Page 2 of Avalanche
I plaster on another smile as I walk past him, ignoring his look of concern, the ski boots clutched in my hands like some apologetic offering. They’re new season ones, the type that we normally ask people to pay an upgrade for. It’s not much, but it’s the least I can do for this kid. It’s the one thing I can make right, even if I’ve done everything else wrong today.
I brush past the front counter, nearly knocking my hip against the corner as I hurry to get back to the floor. To that freckled-face kid and his embarrassed mom.
“I’ve got your boots,” I announce cheerily, glancing down at the trophy in my arms. They’re red and blue and shiny, exactly what a kid his age will like. At least, it’s what I would have liked when I was his age if my parents had thought to take me up the mountain skiing. “These ones are going to be epic, I promise.”
Silence answers. The heater hums.
The kid and his mom are gone.
I’m the first one back to the condo at the end of the day. Just like yesterday, and all the yesterdays in the past two weeks. At first, I’d enjoyed it—having a couple hours to myself, taking a long shower, getting dinner ready for everyone. But I’ve never really been good with silence, with being alone. And after a few days, my brain started to fill the silence with the noise of my own worries. My self-doubts. Looking over everything beautiful until I could see the cracks.
My phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. I glance over to it from where I’m chopping vegetables but don’t bother to pick it up.
Mom: What are you up to? I know work has been busy, but the kids would love a call from you. FaceTime soon?
I rub my forehead against my arm, then gather up the vegetables with damp hands and toss them into the steamer. The guys will start coming home soon, so I want to have dinner prepped at least. Take some of the load off them.
And Lily.
I rub at my chest and look expectantly at the closed front door. As if I expect Lily to come in any moment, Matty holding the door open for her, Eddie close on her heels and talking a mile a minute. Antoine and Liam behind them, sharing secret smiles.
The door stares back at me, chipped yellowing wood under dim lights. The refrigerator hums.
I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. I could pour myself one. Just one. To help me pass the time while I wait for them to come home. To silence the chatter of doubts rattling in my brain.
They don’t need you. There is nothing you can give them that they don’t already give each other. Who would want a relationship with someone like you—someone who doesn’t even want to fuck them? This isn’t going to last. And you can’t go to New Zealand, what would your family say? Who will help look after the twins when they’re home for summer break? You should just let them go. They’d be better off without you anyway.
My phone vibrates again, the sound sending a frisson of something ugly coursing beneath my skin. Irritation. Resentment. The hint of that dark anger that always seems to lurk beneath the surface, like some primordial creature at the bottom of a lake, ready to rise at the barest provocation.
Like it did that night with Tom.
I swipe my phone off the counter, planning to turn it off, put it on silent. Maybe toss it through the ever-growing wall of beer cans on the island that separates the kitchen from the living room.
Mom: I’d love to talk to you too. Hear about what you’ve been doing. I miss you.
My throat constricts, fingers tightening around the phone.
When I was a kid, that’s all I wanted. Someone to talk to. Someone who would listen. I was one of those kids who would follow my teacher around, rambling about whatever topic I was interested in at warp speed, asking questions until the polite answers became terse and I was eventually told to go away. Give me a moment of your time, a listening ear, and I was your best friend forever.
Mom didn’t have time for that. Not after the twins were born. Before that, though…
I squeeze my eyes shut as memories flood over me, more drugging than any amount of bourbon. Mom’s arms wrapped around me as she pressed a kiss to the top of my head. My hand tucked in hers as we’d walked through some shops. The curve of her smile as she’d pulled blankets up to my chin and told me goodnight. The warmth of her as I’d curled up beside her on the couch reading on a snowy Sunday morning.
She had seemed so big then, like she could hold the whole world in her hands. Like I could bring her any of my problems and she could carry those too.
In the end, she couldn’t even hold herself. Couldn’t hold the twins to feed them. Couldn’t hold the weight of her own grief. Certainly couldn’t bear the weight of my insignificant problems.
In the end, I’d learned my own strength about the same time I discovered mom’s weakness.
I look at the phone in my hands. The clock on the screen stares back at me alongside mom’s unanswered texts. It’ll be late there, past the twins’ bedtime. Mom will be curled up reading a book in her favorite lounger. Dad will be watching TV or still at work, pouring over some case file in his home office.
I could call her. Not to video chat with the twins. Not to ask her about her latest pickleball score or talk to Dad about his case.
I could talk. Not about them, but about me.
I could tell her about Lily and the guys. Tell her I think I might be falling in love. No, not think. I know it. Maybe I’m already in love. Have been for a while now. Tell her that I might not be coming home for summer this time. That I’m going to be selfish for once.
My pulse ratchets up at the thought. I swipe at my screen, bringing up our last conversation. A row of unanswered texts from her, with occasional short replies from me, spanning the past couple weeks. It’s probably the longest I’ve ever gone without calling home, I realize, and for some reason, there’s a burst of pride at the thought alongside the expected twinge of guilt.
