Page 26 of The Snowflake Effect

“I’m serious. I’ve always wanted to go to Chile. Portillo, actually. Have you seen pictures of that yellow hotel on the slopes with the outdoor pool right in the mountains?”

I nod, even though he’s focused on the deep blue sky. “Yeah. Skiers do jumps into it in the spring. Great resort for big mountain skiing.”

“The best. And crazy steep. Lots of backcountry terrain, too.”

I sigh. “One day.” When I’m not scratching by financially. But I find myself picturing Kolton and me floating through two feet of powder, the dramatic Andes at our backs. Kolton and me in the pool, my legs wrapped around his waist. Kolton and me.

The tips of my fingers are cold, but my palm is warm against his, and his thumb traces lazy circles on my hand. It reminds me of my mother writing letters on my back to soothe me when I was sick.

I unlace my fingers from Kolton’s hand and write on his palm.

A-S-S-H-O-L-E

He smiles, a dimple sinking into his cheek. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

I smile, too. My whole face, my body, feeling warmer than it should on the snow. “As a kid, I used to play this game with my mom. She’d spell words, and I’d have to guess what she wrote. Usually when I was sick, but I loved it. Loved her hands tracing along my back. It was the best part about having a fever. That and missing school.”

He takes my hand then, his cool fingertip gliding over my palm, my skin still damp and tepid from pressing against his.

B-E-A-U-T-I-F-U-L

Heat shoots through me, like I’m a Canada Day sparkler, colored flames burning bright. The sensation concentrates below my ribs, as if trying to expand. Not wanting to lose this feeling, I take control. I feather my index finger across the expanse of his upturned palm.

Me: S-E-X-Y

Him: F-I-E-R-C-E

Me: U-N-E-X-P-E-C-T-E-D

Him: F-A-S-C-I-N-A-T-E-D

I want to write all over him now, on his powerful forearms, his muscular thighs, the breadth of his chest. Is his heart beating as fast as mine? Has he turned into a sparkler, too?

He laces our fingers, unzips his jacket, and presses my hand against his breastbone. To warm our hands? To answer my unasked question?

Yes, yes, yes comes his reply, his heart’s own Morse code.

For right now, nothing matters. Not work. Not my messy breakup. Not my dwindling bank account. All that exists is the steady rhythm of Kolton’s heart, the racing of mine.

A tree groans, one of the tall white-barked Aspen trees lining the run, breaking my reverie. Reality sets in. “We should probably get going. Find you some pain meds at a pharmacy. And if you’re nice, I’ll even buy you some PEZ.”

“Why would I want gross candy?”

“First, it’s not gross. Second, my brother used to buy it for me when I was upset. Always made me feel better.”

I don’t mention this was when I stuttered and would come home after being trailed by Sue Anne Hinkley at lunch, her Sh-Sh-Shay parroted for all to hear. On those horrible days, my brother would give me a new PEZ dispenser and list every famous person who stuttered: Winston Churchill, Nicole Kidman, Lewis Carroll. James Earl Jones’s smooth baritone once clip-clip-clopped like a lame horse.

He told me it was a sign of intelligence. He said it meant I’d do great things.

Kolton doesn’t reply to my PEZ offer, but I feel him breathe deeper. Neither of us moves to leave. We lie on our backs, wet snow seeping through our jackets, my hand against his chest.

“Shay,” he whispers.

“Umhmm.”

“This is nice, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” I say before I can catch myself. Too nice.