shower.
“Don’t need the cloth out here, Dan. Who else’s would it be?”
“Dunno. Wasn’t sure if they’d cleaned the bathroom since the last guest, you know what I mean? Don’t recall you being a washcloth guy.”
“I was grimy, dude. Hope the rag didn’t offend you,” I joke. I’m tired as shit. It’s been a long trip, layover included, but my mood lifts at the thought of tomorrow and the layers and layers of virgin snow waiting for our boards to ravish them. Hell yeah.
I’m the couch-surfer this time. I flip it open and find solid springs beneath a thin-ass mattress. Doesn’t matter. I’ll pass out log-style anyway. My thoughts go to Ingela. It’s weird how I feel like I left her behind. I’ve never seen her this needy before, and this… jinxy.
I snort to myself. Jesus F-ing Christ. I need to ask her about it if I survive this trip. Are Swedes not superstitious at all, or is this Inga being Inga?
Marek locks himself in, bringing a waft of fresh bread and warm chicken with him. He’s got a few bottles of Coke too. We’re not drinking, pre-excursion. If all’s well, we’ll celebrate when we come down to civilization tomorrow night.
“Whatcha grinning at?” he asks me as he unloads three chickens and a couple of baguettes from the plastic bags. I screw open a soda bottle and bottom it up.
“Eh, you don’t want to know.”
I call Ingela before I crash. My watch shows three in the morning in Deepsilver—she’s closing with Christian tonight.
“Hello?” she says. There’s no music in the background, so Robin has left the grounds. Her tone of voice is tentative, like she’s not sure what to expect.
“Hey, it’s me… Cameron,” I add just in case.
“Ah! Are you okay?”
“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be? We only landed an hour and a half ago. Haven’t had time to hit the mountain yet.”
“Planes can be total assholes sometimes and fall from the sky and shit.”
I can’t help snickering. “I had no idea you had a thing against flying. How did you get all the way to America? Are you fresh off the boat, Kitty?”
“Kitty?” She’s back to Loud Ingela again, her pitch distorting in my ear and threatening to split my eardrum. “Damn you, Cameron—you’re such a cocksucker.”
I thump down on the mattress, laughing. Marek shoots me a questioning look over the last drumstick. Dude’s skinnier than a dingo and eats like an elephant. I cover the phone with my hand. “Inga just called me a cocksucker.”
“God forbid,” he mumbles, crunching on a bone. He shrugs, thinking better of it. “Meh, as long as you stay clear of mine. Oh, and no staring at my junk
either.”
I ignore him. “Hey, I like you when you go all kitty on me,” I tell Ingela. She’s not in agreement and resorts to growling out her discontent. Dan’s next to me on the couch flipping through channels. She’s so loud even he hears her.
“Wait, is she growling at you? She’s your bed-growler from the other morning, huh?”
For a short moment, Ingela goes dead quiet. Man, this is priceless. “Hmm, refresh my memory?” I say, purposely obtuse while Inga barks, “Stop talking!”
Dan brushes bread crumbs off his shirt but forgets the beard. It’s got its fair share too. “The loud one. Not often you bring home a growler. Ingela, huh? Tell her I said ‘hi.’”
“Dan says ‘hi,’ Inga.”
“Cocksucker.”
“She says ‘cocksucker,’” I inform Dan, who frowns, trying to catch up on our humor.
“No, asshole—put him on.”
Ah, this is perfect. I needed to bicker with Ingela before bedtime. I pass Dan my phone. He listens, rubbing his beard. A few crumbs loosen and roll down his chest. “Sure. Right. No worries,” he says. She must be apologizing.
“Yeah, ditto,” he finishes. By the time he returns the phone, she’s hung up.
“What’d she say?” I ask.
“She told me you’re the cocksucker and not me. Also that you’re an asshole and that I’m in charge of keeping you safe on this trip or she would… um, hand me my balls, I think she said?”
