Page 1 of Avalanche
Chapter 1
Seth
“You smell like my dad.”
The small ski boot I’m holding clatters to the floor of the rental shop, drawing a few amused looks from my coworkers.
“I—I’m sorry, what?” I give the kid a confused look before stooping to retrieve the boot with shaking hands.
I need to eat. Drink some water, probably. Something to flush the bourbon and cola I can still feel floating in my veins.
“Kevin,” the boy’s mother hisses, her face flaming red above a knit scarf. “That’s rude.”
The boy stares up at her with wide eyes. He reminds me of my little brother in that moment, even though I’m sure his mom would hate any comparison of her precious child to someone like that. A kid with downs. Still, the thought has my chest aching uncomfortably, a twinge of guilt twisting low in my stomach.
It’s been too long since I called home.
“What?” the boy argues, with all the defiance of a seven-year-old who knows he’s right. “He does. He smells like dad used to smell.”
The woman makes a choked sound in her throat, shooting me a horrified look before mumbling out something that sounds like an apology. I give her what I hope is an understanding smile before dropping to one knee so the kid can try on his ski boot.
“Try this one, buddy,” I tell him coaxingly. The words sound raspy in my throat but I shoot the kid a smile anyway. “It’s a size up. Should fit you better than the last pair.”
The kid’s expression twists as he steps into the boot, thick socks pulled up nearly to his knees. After a moment of struggling, his foot finally slips into the ski boot with a thunk, but the pinched look on his face remains.
“How does it feel?” I ask him. “Is it still too tight?”
His lips press together, his chin tucking in as if he’s pulling the words he wants to say back in.
“Kevin,” his mother urges, bringing herself to his level. “You need to answer the nice man.”
There’s something brittle in her voice now though, in the tense way she’s holding herself. As if she’s made of the thin ice that coats the puddles in the parking lot, ready to fracture at the slightest pressure.
“They… they’re still too tight,” the kid warbles.
He’s staring intently at the floor as if determined to avoid my gaze. Maybe that’s why I don’t notice it at first. Not until his lower lip trembles and something wet and snot-like drips down his chin.
“I’m sorry,” he sniffles.
“Hey. Hey.” I wrap my hands around his booted foot, working to unlatch the buckles, helping him pull it free. “That’s okay, buddy. Nothing to be sorry about.” This time, my grin feels heavy. Stretched. Like the layers of snow ready to tumble into an avalanche. “We’ll try a bigger one.”
“You’re not mad?” The kid looks up at me, eyes shining and wet. “You’re not gonna go off on me?” That face twists again, a scowl of blotchy red and freckles. “Dad always did when he smelled like that. Mom said to make sure I watched my tone so I wouldn’t piss him off.”
It takes a moment before the kid’s words sink into the fog that’s been surrounding my brain since I got to work this morning. Or, if I’m being honest with myself, for the past two weeks. Ever since the bourbon and cola I’ve been mixing for myself each evening got stronger and stronger. Since one glass turned to three. Since I started losing count.
I reel back, the boot clutched against my chest as I rise to stand so fast it has my head spinning.
“Kevin!” the boy’s mother squeaks. But she seems to be just as much at a loss for words as I am.
“I’ll… I’ll just go get the other boots,” I mumble pointlessly, sweeping the second boot from where I’d left it on the counter. “Just be a moment. Sorry.”
My heart is racing by the time I reach the stock room, thundering with an almost sickening rhythm that has my vision whiting out. I dart a quick look around to make sure I’m alone, then give my armpit a surreptitious sniff. Stale sweat mixed with deodorant fills my nostrils, alongside the sickly-sweet smell of alcohol. I swallow, feeling suddenly queasy as I lean forward to brace my forearm on the nearest shelf. The boots above me rattle in warning at the sudden weight.
“Fuck.” The curse comes out on a dry breath. One that probably smells like bourbon and cola. Or would, if I wasn’t so used to it. “Fuck,” I say again, and this time its louder, heavy with self-loathing and frustration.
“Hey, Seth. You okay in there?” Grant, the new guy we hired to replace Tom, calls out from the open doorway. “Need me to help find anything?”
I take in a shuddering breath. As if that will be enough to drive down the stench of my failure. Push down that constant welling up of unwelcome emotions. I shove the too-small boots on the shelf—probably in the wrong spot—then grab the next size up. “Nah. I’m good, man. Thanks.”
