Page 32 of Checking It Twice
The question hangs in the air, dangerous and loaded. Because the honest answer is no. I don’t want to pretend. I want to figure out how to make this real, how to bridge the gap between fake girlfriend and something that might actually last.
But wanting something and being brave enough to go after it are two completely different things.
“I should go,” I say, dodging the question. “We’re about to head out sledding.”
“Clare—”
A soft knock on the door interrupts whatever wisdom Bryn was about to impart. “Come in,” I call, ending the call before my best friend can offer any more uncomfortable truths.
Mitch appears in the doorway, holding a pair of thick wool socks. “Mom wanted me to give you these. She says your feet are going to freeze in those boots.”
He’s changed into snow clothes—dark jeans, a thick sweater that hugs his shoulders, boots that have seen serious winter action. He looks like he stepped out of some outdoorsy catalog, all rugged masculinity and easy confidence.
“Thanks.” I take the socks, our fingers brushing in a way that shouldn’t send electricity shooting up my arm, but absolutely does. “Your mom thinks of everything.”
“She likes you.” He settles onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “They all do.”
“Even though I’m clearly out of my element with all this family stuff?”
“Especially because of that.” His voice drops, taking on that rough edge that makes my nerve endings pay attention. “You’re not trying to impress anyone. You’re just... you.”
The simple statement hits like a physical touch. When’s the last time someone saw me—really saw me—without wanting me to be something else? More together, more composed, less complicated?
“Mitch—”
“I know.” He runs a hand along the stubble on his jaw. It’s sexy as hell that he hasn’t shaved in a few days. “I know what this is supposed to be.”
But the way he’s looking at me suggests he’s not entirely sure what this is anymore. Neither am I.
The space between us feels charged, dangerous. Like we’re standing at the edge of something we can’t take back.
“We should go,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Your family’s waiting.”
“Yeah.” But he doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Instead, we sit there in his childhood bedroom, surrounded by hockey trophies and old posters, pretending we don’t both feel the shift happening between us. Pretending the air isn’t thick with possibility.
Pretending this is all still fake.
The hill behind the Drake house is perfect for sledding—steep enough to build real speed, long enough to feel like you’re flying, and soft enough that when you inevitably wipe out, the snow cushions the impact. I’m discovering this firsthand as I tumbleoff my sled for the third time, rolling through powder that’s somehow both freezing and welcoming.
I surface, spitting snow, hair plastered to my head, probably looking like a drowned rat in a parka. And I’m laughing. Actually laughing, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep and surprised.
When’s the last time I did something this ridiculous? This pointless and joyful and completely removed from quarterly reports or media crises or any of the carefully controlled chaos that makes up my normal life?
“You okay down there?” Mitch calls from halfway up the hill, where he’s stopped his own sled to check on me.
“Perfect,” I call back, and mean it.
Sophie rockets past me on her bright red sled, shrieking with delight, followed closely by Jake, who’s somehow figured out how to steer his ancient wooden contraption like a Formula One driver. The kids have no fear, no hesitation—they just point themselves downhill and go.
I want that fearlessness. Just for today, just for this moment, I want to stop calculating risks and analyzing outcomes and just be.
“Your turn, Clare!” Maddie shouts from the top of the hill, where she’s supervising instead of sledding since she’s six months pregnant. “And don’t overthink it this time!”
Right. Don’t overthink it. Simple enough advice that I’ve been spectacularly failing to follow my entire adult life.
I position my sled at the steepest part of the slope, the same spot where Mitch just launched himself with reckless abandon thatprobably explain half of his hockey penalties. He’s at the bottom now, brushing snow off his jacket and grinning up at me with that devastating smile that jolts my stomach into acrobatics.