“Yeah, foreigner. You get the gist, though.”
“Right. Better haul you home in one piece.”
We’re getting up in four hours. The helicopter is booked for eight a.m. so we’ve got to be ready by then. While the guys turn in, I send Inga a text.
Don’t worry. I’ll be back in two days.
I won’t believe it until I see it, she replies.
What’s my prize if I come back whole? I smile, picturing beautiful small breasts and tanned nipples.
I won’t kill you. There. Happy now?
I snicker. Dan shushes me even though he’d sleep through a third world war.
If I make it back safely, you tell your ex not to come to Deepsilver.
My phone stays quiet for a whole minute. I’m about to doze off when she replies.
Okay, yeah. Maybe.
I pull in a deep breath and exhale quickly. I’m admitting to myself that I can’t stand the thought of Inga with that guy. She’s my friend. Friends don’t let friends hurt themselves on purpose. The possibility of Inga not welcoming him at her house makes me relax, and thanks to our little exchange, I’ll enjoy tomorrow even more.
Helicopter blades flap fast above us, promising danger and no mercy. The pre-game rush sets in. Adrenaline crowds my blood, pumping it hard and fast through my veins. I stare at Marek, who’s got the same wild look in his eyes I must have. We’re damn ready for Mother Nature, for getting fucked up by her, and I can’t, can’t wait.
Dan punches me in the back, roaring out his own rush. His buddy, the pilot, lands the helicopter neatly on a fucking awesome peak where we climb out and unload the baggage. Our gear is light; we can’t be bogged down with what we’re about to do. The beauty of this vast wild nature spellbinds me. I can’t even offer a second’s attention to our ride taking off and disappearing.
As the sound of our only source of transportation fades and dies in the distance, the three of us stand stock still, staring out over the cliff ahead of us. Marek makes the short, quick puffs of air typical for him when he’s extremely excited. Dan’s got his arms crossed around his snowboard. Its nose reaches his cheek, and he absentmindedly rubs his beard on the metal edge.
Yeah. This is the real deal. In front of us is nothing but white. It’s lakes and valleys and summits of snow. All is peaceful, like no one has ever met their maker out here. This place is heaven in itself.
Wordlessly, we start working. Strap ourselves into helmets we don’t use under less extreme conditions. Double check pockets for energy bars and small pouches of drinks. Pull our gloves on so tight they almost stop the blood flow. It’s important to find the balance between too tight and too loose. Under these circumstances, you can easily lose a digit or two to the cold. If a glove gets ripped off in flight, though, you’ll lose more.
“Ready?” I ask when we’ve all stopped moving around. We’re back to staring at the steepest mountainside we’ve ever snowboarded. They warned us. We’ve signed papers that we’re aware of the dangers that could be hiding under the powder snow. That no one but us is to blame if something happens. For us, though, to play Russian roulette with nature itself is half the fun.
The trip down to the valley below is about nine miles long. It might be the longest ride we’ve braved in one run.
“Yup,” both of my buddies agree. They’re as ready as I am.
“Goofy-foot first?” I nod at Marek.
“Sure, I’ll go first.”
And then it begins.
Life.
I’m no stranger to snowboarding. I’d never do what Cam and the guys are up to now, though, and I’m well aware of the hazards they’re subjecting themselves to. I spent my childhood in freezing conditions during every winter vacation we had, skiing or snowboarding. My family owns a cabin up near a popular ski resort, and my father used to take my sister and me off-piste too. As in off track where there are no trails.
There’s nothing wrong with a virgin run on fresh powder snow. It’s a good rush for me, not the sort that makes me tremble with anxiety. Not like Bo. I’m sure I’d be trembling up there on whatever Whistler peak Cam’s at in this very moment, though.
