Page 70 of To Love or to Lose
I am not looking forward to attempting to sleep through the night amid all the chaos, but I’m well aware of the fact that I’m going to have to get used to it if I decide to go to Columbia.
I make a spur-of-the-moment decision, sliding the glass door open and stepping onto the balcony, breathing in a lungful of freezing air and exhaling a cool, misty cloud.
Snowflakes fall on my face and get stuck in the strands of hair around my ears. I shiver for a moment, remembering I should probably wear a coat.
I reach inside, grabbing my puffy, brown winter coat—which I bought specifically for this trip—off the desk chair. Growing up in Connecticut, I’ve grown used to the cold and I have little use for a coat of this thickness otherwise.
The hood is up, the oversized style making it so it almost comes down to my eyes. The sleeves are too big, but it doesn’t matter because my hands are tucked in my pockets.
I truly believe that snowfall looks different when you’re in the city, and I want to bask in it.It lightens my mood, knowing that no matter what, snow will always fall in the winter, somewhere at least. No matter where I am, no matter who I decide to be.
At this moment, this is where I want to be. There is nowhere else in the world that would fulfill my desire to see snowflakes hitting the railing of the balcony in front of me.
I’m not allowed to be bitter here; the cold is bitter enough.
I am caught in the peace and solitude of the moment. So much so that I don’t even care if any onlookers are looking at me like I am farcical.
The silence beyond the noise of the city is broken when I hear the screeching of the sliding door from the room next to mine.I don’t even have to look over to know who it is. The loud ass Chelsea boots say it all as they step onto the balcony to my right.
I retract my previous statement. There is somewhere else I would rather be: this same balcony, without Jameson Beaumont standing ten feet away.
“Do you want to get frostbite?” His voice breaks through the cold.
I’m wearing a coat, douchebag.
I debate whether I should retreat inside, leaving him out in the cold by himself. I don’t care about him; therefore, I don’t feel any remorse for being ill-mannered toward him.
“Hey!” He speaks louder, and I continue to pretend I don’t hear him.
I focus my gaze on the city skyline far off in the distance. I wonder what the people walking the sidewalks look like.
In my mind, I imagine a couple. They’re holding hands, and the girl is holding the leash to a white puppy who trots along a few feet in front of them. It jumps in a pile of snow happily, making the couple laugh. I smile at the thought.
“Genevieve, are you ignoring me?” Jameson’s tone is mocking. “I didn’t think you could be so cowardly.”
My eyes narrow, and I try to suppress the outburst I feel brewing. I focus on another couple walking the streets of my imagination.
This couple is not holding hands—not directly, at least. There is a little girl walking in between them, holding each of their hands. The ends of her small, blonde pigtails stick out the bottom of her knit hat, blowing in the soft breeze.
“Are you scared of me?” My jaw clenches. Being scared is a weakness, especially in front of Jameson. I’m not scared of him. “I think you are.”
That was the last straw. My temper snaps like a fragile twig. But I don’t respond—not verbally, at least.
My bare hand removes itself from my pocket, moving faster than my brain can comprehend, not giving my consciousness enough time to stop my movements. The next thing I know, I’m scooping a heaping handful of snow into my hand, using the warmth to form it into a cold sphere.
My hand grips it so hard it begins to melt, but before it can entirely, I raise my arm above my shoulder, aiming and throwing the snowball straight at the side of Jameson’s head.
Turns out, I have a pretty good aim. Before Jameson can turn to face me, the ball of cold snow pummels into the left side of his neck.
I’m almost shocked at what I just did. It is only the first night of the trip. We barely arrived at the ski lodge twelve hours ago, and I’m already assaulting Jameson with spheres of snow.
He looks just about as stunned as I am, even though this isn’t exactly out of character for me. His jaw drops as he uses his hand to wipe the remaining snow off his collar.
“I’m not afraid of you, Jameson. Maybe before you make such absurd assumptions, you should think about the position you’re in.”
He smiles arrogantly, gathering a handful of snow off his balcony railing.
I would like to think that Jameson won’t throw a snowball at me because he’s a man. However, I know he’s aware of how angry I would be if he refrained simply because I’m a woman.
