Page 80 of Falling Madly
She nodded, dropping the Thermos into her bag, and pulled out a packet of cookies. She was dressed sensibly in a puffer jacket and ski pants, ready to spend the day outside. I took a cookie, fighting the welling emotion that threatened to close my throat. She’d been the one baking and feeding me, looking after everyone. She was the one who always understood and never made a fuss, even when she should have.
“I… I’m sorry I didn’t call back then. I’m sorry I just left.”
It felt like an overdue apology, given at the wrong time, in the wrong place. But she still deserved to hear it.
Peony’s smile had a sad tint, but she nodded. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too.”
I knew what she meant. We’d both run away in our own ways, desperate to leave it all behind. And that had meant running away from each other.
I glanced up and saw Trevor on top of the hill, gesturing at me. The race was about to start.
“I have to go,” I said.
“We’ll talk soon.” She put away the cookies to free up her arms.
I gave her a quick hug and climbed up the hill, slipping and sliding in my felt slippers, stuffed nice and warm with purple wool socks, courtesy of Trevor.
As I got closer, I counted at least six different cardboard sleds lined up on the peak. Behind them, another dozen, including our Tyrian-shaded beauty, waited in the wings.
“We’re in the second heat,” Bess announced. “After these guys.” She gestured at the creative selection.
Three local firemen stood around a cardboard-made firetruck with ‘Cozy Creek Fire Brigade’ hand-painted on its side. There was also a sled shaped like an oil drum, a cardboard hamburger, a cardboard house and one that looked like a heart-shaped chocolate box.
“How’s that going to work?” Trevor pointed at the house. “The center of gravity is at the top.”
“It’ll crash gloriously,” I told him. “That’s the whole point.”
Charlie frowned. “I thought the point was to reach those hay bales down there and do it in record time. The race marshal just explained the rules. They checked our sled and said it’s fine.”
“Fine just means we didn’t use any forbidden materials. But we built this thing yesterday,” I reminded him. “If it holds together all the way down, that’s pretty good.”
“And if it doesn’t…?” Bess wondered as we watched the first contestants getting into their sleds, their team members poised to give them a push.
I didn’t have to answer. The loudspeaker crackled as the marshal counted down from three and the sleds launched down the slope. The tall house sled demonstrated the concept of crashing by toppling over and splitting into pieces. A teenager in well-padded overalls tumbled out and rolled down the slope, landing on top of a rogue cardboard piece. He got up and pumped his fist in the air before limping towards the side fence.
Moments later, the hamburger met its fate, bumping into another sled and splitting open. The child and adult inside it kept sliding until the sled came to a stop. Only the firetruck made it all the way to the hay bales with two guys onboard.
“I’m starting to understand why they recommended helmets,” Bess mused. “Too bad we don’t have any.”
“Congratulations, Cozy Creek Fire Brigade!” The voice in the loudspeaker blasted. “You go onto round two! And now it’s time for the second heat. Contestants, please line up.”
I helped the others to push our sled to the starting line. We were up against two groups of kids with colorful, decorated boxes, one with a tail made of empty toilet rolls, the other with an incredible cardboard airplane. There was another sled shaped like a sprawling house that made me think of an architectural model.
“Please note that the house on the left is by our sponsor Neville Architects and is not part of the official competition. They are here to… actually, I’ll hand over the microphone so they can say a few words…”
I froze. Neville Architects. Julian’s dad’s company.
The mic rattled and then a vaguely familiar voice came on, laughing self-deprecatingly as he spoke. “Hi! I’m Julian Neville and we’re so proud to sponsor this event. The models we build in the office are usually smaller, and we don’t use as much duct tape…”—someone laughed in the background—“but it’s been a fun side project.”
He went on about what an incredible community event this was. With every word, my stomach wound itself into a tighter knot. Of all the ways I’d imagined running into him and his family, this was not one I could have ever pictured: sliding downhill in a cardboard box and potentially crashing right in front of them. Best-case scenario, I’d puncture my lungs with the knitting needles hanging off my scarf and quickly lose consciousness.
“Where’s the race marshal?” I asked. In other words, where was Julian?
“I think they’re at that gazebo, by the stage.” Charlie gestured down the slope.
Right by the finish line. Of course.
“Are you sure you don’t want to ride?” I asked Bess, who lifted an eyebrow.
