Page 14 of Head Over Skis

Thinking his name makes the image of him in my mind come into clearer focus, and there’s a growing heat in my stomach that starts to move lower and lower as I let myself remember the events of last night from the beginning. I’m shocked by how clearly I can picture it all when at the time I felt so wrapped up in the immediate sensation of his touch that the hours blurred into one big haze of wanting.

We had the whole night together, knowing that was all we’d get before we’d go back to our separate lives, but it’s like my body isn’t done with him yet. Like there’s a tug in the back of my mind that coming close to sleep has reawakened. A need to feel his lips crashing into mine again. Not that such a thing is even possible.

It feels wrong, having thoughts like this about a guy I barely know, when the one I dated for seven years sleeps only a few rooms away.

But thinking now about how Rory held me, lifted me, and carried me into his room, kicking the door closed before he tore my senses apart with each stroke of his tongue – it makes me feel too alive to want to stop.

Feeling too hot and bothered to go back to sleep now, I decide the best course of action is to head to the kitchen and get myself a large glass of cold water.

I stand slowly, waiting to hear how much the wood will creak with my weight. I cross in front of Tilly’s bed, and I’ve nearly made it silently past when my foot catches on the strap of her backpack. With a clatter, items tumble out onto the floor and I flinch backwards, shoulders raised to my ears as I wait for everything to still. I turn towards Tilly, expecting a mumble, or a yawn, or a reaction of any kind. She only snores more loudly, and although I’m grateful in that moment, her heavy sleeping reminds me she is not the person to share a room with if there was ever a break-in.

I bend down to gather everything together, my hands stilling on a thin black bottle with a spray top. It’s heavy, and I tilt it so the light reflects the words printed on the front in white letters.

No. 57 – Alpine

I lift the bottle and spray it in front of me, leaning forwards to take a sniff. It’s strong, a heavy scent mixed with something smoky, maybe? My sense of smell is pretty much non-existent with these kinds of things, but I can tell it’s definitely a man’s, and definitely not something Tilly would ever wear. Her fragrances are always sickeningly sweet, like the old-school Hollister spray bottles everyone had when they were fourteen, but she never grew out of them.

Weird. I tuck the bottle back into her bag and make a mental note to ask her who it belongs to tomorrow. I prop the rucksack back up where it was, then continue to creep towards the door.

I sigh when the handle clicks behind me, moving less carefully now as I step into the living room. It’s still dark in here, but not quite as much as the bedroom thanks to the window that covers the whole back wall. My feet lead me towards it, deciding my glass of water can wait. I pause one step away, my breath fogging the glass as I lean forwards to take in the view in front of me.

The deep green trees, which were dusted with snow in the daylight, now appear as pure black silhouettes, shooting upwards like daggers into the sky. Above them, stars of pure white are flecks against a background of blue that’s as dark as the deepest part of the sea. The more I look, the more stars appear as my vision adjusts to the darkness. I lift my fingers to the window, resting them there like I could reach out and grab one of them.

The stars, the silence, the snow that still glitters in the faded light – everything about the scene is magical. I want to step into it, be a part of it, but more than that, I want to get my sketchbook and draw it.

‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’

My nails scratch the glass as my heart jumps into my throat. I whip my head around in the direction of the voice, my back pressed against the window. A figure cast partly in shadow leans against the countertop in the kitchen, and I’m about to scream when they take a step forward, their familiar face coming into view.

‘Jesus, Adam,’ I hiss, his name barely audible as I run out of the little breath I was holding. I hunch over, one hand pressed to my chest as I feel the wave of adrenaline that flooded my body slowly ebb.

‘Sorry, that was my bad. Couldn’t sleep?’

Once my body’s recovered enough from thinking it was about to face off an axe murderer armed in nothing but my pyjamas, I straighten back up and figure out how to answer that question. Because admitting that no, I couldn’t sleep because I keep picturing a naked man that isn’t you, is probably not something I should do.

That guilty feeling twists again in my stomach when I think about last night, and the fact I haven’t told Adam about it. I have to remind myself that I haven’t done anything wrong. We were unequivocally broken up, unlike the murky waters we were in when Adam did the same thing.

‘Yeah, something like that, you?’

He hesitates, his mouth opening, then closing again, as he turns the phone in his palm in slow circles.

‘Oh,’ I reply faintly. Late night calls for Adam aren’t unusual, and they’re always from one person. In my experience, they’ve never meant anything good. ‘Everything okay?’

I know it won’t be, but I don’t know whether to directly ask what’s happened, or whether he’ll want to talk about it. He rolls his neck, head bouncing from left to right like he’s weighing up what ‘okay’ means in the grand scheme of his life, and what side of that line tonight’s events land on.

‘She’s fine,’ he settles on. ‘She’s at Aunt Tara’s, and as far as I can tell she left before things got too out of hand.’

‘Good,’ I say, picturing the warm fireplace at Aunt Tara’s, and the kitchen, which is the place where I first met Adam’s mum.

It wasn’t planned. We’d been dating for nearly a year, and by that point I’d been starting to worry that the reason I hadn’t met her yet was because Adam didn’t want me to. I’d assumed it was something to do with me. But that evening, we’d been cooking dinner with Aunt Tara, who isn’t actually his aunt but practically raised him so she’s earnt the title. I’d met her several times by this point and liked her instantly because when I’d been nosy and walked around, her house was full of things Adam had made over the years. Pottery from primary school, parts now long broken off but still displayed proudly, and drawings he’d clearly done when he’d been very young, given that the people in them were just heads with legs. She was clearly someone who cared about him, so I was happy whenever Adam suggested we pay her a visit.

But that night, while I was stirring a risotto and Adam was laying the table, the back door swung open and a woman burst in wearing a baggy knitted jumper, the sleeve torn, her cheeks flushed red from the cold.

‘Shit,’ Adam cursed, dropping the knife he’d been holding and rushing over to her, his hands reaching out to grip her shoulders.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked, his voice level. Clinical almost, as he scanned her from head to toe.

His question made me look again at her face, realising one cheek was much darker than the other, and there was no way its colour could’ve been caused by the cold alone. I didn’t move, unsure if she’d noticed me yet. Feeling like this scene wasn’t something I was supposed to be a part of.