Page 3 of Wren's Winter

I followed her past two high schoolers smoking pot inside their truck and a father trying to wrestle his kid out of a snowsuit without getting their feet wet.

While studying the rack, I put out a gloved hand. “You got the key?”

She handed me the small key, and it slid right into the lock.

“You ski here often?” she asked. I watched as she leaned against the back of the car, pulling on her long blond braid. Her jacket was unzipped, exposing the tight thermal she wore underneath.

“I board.” With a quick turn of the key, the arm of the rack swung up.

“My ex boarded. Or he tried.” She laughed at her own joke.

Grabbing her skis, I slid them in place and closed the arm back down on them. “That was easy. I bet you could have done it yourself.”

Her smile fell, and she glanced at my group of friends behind me. “Right. Um, thanks, Mr. Winter.”

Frowning, I placed a hand on the top of her car and looked her over. “Do I know you?”

She stepped back, zipping her coat up to her throat. “Yeah, Layla Parsons. I was in your American literature class five years ago?”

With a furrowing of my brow, I rustled through the hundreds of students over the years. Icicle Creek High wasn’t a large school, but I tended to forget most students after they graduated unless they made a big impression on me. “Yeah, Layla. How are you?”

“You don’t remember me.” She let out a shaky breath. “Nice move, dumbass.”

“No, I do—” I grimaced. “Kind of. I’m sorry. Unless you blew up a trashcan, I forget names.”

Shaking her head, she stared up at the white-and-gray sky. “God, I had such a big crush on you throughout school, and you don’t even remember my name.”

As one of the younger members of the faculty, I had my share of students staying behind a little too long to ask me questions, twirling their hair, or stepping too close.

“Ah.” I sucked at my teeth. “I’m sure, once you got out into the real world, that faded fast, and you realized I’m just some boring old dude.”

A sly smile ticked at the corner of her mouth. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m twenty-one now. You’re, what, thirty-two?”

“Twenty-nine,” I answered hesitantly.

“Only eight little years between us. It was a big deal when I was seventeen, but now—”

I stepped back, shaking my head. “It was nice to see you, Layla. Tell your folks I said hi.” I had no clue who her parents were, but I had to step away.

“Maybe I’ll see you at The Horse and Trails!” she shouted at my retreating back. “I’ll be there tonight with friends!”

Walking back to my friends, I took my beer back from Tam as the group silently stared at me. Taking a long swig, I was met with only silence. “What?”

My friends chimed on top of each other.

“Dude.”

“What the fuck, man.”

“You are the dumbest mofo ever.”

Pulling off my glove, I tossed it into my truck beside us. “Me?”

“Ad, come on.” With a shake of his head, Tam glanced at our friends, and I had a feeling he was about to say something they had discussed many times over. “That girl was into you.”

“No way. She needed help with her rack. I helped her.”

“She came over here, didn’t glance at any of us—only you—and asked for help on a brand-new Thule rack?”

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