“Of course.” I nod eagerly, happy to have a task to throw myself into.
“It’s okay, hon.” My dad claps my shoulder. “The three of us guys will go. Make a dude trip. You ladies catch up.”
Oh. So they want to get Oliver alone and… what? Have some kind of talk with him?
He doesn’t look concerned about it, so I decide not to be either. He leaves me with a hug and a quick kiss, the animosity from mymom and sister boring holes into my back. Taking Oliver’s suitcase along with mine, I check in at the front desk then follow the hallway to our suite, my mom and Jemma hot on my heels.
“Honestly, Devin…” Mom sighs.
“It was years ago, Mom.” How many times this week will I need to say that? “Things have changed.”
“Since when does he cook?” Jemma asks.
I ignore the question as I use the keycard to open the suite’s door. The room is decorated in warm tones like the rest of the lodge, a small living area giving way to a bedroom on one side and a kitchen on the other. It cost more than I’ve ever spent on lodgings, but having what feels like our own apartment is worth it. If things go south with my family, I want a little sanctuary for me and Oliver to slip away to.
Jemma follows me to the bedroom, where I park the suitcases. Her footsteps are deliberate, each one building toward whatever she’s about to say.
“Remember when you two moved to the city? And he had that bad week of practices, so you cooked him all of his favorite foods, but all he did was get pouty and refuse to eat them?” She scoffs. “He said he wasn’t hungry.”
I freeze, the memory one I haven’t accessed in years. The move had been stressful for Oliver. It was his first time on a pro team, and he’d thrown himself into the next-level practices like his life depended on it. The overwhelming changes made him withdrawn and sullen, with nothing I did helping.
I occupy myself with unpacking my toiletries, setting them on the bathroom counter with more care than necessary. “That was years ago.”
“And?” Jemma presses.
Good question. Oliver has grown in a lot of ways, but how does he deal with major life changes? His first practice at the high school caused apanic attack.
What will happen if and when we move in together? Or get married?
Even if he wants those things, what if he can’t handle the stress that comes along with them? He could do so much more than have a panic attack. He could push me away. Completely shut down.
I can’t go through that again. Being shoved to the side, ignored… it’s worse than anything else.
I slam my toothbrush on the counter. Enough. I’m spiraling. Jemma’s getting in my head just as I knew she would. “Let’s go to the resort store. I forgot to pack gloves.”
Jemma sighs. “Fine,” she mutters.
We collect my mom, who’s sitting on the couch on her phone looking resigned to the fact that I’m ruining my life, and weave our way to the other end of the resort. Jemma’s unwelcome words spin circles through my mind, but I keep pushing them to the side.
That was then. This is now. Oliver and I have a chance at a real life together, but I can’t keep looking backwards and expecting the past to shake out differently. I have to keep my eyes on the prize and stay positive—despite what anyone else might think.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Oliver
“You coming for another go?”
Henry passes me by, headed for the ski lift, big grin splitting his weathered face. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold and exertion, his breath coming out in white puffs.
I wince and grasp my bad wrist, pain shooting all the way to my shoulder. The joint feels like someone’s driving a nail through the bone. It hasn’t been this bad in months, and it’s hard to even speak, let alone ski. Each breath I take seems to make the throbbing worse, the cold air doing nothing to numb the fire radiating up my arm.
Not that any of that matters. If I don’t keep up with Devin’s family, they’ll think I don’t care enough, and that’s the whole point of me being here: to show I care. To prove I’m not the same guy who walked away from her five years ago.
“Be right there,” I tell Henry, but when I turn around, Devin is frowning at me. Those brown eyes see right through my bullshit.
“I’m good,” I tell her before she has a chance to say anything.
We catch a lift, and the other four are waiting at the top. The ride up gives me no relief—my wrist throbs, protesting the way it’s being forced to grip the ski pole. My fingers feel stiff and swollen inside my glove. The journey down the slope makes it even worse, every small adjustment of my hand sending fresh waves of agony through my arm. At the bottom, I can’t even hold the pole any longer. It falls out of my hand and into the snow with a soft thud.
