My dad was forty-two when he died, which is a strange thing to realize. That this man in front of me, cheeks glowing and red from the Christmas Eve snow, is almost the last age my dad had ever known on this earth. And what would my dad have done right now? What would he expect from his Katydilla?
I bend over and scoop up snow, quickly packing it into a ball in my hands. I look over at Boone where the glow has now migrated to his blue eyes. He’s grinning at me, forcing me to swallow down my own smile.
“I’ll go easy on you, Kate,” he says before he bends over making his own snowball.
“I don’t think so, sir,” I spout. “I’m perfectly capable of holding my own without you handicapping yourself.”
“But, as you said, this isn’t fair. You’re handicapped by wearing my boots,” he remarks while he makes another snowball, placing it in his pile while I do the same.
“Fine. I get three extra snowballs, and I get to throw first,” I instruct.
“Deal. I’ll make fifteen, and you make eighteen?”
“Perfect,” I reply as I forcefully pack together another snowball, praying my aim is as good as it once was when I used to absolutely obliterate my brother. He never could win a competition against me. Snowball fights. Board games. Who could swim the most lapsaround the pool. I was even better at sneaking back in when we’d been to the same party. He’d always get caught, but he never ratted me out.
Minutes later, I have my stack of eighteen. I look down at Boone’s massive black galoshes on my feet. “Boots, please don’t fail me again.”
At least if these boots do betray me once more, I will only plummet toward soft snow, but unfortunately, they will also take my pride down with me.
“Ready?” Boone calls out from about twenty feet away.
“I was born ready,” I declare through gritted teeth.
So far, this man has saved me from a freezing death in a blizzard, has tended to a gash on my forehead from stumbling in his chicken coop, and has rescued me from his shower of death. But while I have survived all the incidents, I have not saved myself from embarrassment. I cannot create another reason for which Boone has to rescue me.
“You get the first throw,” Boone yells with his hands stretched out, making him an easy target. “Take your best shot.”
I pick up a snowball, tossing it from gloved hand to gloved hand, getting a feel for its weight and hoping twelve-year-old me emerges in energy and ability.
“You’ve got this Kate,” I whisper to myself.
“Did you say something?” Boone bellows.
But instead of repeating myself, I pull my arm back, squinting at Boone for aim, and hurl a snowball through the air. It sails high above Boone as he ducks and rolls toward hispile, picking one up as he jumps back up and catches me in the gut. Fortunately, I’m wearing Boone’s clothes, which means there is a lot of material, and I barely feel the blow.
I quickly fill my arms full of snowballs, chucking them as fast as I can. Catching him in the arm, the leg, the chest, and my favorite—smack dab in the middle of his face.
He laughs that deep laugh of his, and the wide space around us consumes it into the blue skies above, making me feel like the angels can hear his childlike joy at something so simple.
When was the last time I laughed at something simple?
But I don’t have time to think about it, because soon Boone is on the attack, and I realize I’ve already used the majority of my snowballs, so I start running as fast as one can when they are wearing oversized boots that devour one’s entire legs. I’m just Kate—head, torso, and black boots.
“Ah!” I scream out as Boone catches me in the back with a forceful snowball.
“Better figure out a plan, Kate. I’m afraid I’ve got more ammo than you,” Boone boasts.
“But I’ve already hit you four times,” I shout while still running away from him.
“I’ve gotten you three,” he teases loudly. He isn’t even breathing hard like I am, no huffing to his breath. Benefit of the mountain-man physique. “And I’ve got three times as many snowballs left.”
My brain starts sorting through my ideas file on how to proceed from here so I don’t lose, because if there’s anything I’m terrible at…it’s losing. It’s not necessarily the best quality of mine, but I’ve always been a sore loser. I can pout for days, mope around in pajamas like it’s a career, and consume enough pints of ice cream that my brother informs me I need my own milk cow.
Finally, something clicks. We never said anything about stealing one another’s ammo. And what were the snowball fight rules, really? With a plan revolving in my brain, I energetically curve back around toward where Boone’s pile is left unattended.
“Hey!” Boone shouts, as if he knows exactly what I’m about to do.
As I’m running, I kick off the boots that are causing more problems than not and pick up speed now that I’m only in wool socks. It’ll be worth the cold feet to defeat Boone.
