Chapter 20
The Big Sad Part of My Heart Called Aria Moore
Wyatt
I can’t sleep. It’s past midnight, but my body is full of adrenaline.
To be honest, I feel like I’ve had ten espressos.
I’m lying in bed, stiff as a board, my eyes shut, trying to let the meditation coming through my earbuds reach me.
Ever since the accident, this elongated, smoky voice that travels to the bottom of the ocean with me and explores my fears has been my most reliable way of getting to sleep.
But not today. Today all I’m thinking about is Aria lying in her bed just a few feet away.
Her bare thighs and how warm they always were when I’d wake up at night and feel around blindly for her.
I pull out my earbuds and turn onto my side.
Camila’s heavy breathing fills the room.
It’s stopped snowing. The moon is casting its gray light through the crack in the curtains onto my sister.
She’s kicked off her blanket and is lying there with her arms outstretched, mouth open slightly, her dark hair spilling over the pillow.
On the white sheets by her waist are four empty chocolate wrappers.
She digs her fingers into the faux beaver pelt comforter before she turns onto her side.
Right now she looks so much like the little girl from way back when, who, in order to fall asleep, had to cuddle her bald Barbie; I am filled with nostalgia.
So as not to make the floor creak, I tiptoe to the bathroom.
Everything here feels so damn familiar. How many times did I help Aria get the rooms ready for guests?
How many times did I clean the bathroom knowing how much drains freak her out?
How many times did we make the beds together only to be unable to withstand each other and then have to put new sheets on once again?
Too many times for me to be able to forget.
I splash my face with water and look in the mirror. The thing with mirrors is they’re terribly honest and ruthless, and right now this one here’s showing me how fucking terrible I look. Dark shadows beneath my eyes. Burst veins on my cheek. The gold-brown tone of my skin has turned grayish.
Man, this is all way too much. I just can’t do it anymore.
What happened last summer is something I’ve never really gotten over, psychologically or physically.
All the pressure on my sister who’s got to make enough money to support both of us because I can’t.
The NHL that’s about to kick me back into the minors and, above all, the cherry on the cake, Aria Moore.
My throat begins to tighten. I need fresh air and a distraction; I need to get my head straight.
I quietly go back to my room and dig my skates out of my hockey bag.
I manage to get my coat on over my bad arm, toss my tied-together skates over my good shoulder, and sneak out into the hallway.
Aside from the ticking of the clock over the chest of drawers, it’s dead silent.
The wooden stairs groan beneath my heavy steps.
I feel like an intruder, and that’s not a nice feeling, for this house was always like my second home.
Snowflakes whirl inside as I open the door and step out into the frigid night air.
My blades tap against my chest and shoulder blade in time to the steady rhythm of my steps.
I take the sharp air into my lungs as I make my way through the streets, across market square, and past the bell tower, the bell tower where her lips met mine, her fingers dug into my hair, and her body pressed itself against mine.
Walking past Kate’s Diner, my eyes drift up to Gwen’s window, no idea why.
Maybe because I’m sorry. Maybe because I want her face to appear behind the glass and to smile at me because neither of us is doing all that great (for the same reason), and she understands me.
I notice a faint light behind the curtains, and it occurs to me that she hasn’t been able to sleep too well for a long time, either.
I keep on going, walking past Will’s vintage movie theater and on until I reach Buttermilk Mountain Avenue and head left.
At the end of the street, the asphalt beneath the cover of snow turns to earth.
I leave the last few houses behind me and take the somewhat steep, faintly lit path past the woods and up Buttermilk Mountain.
Shortly before the gondola, I break right and take the narrow path through the trees.
Most of the time this path is flat and well-trod, but tonight it’s like wading through a blanket of snow. In seconds my jeans are soaked.
I reach the last tree; it’s huge and ancient.
Its bare branches are covered with white.
And behind it, frozen and beautiful, surrounded by rocks and fir trees, the glittering surface of Silver Lake.
At the horizon line, Buttermilk Mountain towers into the azure-colored, star-studded sky, even though it’s just finished snowing.
But that’s how it is here in the Rockies; it’s magical and special, and the stars like to have a look.
