Page 53 of The Snowflake Effect

“Give me a second,” I tell Lily.

Worried Kolton can hear the rapid beating of my heart, I place my hand over my chest as I read his text.

Kolton: Hate to ask this, but I’m in a bind with Jackson. Stella’s taking him to a morning pottery class, but she has to leave early. I have a few things to do and might not make it to pick him up. Any chance you can grab him for me? At 11:00? Take him to the library, and I’ll meet you there?

Disappointment rolls through me at his businesslike tone.

Candid. Friendly. Detached.

After I left the construction site yesterday, his anonymously left giftbag clutched in my hand, I’m sure he expected a reaction from me over the panties—a call, a text, anything. When I got home, I sat with the neatly folded red lace, unmoving, for who knows how long, and sent no reply.

He took a risk, admitting just how much he’s thought about me since Aspen…and that he’s a bit of a perv for keeping my torn red thong. Still, the sentiment and his words crept under my guard, and my heart nearly burst. Too overwhelmed to even crack a joke, all he got in return was silence.

Have you been wearing these daily? I should have texted.

Or: The fabric smells kind of salty. But I said nothing.

Now he’s distancing himself.

Like the day my supposed best friend Christine did an impersonation of my stutter in front of our class, my lungs struggle for air, the feeling like swallowing burning tar.

“Shay?” Lily says, her voice faint, since I’m forlornly staring at my phone.

I lift the phone back to my ear. “Yeah, sorry. I’m here.”

“And I’m here for you,” she replies. “I don’t think Kolton is the type of guy who’d want a mindless Barbie doll girl, like Richard. Kolton gave you those gifts, each unique, each representing the real you, because that’s the woman he’s fallen for. The real Shay I know and love.”

She’s right, and I’m tired of fighting my feelings. If I don’t go out with Kolton, potential regret and what-ifs could snowball until I’m a bigger and hotter mess than I was after Richard.

I’m done sitting on my heels. “You’re right. Thanks for talking me off the ledge.”

“Always. And does this mean you’ll go out with him?”

“Odds are high. But if things go south, you have to fill my freezer with ice cream.”

She laughs. “Deal.”

The second we hang up, I type my reply to Kolton before I freak out again and change my mind.

Me: Sure, I’ll pick Jackson up. Forward the address.

I hit Send, even though I haven’t finished drafting the changing rooms for the shop. Even though I’m wearing ripped jean shorts and an oversize Wildcats T-shirt, and I have a shift at Sass and Style this afternoon.

Time to play my hand at the Game of Life.

CHAPTER 23

SHAY

I enter the storefront on Yonge Street, apprehensive. Ten or so kids are covered in drying clay, paintbrushes in hand, as they finish decorating their works of art. Among the khaki-and-white-wearing parents, Stella stands apart—a Jackson Pollock painting among a room of Michelangelos.

In a tight black bodice with two thin straps, every inch of swirling color on her arms and chest is emphasized. The kaleidoscope continues down her calves, the area visible below her white pedal pushers and above her pink slingback shoes. I bet she’s not even wearing a bra.

She waves at me as Jackson runs over to her, some atrocious clay piece in his hand.

He pushes his glasses up his nose and frowns down at the ugliest I-have-no-idea-what-the-heck-it-is thing he’s holding. “The glaze is wrong,” he says. “If I did the yellow one like I wanted, it would’ve been better. And I told the teacher I wanted to do yellow, but she said red would be nicer, but it’s not, and now I’m stuck with red.”

Stella picks up the—maybe ashtray—thing and turns it around in her hands. “You’re right. You should’ve done yellow. Know why?”