9 #2
“Do we each get a home base?” My hand trails down the railing, already collecting the snow piled there.
“I don’t think we need them, but hiding behind things is fine.”
“Okay, and when does time start?”
“Whenever you’re ready."
“How about… now!” I ruthlessly pummel him in the face with my fistful of snow, then sprint away as fast as I can.
“You’re in trouble,” he calls after me, but I’m already ducking behind a nearby car.
The make and model are unrecognizable beneath a pillowy layer of perfect snowball snow—just wet enough to stick together, but not too hard to shape.
I scoop some into my bare hand then crouch low, hiding as I pat it into a ball.
I already regret the lack of gloves, but there’s no going back now.
I wait five seconds for Andy to emerge. Then ten.
He’s nowhere in sight. Listening hard, I can’t pick up any hints, so I have no choice but to peek around the side of my car-fortress.
To my surprise, the sidewalk is totally abandoned.
I look left and right, freezing wind scraping over my cheeks, then start to retrace my steps until I eventually find Andy’s bigger footprints in the snow.
It looks like he was running straight towards me, until he veered off…
Splat! Splat!
Two snowballs hit my back rapid fire and I shriek, whipping around in time to see Andy disappear behind a dumpster across the street.
“Yeah, you better hide!” I yell, scooping up fresh snow and packing it tight. “Revenge is a dish best served cold, Walsh.”
I scurry across the street and duck on the opposite side of the dumpster from Andy. There’s no way I’ll ever outrun him, so I’ll need the element of surprise. My hands are already numb. The time to act is nigh.
Using all of my (admittedly meager) strength, I haul myself onto the top of the dumpster just as Andy curves around the side.
I ambush him with a snowball to the top of the head, then jump down on the far side and run for my life, not stopping until I find a new car for cover at least halfway down the block.
“Next hit wins,” Andy bellows. He sounds far away, maybe 50 feet, and I’m determined to remain on the offensive.
If he’s still down the block, maybe I can creep along the street side of the parked cars until I’m close enough for another sneak attack.
The road is unplowed but not unpassable, so I curve around the SUV in front of me and into the street, trying not to let my snow-soaked pant legs distract me from my mission.
I inch along soundlessly, gaining careful ground. It’s nearly impossible to see through the cars’ windows with the thick layer of snow and ice, but eventually I catch a flicker of motion on the sidewalk and duck low. Target acquired.
Crossing behind the car, I skim snow off the trunk to make my new weapon. But when I leap onto the sidewalk, arm cocked back and poised to strike, Andy is lying in wait.
“Gotcha!” he yells, making me scream. I dodge his snowball as I throw my own, then bolt for cover again. Freezing tears of laughter blur my vision. I beeline for a parked minivan, darting back to the street side blindly.
Then there’s a screaming honk.
A sharp jolt of fear.
The sudden bite of snow on my face and the lurch of strong arms around my middle.
A black pickup truck streaks past, not a foot from where I stand locked against Andy’s body. It speeds around the corner, blowing the stop sign and disappearing without a trace.
My pulse is pounding. My hands are shaking. I’m not sure I’d even be upright if it weren’t for Andy holding me tight against his chest. My breath clouds the air as I clutch his forearms, fingers seeking something stable.
One more second passes. Then two. Then three.
Eventually my heartbeat slows. Andy turns me around in his arms, but doesn’t put an inch of space between us yet.
“Are you okay?”
I swallow heavily as my fear and shock turn to embarrassment. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”
He doesn’t reply, just stares down at me, fists tightening in my coat. The warmth of his body makes me realize how cold I am. I bring my ungloved hands up between us, rubbing them together.
“Should we call it a tie?” I ask, trying to play off how rattled I’m feeling.
The last thing I need is to make Andy worried.
But then my teeth start chattering, and all bets are off.
Andy releases my waist to unzip the front of his coat, and I can’t resist.
I move into the space he created for me, wind-bitten cheek leaning against his solid chest, frozen fingers curling into his shirt.
He wraps the coat as far around me as he can, then rubs his hands up and down over my back.
“No, you clipped me with that last one. You win.”
“Then why were you still chasing me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to get hit by a car.”
“Oh.” I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “Right. Thanks again.”
Andy doesn’t move, just holds my gaze as he holds my body.
And maybe I’m just caught in the moment—on this day of highs and lows and closeness and almosts—but I forget to look away.
Andy has such nice eyes. Kind eyes. A bottomless dark brown. And so expressive. He’s always said more with his eyes than he’s ever said with his words.
The fogs of our breath mix in the air. My stare flicks down to his lips for just a second, and I marvel at the curl of steam moving between them.
Sometimes I wish I had a witness to moments like these.
Some objective third party who could tell me what I’m seeing.
Who knows everything about me and him and our friendship and history, and could tell me if I’m seeing something real or not.
Because when I think back on the near-decade of our friendship, I have about a million almost-kisses catalogued there.
Moments that were subtle enough to deny.
Moments that never would have almost-happened if anyone else had been there.
But no one ever was, and we never crossed that line, so the almost-secret was safe with us.
But is any of it real? Or is it just my naively hopeful heart?
Because I did ask him to cross that line once, remember.
And he turned me down. It was a long time ago, I know, and people’s feelings can change over time.
But if Andy’s feelings had changed, wouldn’t he have said something by now?
I’ve already laid myself on the line—shouldn’t he realize the ball’s in his court?
Maybe not. He’s not exactly socially proactive. But without getting something from him, there’s no way I can take that risk again.
I pull back, putting a very reasonable foot of space between us. “Should we go back inside?”
“Yeah,” he replies, “let’s get you warmed up.”