In Aspen they feel the essence of their beauty.
Exhaling and turning toward the tree next to me, a white cloud appears before my face. It’s dark, and for a moment I have to squint and feel around with my numb fingers before finding what I’m looking for.
A + W.
Her initial first because, for me, she’ll always come first. Next to it a misshapen heart that I carved into the bark. My eyes stare at these two letters for so long that, at some point, the bark becomes a single brown spot while everything else around me disappears.
“Wyatt.”
I spin around. The trunk scrapes my jacket. Standing in front of me, face half hidden in the dark of the trees, the other illuminated by the stars, is Gwen.
“You scared me,” I say, a hand on the left side of my chest, which is rising and falling at a clip. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same.”
Shrugging I lean back against the tree. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“And that’s why you were peeping into my window?”
“You saw that?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.” I run an embarrassed hand down my neck. “I wasn’t stalking you or anything, if that’s what you think.”
“All good.” She pauses before adding, “I didn’t know you were here. I mean, just in case you think that…umm…”
“You followed me?” I grin.
She nods. Between the wide stitches of her handmade scarf, I can see her blushing.
“I don’t know if I should believe you.” With a rough laugh, I push off from the trunk, walk past her, and sit down on a sharp-edged rock overlooking the lake.
“You would if you knew how often I came here at night.” She comes over, sits down next to me, and puts her vintage backpack between her legs.
With prickly fingers I attempt to undo the laces of my Timberlands and nod at her bag with my chin.
“Midnight picnic out on the ice? Great idea. You got sandwiches with you? I’m starving. ”
Gwen smiles as she unzips her bag, reaches inside, and pulls out her skates, which are so much nicer and more elegant than mine. “Not quite, Lopez.”
She says it nonchalantly, with an amused tone, but her smile is delicate, and her jaw is tense as she laces up.
“Gwen. Everything all right?”
She casts me a glance out of the corner of her eye. “Yeah, super.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Wow. Charming, Wyatt, thanks. You look like shit yourself.”
I laugh out loud, which at least causes her to grin before our glances meet and my laugh is carried off by the wind.
“So, what’s up?”
Her eyes bore into mine for two seconds, three, four, five, and I realize that she’s unsure about talking with me about it.
Gwen’s always been this way. A little like a Labrador that turned into a person.
She’s nice to everyone and always in a good mood, sometimes a bit too much to be able to hide what’s bothering her.
She tightens the bow of her laces with a firm jerk, exhales, and puts her palms down to the ice-cold stone, eyes resting on the glimmering surface of Silver Lake.
“iSkate is considering sending me back to my old club in Breckenridge.”
“Shit. Shit, Gwen.”
She pulls in her lower lip and flares her nostrils.
“I was never good enough, you know? Good, but not good enough. Always second place. Started back in elementary school. You remember Mrs. Letterham’s theater group?
In fourth grade we did Beauty and the Beast, and I really wanted to be Belle. But who did I end up playing?”
I remember. Gwen went up and down the halls with the text in her hand for weeks.
“Chip. But you were so good! You always managed that,” I stand halfway up, my blades in the snow, and make circles with my waist, “skillful twist of your paper cup. Really aesthetic.”
“Ha ha.” She pushes my hip to the side, and I plop back onto the rock. She rolls her eyes. “Then in high school I fought for that damn scholarship to UCLA with everything I had.”
I remember that, too.
“Penelope Graham got it.”
Her eyes grow dark as I say the name.
“Penelope,” she repeats, her eyes narrowed into slits.
“A whole year long I went on hikes through the Highlands with Aspen’s nursing-home residents, and what did she do?
” Gwen spins around to face me so quickly that I tumble back onto my rock one more time.
“She volunteered at the ski rental place. At the ski rental, Wyatt!”
“Well, come on, to be fair, Penelope was always a terrible overachiever, Gwen. She deserved it.” When I see her face collapse, I quickly add, “But you should be glad you didn’t get that scholarship. Otherwise you wouldn’t be in Aspen, right?”
She doesn’t respond; she just stares at me before shrugging and turning away. “And then there’s the thing between you and Aria,” she whispers.