He’s moved closer. I just sit there, my eyes wide. My head is telling me to interrupt the crackling tension between us, but I can’t.
“If I’m such a mess, why do you want to know what I’m thinking?”
“Because there’s a fire in your eyes that’s showing me a history. But I think it’s one that you will never share.”
The light from the chandelier is glowing in his eyes, and he laughs gently. His gaze is deep. As if he would understand a lot of things. As if he would understandme. And the way he’s looking at me… As if I was something precious, as rare as the beginning of a rainbow. Not Paisley the trailer roach. Not Paisley with the crackhead mom. But Paisley from Aspen. Paisley the ice-skater.
“I think you’re hiding,” I whisper. “I think somewhere behind your smile there is something that’s tearing you apart. People think they know you. But they don’t have any idea.”
Knox swallows. “That’s the beautiful thing, right? No one has any goddamn idea.”
“I don’t know if that’s really a beautiful thing, Knox.”
“Well, I know thatyou’rebeautiful, Paisley.”
His words rouse all the nerve endings in my body. I feel electrified, the air around me explosive. It’s like a competition; the tense seconds on the ice before the music starts and the program begins. Just that this time, it’s scarier cause I don’t know what will happen next. There is no carefully curated run-of-events to hold onto. No steps to execute with precision and security.
There is only Knox and me. Knox, who keeps on moving closer.Knox, who smells like hay and vetiver. Knox, who I feel drawn to at this moment like no one else.
But there is something else that comes between us. Real quietly, crawling, ugly. Way too dark for it to be good. It tugs at my memories. Reminds me what happens when you begin to trust. When you begin to fall for the trap of the illusion of safety.
At the beginning, it’s always good. But at the end, all that’s left is pain.
His face is really close. I notice a small birthmark next to his full lips. The green of his eyes is shot through with even brighter, glowing spots. I observe every centimeter of his face, I can hardly pull away. I want this moment. I want it so bad.
Knox is waiting, he’s giving me time. He’s leaving it up to me. And it would be so easy to choose him right now. Just the slightest tilt of my head, a tiny movement, and our lips would touch.
But I can’t. Fear wins out.
“The champagne,” I whisper. “You wanted to show me the champagne.”
Two blinks pass before the moment is over. Slowly Knox leans back. He rubs his neck again and briefly looks over my shoulder through the window. The bright snow is reflected in his eyes.
Then he nods. “True.”
Never has the word sounded so false.
21
I’d Be Yours, If You Asked
Knox
In third grade I had a crush on this girl, Ophelia, and she was a grade ahead of me. Ophelia wastheit girl in line at the cafeteria. The boys acted like idiots around her, like eight-year-old boys do when they’re head over heels. And I was one of them. And so to show Ophelia how much I liked her, during break, I kicked the football against her head. Clever plan. I thought I was the shit. Absolutely on fire. Ophelia didn’t think it was so cool. She fell into the mud with her white dress and had to get picked up by her mother. She didn’t show back up at school for the next two weeks—it turns out that my declaration of love caused her to have a slight concussion.
I can remember the tightness I felt in my chest when Ophelia came back and looked at me like I was the plague incarnate. I didn’t feel well. Something in me felt strange, and I could feel an odd pressure in my chest. I thought I was sick. So I went to my mom and told her what was going on. She laughed. I can still hear how clear her laughter was. “Knox,” she said. “You’re not sick. You’re in love.”
That was horrible. I didn’t want that, so I started to howl.
My dad had a logical explanation. “Bronchitis. That’s whatbronchitis feels like.”
Yep. Crystal clear. I hung around in bed for a week, played with my Game Boy, and now and again produced some made-up coughs I convinced myself were real while ignoring my mom’s knowing grin whenever she came in to bring me tea.
And now it’s back, that terrible bronchitis. Following Paisley’s rejection, it crept up quietly to claw its way into my chest and expand. It’s getting worse from minute to minute and I’m getting more and more pissed off. Above all, because I let Paisley borrow my car to go buy groceries. Why? I never—and I meannever—let anyone borrow my Range Rover! And now I’m sitting here on a stone-hard seat on my way to Breckenridge and freezing my ass off while, instead of warm air, some undefinable stink is being blown through the bus. I have no idea the last time I took the bus. I really cannot remember, but the pain I feel in my tailbone as we take a detour through the bumpy mountains makes it abundantly clear that I haven’t missed a thing.
The bus stops in front of the Highline Railroad Park in Breckenridge. The doors slide open, and two kids with their grandparents and a heavy man who took up two seats and spent the whole ride breathing heavily in a whistle get off before I do.
The ice arena is just a few minutes away from the park. Back when I still played hockey, Wyatt and I were here a lot. After that, however, I totally ignored it. I should have come to see him play more often; today I was overcome with a guilty conscience. Wyatt is always there when I need him. He comes to every one of my competitions, he’s at every show. At this point, his game is over thanks to how slow the bus is and that frustrates me.
