The guy staring back at me with a wide grin and a beer bottle in his hand is unmistakably that guy Wyatt from Kate’s Diner. I don’t know the girl next to him. I assume it’s Aria. Full-bodied, brown hair tumbles out from beneath her baseball cap and falls to her shoulders in waves. She has freckles, but just on her nose, and her green eyes are shining as she casts Wyatt a sidelong glance.
Suddenly I feel terrible. As if I’d come across Aria’s diary andread her most intimate thoughts. I quickly stuff the picture back into the gap and close the wardrobe with the firm intention of never sniffing through her things again.
I slip into my leggings and sneakers, plug my headphones into my phone, and take the hair tie off my wrist to pull my blond hair back into a messy ponytail. Then I pull on my gloves and cap and tiptoe as quietly as possible down the narrow hall, through the door, and down the stairs to the guest area.
The steps creak. It’s so quiet that the noise almost feels spooky. Behind one door I catch the unmistakable sound of a loudly snoring guest.
After turning the deadbolt, the front door opens with a soft click, and I step out into the icy morning air.
Although Aspen is one of America’s wealthiest cities, right now it couldn’t feel any lonelier. The streets are empty. Not even the streetlamps are on; just the pale moonlight casting a gray light onto the snowy ground. In the distance, the tops of the Aspen Highlands tower into the horizon and, for a moment, take my breath away. They’re terribly big and bewitching at the same time. Online I read that Aspen is surrounded by four mountains: Snowmass, Buttermilk, Aspen Mountain, and Aspen Highlands.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than this view. Like looking at an image on Google and knowing immediately that it’s been retouched with Photoshop because it’s so beautiful. It’s just that this moment is real. Not Instagram fake. No false perfection. That’s why I love nature. It never pretends.
Everything inside me is tingling as I start my playlist and jog off. The icy air cuts my face, but I enjoy it. I enjoy the cold wiping away my thoughts and filling my lungs with energy, allowing the magic inside me to awaken.
I jog without thinking about where my feet are taking me. It’s not hard to find your way in Aspen. The city is small, and the houses are arranged in orderly rows, one after the other. On Google Earth,Aspen looks like aPac-Manmaze.
The snow crunches beneath my sneakers. My feet are numb with cold, but I keep on running, ever farther, following the melody of winter beating in time with my heart.
At the foot of Buttermilk Mountain there are just a few houses. I slow down. Not because I’m tired, but because of the glittering reflections that jump into my eyes.
At first, I think there have got to be strings of lights in the firs. Every breath turns into a white cloud before me as I move closer to the trees. And then I understand where the lights are coming from.
Beyond this wall of snow-draped firs, there’s an ice-covered lake. The moon is reflecting on its surface, causing it to sparkle. Somewhere in the distance, a screech owl is crying. A few seconds later I hear the rustling of its feathers as it sets off into the sky.
I lay my palm against a solid fir trunk and linger a moment to stare at the frozen lake. I’m agog with wonder. Aspen may have some places that are filled with magic. Maybe this city is made for touching every soul in a particular way; I don’t know. But for me, it’s right here. Aspen’s heart. It’s right in front of me, so pure and clear, far away from the public, and it reflects my inner world. I feel the magic pulsing within me and connecting with this place, and for the first time I have the feeling that I can look into its eyes.
After all these years. Here I am. And here it is.
For the first time in a long time, I feel alive again. Happy and hopeful.
I can feel life itself.
A sound to my right tears me out of my thoughts. It’s coming from the direction of the firs and sounds strange somehow, like a stifled groan. Squinting, I try to recognize something, but the trees are blocking the moonlight. It’s too dark.
I tentatively take a step forward while being careful to remain in the shadow of two trees. And that’s when I see him.
Knox is leaning against a trunk, his eyes turned toward the sky.Yesterday’s take-it-easy vibe is gone, replaced by a distorted face and trembling lower lip.
My God, I think he’s crying. Is he? Yeah. Definitely. His whole body is shaking while that strange, stifled groan keeps coming from his mouth.
There’s no doubt about it, he’s crying. But it’s like he doesn’t know how it works exactly.
I dig my fingers into the tree trunk. I can’t stop looking at him. Yesterday I’d sworn to make a wide arc around him. I thought I’d grasped the core of his being. For me, the situation was clear: Knox was one of those sexist types with a shitty character, a person who was more interested in Instagram likes than any interpersonal relationship in real life.
But what I’m seeing here…this is making a totally different impression on me. Why is he crying? What’s wrong? And why on earth does he make such an effort to come off as the badass snowboarder when in reality…
When in reality…he seems pretty lost?
As if paralyzed, I watch his almost silent sobbing. Knox runs both of his hands across his face before lowering his gaze and staring out onto the frozen lake. I swear he looks even more pained. His shoulders are shaking, he’s gasping for air, and again that groaning starts up.
For the second time this morning, I feel as if I’ve invaded someone’s private sphere. I shouldn’t be seeing this. These feelings aren’t meant for my eyes. No matter how Knox treated me yesterday, this doesn’t feel right.
Nearly silent, I pad off through the deep snow that has already numbed my feet and bones. I keep looking over my shoulder out of the fear that Knox could notice me, but right now, he doesn’t seem to be noticing anything but his overwhelming emotions.
On the way back, I jog faster. My racing thoughts are driving me on, almost causing me to sprint while I’m trying to forget theimage of his pain-racked face. I don’t want to feel any sympathy for Knox. I’d like to consider him the egoist that I’d pegged him for. But my thoughts keep growing louder, wilder, more transparent. They’re confusing me. He confuses me. Above all, because, suddenly, I realize that Knox could be more similar to me than I’m comfortable with.
My legs are burning by the time I finally come to a stop in front of Ruth’s. Not from exhaustion so much as the cold. I desperately need a hot shower.
