Page 80 of A Little Too Late
“Omigod, we’re first in line?” Sutton clucks. “This is everything.”
The clump of employees straightens out into a loosely organized line. Raven’s phone rings not long afterward, and when she turns on the speaker, I hear a drumbeat. “It’s happening!” she calls, handing me the phone. “Get ready to light up! Two by two. Count off with me, Sutton.”
Nobody at the bottom of the hill is going to demand their money back if we don’t do this perfectly, but it’s still fun. “Starting on four!” I call so that the back of the line can hear.
Together, Raven and Sutton count off the beat. And on four, they both turn on their torches. Four beats later, the pair behind them does. Then the pair behind them, too. And so it goes.
Meanwhile, I sidestep up the hill with the phone so that every pair can hear the beat when it’s their turn.
My plan is to join the end of the line like I usually do. But after the last pair, I’m startled to find Reed standing there in the dark. “You still ski?” I blurt out.
“Count of four, Ava,” he chides. A moment later he flips on his torch at the perfect time, as I fumble to turn on mine a beat too late.
He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “I hope the Sharpes don’t hear about this little wobble.”
“Oh, fuckoff.”
He laughs, and I admire the contours of his smile in the torch light. “Queue up, Ava. It’s starting.”
Still trying to catch up, I silence the phone and shove it into my pocket. “I thought you couldn’t ski anymore,” I point out as the front of the line slowly begins to move downhill.
“I can’t skicompetitively. But if I wear a knee brace, there’s no reason not to get a few turns in now and then. My rebuilt ACL can take it. I usually ski at least once a year.”
“Huh. You’re an heir to a Colorado ski mountain, and you’re heading to Tahoe on the weekends?”
“Something like that,” he says gently. “You going to interrogate me? Or are we going to ski together now, like in the before times?”
“I’m amuchbetter skier now than I was in college.” It comes out sounding churlish. Reed used to have to ski the beginner’sslope with me at the Middlebury Bowl. It was sweet of him, but I don’t need those memories surfacing now.
I wish he’d stop being charming and go back to California already. This is already tearing me apart.
“I’m glad you still ski,” he says quietly. “You deserve all the fun.”
Luckily, I don’t have to think of a reply, because the couple ahead of us begins to follow the line down the hill, and suddenly it’s our turn. Together, we move into their tracks and begin the slow zigzag route down the face of the hill.
We’re in synch, even as we carve the first turn. The new snowfall quiets our skis, so we swish across the hill, picking up speed, rolling into the next turn like well-trained dancers.
“What a beautiful night,” Reed says as we swing into the second turn. “In California, you can’t see the stars. Ever.”
“Why would anyone rather live there?” I ask, sounding needy.
“The paycheck,” he says simply. “Restaurants. Food delivery. Uber.”
I drop the subject, because I don’t want Reed to think I’m campaigning for his return to Colorado. I want it, and also fear it at the same time. If Reed moved back here, we’d have to confront the question of what we mean to each other.
If it didn’t work out, I’d probably have to leave this place and start over somewhere new.
Yeah, I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s a sickness.
As we continue the journey to the bottom, the band becomes audible. They’re playing selections from Nutcracker Suite, and they sound fabulous. We’re skiing to live music in a parade formation toward an awed mob of onlookers. It’s special. I love this night. I look forward to it every year.
I sure hope this isn’t my last one.
Reed gives me a big smile as we make the last turn and finish up at the bottom. The moment we come to a stop beside the others, I hear a crack and a hissing sound. The first firework explodes colorfully overhead a moment later as the audience gasps.
The band starts playing “Let it Snow,” and Reed puts an arm around me, his strong fingers curling at my hip.
It feels nice. Shoot me.