My next-seat neighbor in this shitty Saturday makeup class glares at me. Must be the way I nervously tap my pen against the paper. I stop, shrugging at her. My phone rings. I jump about a foot in the air and get up so fast that my backpack tips over. My cell falls out first, followed by stacks of loose papers I need to organize. I did catch a glimpse of the screen, though, before it drowned in the rest of my stuff.
Bo.
Outside, I call him back. Because I’m a sucker and I can’t not call him back. What if something’s wrong?
“Bo?” My heart goes crazy, distributing an unprecedented amount of adrenaline through me.
“Hi, Inga. How are you?”
I cover my mouth with my hand for a moment before I reply. “You interrupted me in class. Are you okay?”
“Yeah, of course I am,” he sighs out. “Just wanted to hear your voice.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea that you come here on Thursday,” I blurt out, because it’s true. Heavy sadness still sinks over me at my own words.
Bo, my Bo, is quiet on the phone. It’s been over a year since I last saw him. Suddenly, it hits me how crazy that is. The addiction I have for him—his touch—is a clay brick anchoring my heart to the bottom of my stomach.
“You’re right,” he whispers. “Who are we? We need to not do shit like this. Stay apart. Stick to phone calls. I’m sorry.”
I start crying.
“Please, baby, don’t cry.”
Of course he’s said this before, and I agree—I might even have been the first one to say it—but even so, I feel the impact of his words as if he’s breaking up with me all over again.
“Inga, Inga, Inga,” he hums low into the phone. I press it to my ear, my chest shaking with need for this boy who’s been in my life for so long. “Don’t. I won’t come, okay? You’ll be fine. Go on with your business, Inga. I love you. You know I love you.”
“I do,” I sniffle. Stride to the nearest bathroom as quickly as I can. Dive into a stall and close the door. “I love you too.”
I can’t take it. I’m not strong enough to deal with my heart ballooning and erupting red, so painful behind my ribs. If he let go of me years ago, say, after the third time we broke up, I’d be over him by now.
My brain goes in circles, the way it often does over him. It’s worse now, though. I’m panicking over how this is his fault. I’m having a brea
kdown. My heart is shattering into a thousand pieces, because he’s not coming to visit after all. He’s taking control. It’s his choice, and he says he’s not coming.
“Bo, why do you do this to me!” My scream echoes in the tiled room.
“Sorry. I’m so sorry, Inga. I shouldn’t have suggested that I pass by at all. Shit. I don’t even know why I did.”
“Just come,” I plead.
“No, you’re right.”
“Bo.”
“Shhh, you’ll be better off without me there. I won’t call you for a while either. I keep putting you through too much, and you’re too good for that.”
“Forget it—your regrets suck. I…” I’m on the floor in my stall, back against a wall, foot propped up so I can curl in over myself. “…hate you.”
“I think you hate to love me,” my deepest love whispers. “It’s okay. I deserve it.”
I can’t bear the thought of him being so far away anymore. My body’s imploding with the need to have him close. What if a long-distance relationship in a foreign country fixed us? A flutter quickens my heart; maybe he’d grow up here, sort out what he wanted. What if Bo were ready to commit to us again?
“Just come.” I snivel. Grab a wad of toilet paper and dry my nose with it. “How long can you stay, you said?”
“Four days. It’s not a good idea, though, Inga. I shouldn’t. Look at you.” He can’t see me, but his ample experience with me confirms my state right now. “The last thing I want is to hurt you more.”
“We might work out, though,” I burst out.
“Ah…” he starts, sounding like he does at the end of one of his ballads. I’m Bo’s only long-term relationship. I’m the one he breaks up with. The one he writes heartfelt breakup ballads over. I’ll never understand him, because me? Once I love, I don’t waver. “I’ll think about it,” he says.
“Please.”
Instead of returning to class, I head straight to Arria’s. I didn’t divulge much in the early stages of our friendship because I enjoyed my happy-friend role more than I needed a confidante. Over the last few months, though, I’ve shared pieces of what Bo and I have gone through over the years.
