Page 2 of On the Slopes of Tahoe
And I’m doing everything in my power not to be.
I can’t fall apart. I have to hold it all together because Willow needs me to. I take another step back and squeeze the back of my neck with my hand, attempting to relieve the tension there, my slightly too-long hair curling over my fingertips.
“I thought you could use the extra hands,” she says, gesturing to the luggage cart off to her side.
I hold back from hugging her again. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate it. You should’ve seen the show I made of myself schlepping just our carry-ons from the plane.”
“I make a great backpack,” Willow says with a grin.
“The best,” I say, smiling down at her and ruffling her hair—it already resembles a bird’s nest, so it’s not like it can get worse.
I follow Rory’s gaze over my shoulder to see bags appearing on the carousel.
She steps over to Willow. “You can stand here with me while your dad grabs everything. We can start loading this other stuff on the cart, can’t we?”
Willow, despite her exhausted state, rallies with a smile and nods. Her bright blue eyes, a carbon copy of my own, meet mine and she slips her hand into Rory’s without hesitation.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay, that would be great. Thanks. I’ll be right back, Willow Bear.”
I know Willow is safe, that Rory is my best friend’s sister, but I still hesitate before turning to grab our bags. I’ve always been protective, bordering on overbearing, and now—especially after everything—just having Willow out of sight makes me jumpy. Makes me remember I couldn’t protect her from her mom leaving.
I join the other tired-looking passengers and let myself recall the look on my daughter’s face when I told her Talia wouldn’t be coming back. It’s branded into my brain, which is why I’m desperate to keep her close and never let her go. But as I spot our first suitcase rounding the belt, I stuff the memory down, because I can’t let Willow or Rory see past the façade that sayseverything is just fine.
Within fifteen minutes, I’m pushing an overfilled cart toward the parking garage. The girls walk ahead of me, hand in hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Willow’s animated voice carries back on the light wind, sweetly contrasting with Rory’s American accent. My shoulders relax to hear Willow sounding like herself. I wasn’t sure if I was being selfish in leaving Sydney, knowing it was the best decision formebut not knowing how she’d fare. Seeing her skipping down the pavement encourages my flailing heart.I made the right call.
Rory makes a beeline for a bright red Jeep and a small smile tugs at my lips. I remember when Wes bought it a few years back—how excited he was, sending me pictures and telling me all the off-road capabilities. I don’t think he used a single one, but maybe I’ll get a chance to test them out while I’m here.
He almost shipped it when he moved to Sydney back in June, but he decided it wasn’t worth the hassle for just a year. Lo and behold, it’s only been six months, and he has no intention of coming back to the States. But his loss is my gain because it saves me renting a car while we’re here for the next seven weeks.
Seven weeks. Willow and I have the entirety of her summer break to enjoy Tahoe, take a breather, and hopefully figure out how to do this “family of two” thing.
We load the bags into the back of the Jeep and as Willow hops into her seat, I’m thankful she no longer needs a booster after her latest growth spurt. One less thing to travel with.
I lean across to buckle her in and she whines in my ear, “Dad, stop. I can do it myself.”
Fiercely independent, my daughter. I swear sometimes she reminds me more of a thirteen-year-old than an almost eight-year-old, and I have no idea how to deal with it. And what’s worse, I’m going to have to figure it outalone.
I raise my hands in surrender but press a light kiss to her mess of dark hair before closing her door and slipping into the passenger seat. Rory already has the heat blasting, and while there’s no snow on the ground in Reno at the moment, the bite of the early December air is something to behold. Especially considering we left the height of summer behind us in the Southern Hemisphere. I was lucky to throw together even a skeleton winter wardrobe to bring with us.
“There’s seat warmers here,” Rory says, reaching across the center console to a button near my knee and turning them on. “I’m sure these temps are a bit of a shock. Wes sent me a picture of him and Joss lounging on the beach this morning after their surf.”
I shiver, sinking deeper into my seat. “I’m definitely going to miss those dawn patrol surfs. At least here I can snowboard, though it’s been forever since I was last on the slopes back in Australia. I’ll be a bit rusty.”
“No way. Wes told me how incredible you are on a board. Any board. I’m sure you’ll be outpacing anyone on the mountain in no time.” She shoots me a cheeky smirk before focusing back to the road. “Except me, of course.”
I laugh, and the sound surprises me. Laughter’s been rare over the past couple of weeks—longer, if I’m being honest—so I’m left feeling a little more like myself as I relax back on the headrest.
“I guess we’ll have to see about that.” I offer her a cocky grin and notice her lips twitch with amusement. Wes told me she loves to snowboard, maybe more than he ever did, and that she’s competitive about it. A tidbit I don’t doubt with the way she just lit up at the mere mention of the sport. Dragging my eyes away, I find Willow fast asleep in the back, cheek pressed against the window like she passed out trying to take in every detail of the world outside.
A light snow starts to fall as we reach the freeway and Rory’s hands tighten on the wheel; her eyes fixed on the road ahead.Responsible. Another quality Wes used to describe his sister, right up there with loyal. I saw them both in action when she dropped everything to be by his side in Hawaii—also with how she didn’t hesitate when he asked her to help us.
I use the quiet moment to take her in as she taps her fingers to the rhythm of the quiet Christmas music emanating from the speakers. She took her coat off when she climbed in, revealing a University of Nevada hoodie underneath. She’s a local girl, through and through. I trail my eyes to her face and, even in profile, her freckles stand out on her nose and cheeks, still pink from the cold.
“What?” She shoots a glance across to me, eyebrow raised in question.
Busted.
“Nothing. Sorry, I was just looking at your braid,” I say, covering for my gawking. “I have butchered more braids in the past few weeks than I care to admit—as you probably noticed.”
