From here, it’s a picture postcard of the perfect snow-covered small town surrounded by mountains. It’s beautiful. But I don’t fully understand what Sawyer’s doing way out here instead of his rightful place in Belmont on the northwest side of town.
While I muse, I idly form a sad snowball in my Sawyer-sized gloves.
“It’s pretty like this,” he says behind me. “Like a snow globe.”
I’m not sure what compels me to do it, maybe that I don’t want to admit out loud what I think of the view, but I spin around and throw the snowball at him.
He follows its path to his chest where it breaks apart in a puff of white. “Whatwas that for?”
I can’t help laughing, he looks so put out even though he probably barely felt a thing. “For ending up with the best place in Blue Ridge. You always get—Gah!” I scream as he bends down to make a snowball of his own, and start running.
He’s right behind me, and pelts it into my shoulder.
“That’s not fair!” I yell, unable to contain my laughter. “You can move so much faster than me!”
Sawyer wears jeans, at-shirt, and what some people in colder climates might classify as a windbreaker. He’s dressed for agility.
I, on the other hand, am swimming in Sawyer’s snow bib (insulated zip-up overalls, basically), under which I still wear his flannel shirt and rolled up boxers. Plus a hoodie. And his warmest jacket over all of it.
I am, in a word, lumbering. Like a giant running in slow motion.
He strides toward me, looking exactly like a photoshopped LL Bean model with his clean-shaven square jaw, devastating smile, and the sparkle in his eye. He reaches for the beanie on my head.
“Here,” he says, donning it. “I’ll make it easier on you.” He tugs it down over his eyes. “I won’t even throw snowballs. I’ll just dodge.” His cheeks are pink from the cold, but his smile is wide and gleaming.
With his eyes covered, I smile back. “Seriously?”
“Mm-hm.” His throat muscles move on the sound, and I’m suddenly very hot in this getup.
Focus.
I bend down to make a clumsy snowball with my too-large gloves. They might as well be oven mitts.
“When does it end?”
He shrugs. “When you get tired of missing.”
Appalled, I throw it before it’s tamped down enough. It breaks apart in the air, landing mostly on his crotch.
His mouth quirks. “Cold, Casey.”
Before I can tell him I didn’t mean to, he reaches out with both hands and cups my shoulders. The world is reduced to a snowy swirl as he spins me where I stand. With each turn, I’m laughing harder, gasping for air by the time he’s done.
“That did nothing!” I yell, but I’m already tilting to one side.
Even with his eyes covered, his arm instinctively shoots out, steadying me for just a moment.
“You good?” He asks.
“Good enough to bury you in snowballs.”
His smile is incandescent before running off like a shot, zigging and zagging exaggeratedly.
Once I get my laughter under control, I realize I’m definitely all talk. There’s no way I can catch up to him in my clunky gear. And without properly-fitting gloves, my snowballs are pathetic, not sticking at all.
My best options are stealth and misdirection, so I make my way quietly in the direction he ran toward. When I come across a short stick, I pick it up and hurl it at a tree several feet past him. I know he hears it when he stops in his tracks, literally says a comical “Huh?”and makes a u-turn, toward the creek.
Yessss.
