Page 78 of A World Without You
“Olivia,” Graham stands with me, probably to scold me and tell me to wait for the ski patrol. Because he knows best. He’s smarter. He’s wiser. He’s the stupid know-it-all with a good beard and big muscles. But then he says, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Colin.”
My determination disintegrates at four simple and loaded words.I won’t tell Colin.The woozy hit to my brain amplifies tenfold, and I’m unsure if I’m going to vomit on his skis or die from mortification and fear.
“What do you mean?” I ask, breathless and with every thrum of my heart growing heavier.
He opens his mouth to speak, but I don’t hear anything.
Instead, everything just goes black.
SEVENTEEN
Saturday, December 16th
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THE SALT ON THE SIDEWALKcrunches beneath my shoes as I scurry to the door of the coffee shop. Window art adorns the façade of the building—snow-capped evergreen trees and coffee cups wrapped in red. The anticipation for this meeting is amplified by what Graham said in my dream last night, leaving me in a state of unknown.
It was a terrible dream. The kind where the plot thickens and an answer to an unknown question is just about to be revealed, and thenBAM...I’m back here, racing to a coffee shop to ask for Colin’s forgiveness.
Even as much as I anticipated this meeting, I still manage to arrive five minutes late. I open the door, and Christmas music murmurs onto the street. I always love the scent of a coffee shop—fresh coffee beans and sweet cream are delectable enough on their own, but add in the goodness of cinnamon, gingerbread, and peppermint, and all of my senses are doing cartwheels around a Christmas tree on December 25th.
I scan the dining area as I’m greeted by the barista behind the counter.
No sign of Colin. I swallow my disappointment and step toward the barista behind the register.
“Colin!” the barista with the bright purple hair on the other end of the counter calls. I spin around and immediately meet Colin’s gray eyes as he emerges from behind the Christmas tree in the corner.
He tilts his head and half-smiles as he meets me at the counter.
“Were you hiding?” I ask.
“Were you late?” he counters as he takes the two red paper cups from the end of the counter.
“Touché.” I smile, and he does too. His shy smile. The one that feels like it belongs to only me.
“I got you an eggnog latte. I know you love them,” he says, handing me the cup, then adds, “even though they’re the worst.”
