Page 20 of On the Slopes of Tahoe
I look up from where I’m scrubbing a towel over the clean surface of the counter and catch the briefest look of hurt across her features. Then she turns and heads for the door. I want to follow her, apologize, but I hold my ground. This will be better, easier.
“You too,” I say but the door closing behind her drowns it out. My eyes fall on her full cup of coffee and my shoulders sag.
Fuck, what did I just do?
CHAPTER TEN
Rory
Imake it down the front steps before the first tear slides down my cheek. There’s a sting in the back of my throat as I contain what I’m sure will come out as a noisy cry if I let it. It’s a short walk to my condo and the tears I can’t control nearly freeze to my face as I go.
So stupid, Rory. It’s clear now that what I thought was a budding friendship was really just me being in the way. Overstepping and becoming nothing more than a nuisance to Breck as he tries to heal from the pain of Talia leaving. I thoughtI was helping; I thought he and Willow enjoyed my company. In reality, I was nothing more than Wes’s kid sister hanging around where I wasn’t wanted.
I’ve been here before. My people-pleasing nature often gets me into situations like this. Situations where I try too hard to be what everyone around me wants and I end up falling horribly short at every turn. The only people I’ve never felt that way with are Jamie and Wes. Here I am though, unable to even help Wes’s friend the right way without putting him in a position to tell me to back off.
The really stupid thing is that I could’ve sworn I saw heat in Breck’s eyes when he let me inside. That look had me blushing, but clearly I was seeing something that wasn’t really there. I made it up in my head, right along with the idea that we were, maybe, becoming friends.
My head tips back on a sigh and I watch the white wispy clouds churn overhead. At least this overcast sky can match my mood. It’s going to be pretty gloomy inside my head today.
Unlocking the door to my condo, I grab my bag from the foyer, slip my board under my arm, and head back out into the cold. I didn’t even get to finish my coffee before I was politely asked to leave them alone, but I couldn’t let Breck see how it affected me—even if he does make the best coffee. When I get desperate for caffeine later, I’ll grab some at the lodge.
Five hours later and I have not had another cup of coffee. I’m over-the-top cranky at this point, and the next person whocrosses me is likely to get an earful. After dropping my bag in the office this morning, I headed up the mountain with all my gear in hopes of getting some fresh content. The chairlift was down when I got to it, and that was only the first of many missteps in today’s plan.
When I finally made it to the top, the clouds just barely covering the sun and giving off a shiny glow to the fresh snow, I realized my camera’s battery was dead. And since I charged it last night, it’s likely completely dead and I’ll need to replace it. Fine. I strapped in and flew down the hill, determined to enjoy the view of my lake, my town, and my mountain as I went, but nothing was shaking me from the bitter feeling Breck’s words brought on.
I made it back to my office and realized my backup battery was in my other camera bag. At home. I didn’t have it in me to trudge back for it, so I opted to use my phone for today’s footage. Videos for reels instead of static pictures for posts. Also fine.
But by the time I got back up the mountain, those white fluffy clouds had turned mean and were dumping snow in what I can only classify as a complete white-out. I’m rarely nervous being up on the mountain, but no matter how skilled you are on skis or a board, it only takes one novice who isn’t to knock you off your feet.
My anxiety was on high alert for the slow ride down, and keeping close to the trees only added to the terror. I decided I’d get a cup of coffee in the lodge and wait out the storm, but the coffee gods decided to double down on my punishment and cut power to the resort. Throwing my proverbial hands in the air, I grabbed my bag from the office and headed home.
I’m so close now, teeth chattering, fingers nearly numb as they cling to my board. I stomp up the stairs of my condo, ready for a hot bath, a cup of coffee, my sweats, and to put this shit day behind me.
I’ve only just crossed the threshold when a shrill “Rory?” greets me.
Well, damn, I guess todaycanget worse.
“Mom?” My voice holds the obvious question:What are you doing here?I lean my board against the rack just inside the door, kick off my snowy boots, and hang my jacket up. I ignore thedrip, drip, dripof snow melting onto the stone floors and go in search of my mother.
She’s sitting at the island in my kitchen, a white mug in her hands. It’s the only plain one in the house and was bought specifically with her in mind. I like fun mugs. Mugs in any color and size—well, no, I like ones that hold lots of coffee. I collect them and have a whole cabinet full. My current favorite sits on the counter, next to a steaming pot of coffee. It was a present from Wes and has the Sydney skyline on it.
“Mom. What are you doing here?” I ask, my crankiness just barely leashed.
“I got here about thirty minutes ago. Remember we talked at dinner on Sunday about doing a quick inspection on the place?”
Yes, it was mentionedin passing. And she got herethirty minutesago? Why didn’t she call or text me? It’s a Friday; she knew I’d be working.
“Sorry you had to wait.”
She shrugs and picks a piece of imaginary fluff off her sweater. “It’s fine. I took a few minutes to poke around, and everything seems to be in order. Then the storm really came up and I thought I’d wait it out a bit. I hope you don’t mind I made myself at home.”
She knows Idomind. I’m aware that this is their house, their investment property, but she knows I hate when they turn up unannounced.
“No problem at all.” I plaster on a smile. Everything in my life feels off-kilter today, and I just want to go to sleep and wake up to a better tomorrow.
The gravitational pull of the bean water has me circling the island to the coffee pot. I grab my mug, its comforting size and shape molding to my hand as I fill it. I pull out my favorite maple-pecan creamer and add a large splash. If this doesn’t fix my mood, nothing will.
I lean my elbows on the counter across from my mom, where she sits silently watching me—judging me.
