Chapter 6
When the Fuck Did I Sign Up to Climb Everest?
The friendship with Winnie is over. Absolutely, completely fucking done.
“Fuck,” I huff, dragging one snowshoed foot in front of the other. I’m drenched under my jacket, and my thighs are screaming louder than after any Barry’s Bootcamp class.
The walk was nice. For the first mile.
Cranberry Hollow’s colorful Victorian houses, all converted into mom-and-pop businesses that have been decorated to the nines for Christmas, made me feel like I’d been dropped into Whoville. Even the lampposts are wrapped in green garland and red lights.
Now, I’m convinced I’m summiting Everest wearing wooden tennis rackets.
My chest heaves as I sidestep the last few yards of the mountain, my bangs plastered to my forehead. When I finally reach the top, I shove my hands into the air and cheer, “YES! FUCK YES!”
The victory lasts about two seconds.
I slip.
I flail.
I scream.
Then I’m flying down the hill I worked so hard to climb, hitting a snow-covered speed bump that catapults me into the air with a FWUMP that would make a sound-effects artist weep with pride.
I shut my eyes. Brace for impact. And slam face-first into a snowbank.
My soul exits my body.
Is it possible for your nipples to freeze off? Because at this rate, mine are going to be inverted by New Year’s Eve.
I hear laughter and small voices.
I push myself up, sputtering snow from my mouth, and hoping my laptop is okay. The twins are recording me.
“Oh my god, I’m definitely posting this!” one of Jamie’s daughters squeals.
“Wait, wait! Do the slow-mo! It makes it so much funnier!”
“We should add that sound—the one where it goes bong, bong, bong—”
Am I being punished for something?
I’ve been here for less than twenty-four hours and have almost died at least twice. I can say with some certainty that my left pinky toe is actually dead.
Jamie steps forward, offering his hand. I bypass it entirely. He’s pulled me out of the snow one too many times already. I have to maintain some semblance of dignity.
I shake myself off like a freshly bathed golden retriever, sending a tsunami of powder directly into his smug face.
His smile disappears under approximately four pounds of snow.
“Oops,” I say flatly.
The twins lose it, doubling over and gasping for air.
Jamie lets out a deep chuckle while he brushes himself off, an animated grin on his face. “Never seen someone try to ski in snowshoes.”
I run my tongue across my teeth, biting back a scream. I would very much like to shove him into a snowbank.
“What are on your feet?” One of the girls points down. She’s dressed in overalls and a giant jacket, with two braids sticking out from under her black beanie.
“Snowshoes?” I reply.
“Dad, is that what you grew up wearing?” The other girl looks toward Jamie, her cheeks rosy. “Those look so old.”
“Your aunt gave these to me,” I say, shooting a look at Jamie.
“I warned you she loves pranks.” He gestures to his daughters. “Girls, be nice. Introduce yourselves to Dr. Winters.”
“Hi, Dr. Winters. I’m Kiki,” the first girl says, smiling up at me and twirling her braids.
“And I’m Honey.”
“We’re twins. We’re ten.” Kiki wraps her arms around her sister. “But I was born four minutes before her.”
Ten. The same age I was when my parents split up and Mom cried in the bathroom while Dad packed his Mercedes.
I stare at them, completely frozen. If they were house cats, I’d know exactly what to do. But actual human children?
I always thought I wanted kids. Someday. In that vague, theoretical future where I have my shit together. But now that there are two children in front of me, waiting for me to say something normal, I’m completely useless.
“Uhh, nice names.”
“Mom and Dad loved Studio Ghibli movies, so they named us after their favorite characters,” Kiki explains proudly. A pang of sadness hits me when I think about them losing their mom. Jamie’s gaze shifts away. “I’m from Kiki’s Delivery Service.”
“And I’m from Howl’s Moving Castle,” Honey adds, her red nose wiggling. “Have you seen them?”
“I haven’t had a lot of time for movies.” I turn to Jamie, ready for him to save me.
“No!” Kiki exclaims. “You have to come over and watch them with us.”
“Maybe,” I say.
Honey stares at me, wide and unblinking. It’s a little unsettling, like she’s trying to peer into my soul. “I wish I could do my eyeliner like you.”
Ha! I probably look like a mess, but I know for certain that my waterproof eyeliner didn’t budge. A win if there ever was one. “As a vet, my steady hand is not only good for surgery but also for drawing a perfect cat eye in under a minute each morning,” I boast.
“So cool,” Kiki breathes.
Honey’s face falls. “For the Cranberry Social, all the girls will have their moms to help them with their makeup and hair.”
Oh. Oh no.
“Auntie Winn tries,” Kiki adds quickly, “but she’s better at baking than the girlie stuff.”
“And Grandma doesn’t even own lipstick,” Honey says quietly.
God, that hit me right in the chest. I can’t imagine growing up without my mom teaching me how to braid my hair or sneaking into her room to try on her lipsticks.
From my peripheral, I see Jamie frown. “Girls, let’s get going. I got your favorite for dinner tonight. Trudy got a new batch of sweet potatoes, so we can roast them.”
He’s obviously trying to change the subject.
Honey stares at the ground, fiddling with her backpack straps, and before I can stop myself, the words just tumble out.
“If it’s all right with your dad, I could help you with your makeup for this social.
If there is one thing I’m good at, it’s dresses and makeup.
” I give Jamie a tight-lipped smile. “And animals.”
They light up and bounce on their toes. “Oh my god, please! Please, please, please!” they say in unison.
I beam at them. “Wow, I didn’t learn that move until I was at least thirteen.”
“You don’t have to do it,” Jamie says.
“I don’t have to do a lot of things,” I say, following them to the truck. I’m happy to get away from the small crowd that gathered to see my downhill performance. “But here we are. Another thing to add to my résumé. When is the dance, girls?”
“Saturday!”
They take off running, already debating whether they want smoky eyes or glitter, and I’m hit with this weird, unexpected flutter. Like maybe I could be good at this. The kid thing.
“Can you make sure your daughters don’t post that video?” I say, nudging Jamie’s arm.
“Already taken care of,” Jamie says.
“They could probably run your social media account.”
“Actually, I was hoping you could teach me.”
“Sounds like a lot of work,” I tease.
“You strapped on snowshoes, threw yourself down a hill, and agreed to be my daughters’ makeup artist. I don’t think you’re afraid of a little work.”
“Fair point.” My pulse pitter-patters every time his mustache twitches.
“I already told you my plan. Shirtless with baby animals. That’s what gets engagement.
” I lift my phone, like I’m actually considering taking the photo.
The light’s perfect, golden hour turning everything soft and hazy.
The twins are silhouettes running through the snow ahead of us.
Pine trees line the edge of the shot. His ridiculous cowboy hat catches the last rays of sun.
He’s annoyingly photogenic, all chiseled jawline and hooded, kind eyes and the type of rugged that comes from actual physical labor, not a five-hundred-dollar gym membership.
He leans in to whisper in my ear. “You offering to take those photos?”
“No.”
Maybe.
Probably.
Absolutely, if he keeps standing this close to me. Because my heart may want to stay for the reindeer. But my body? My body has other motivations.