Chapter 12 #3
“You don’t know me well enough to know if that’s true or not.
” Off the top of my head, I can think of a hundred instances it’s been true in just the last year.
I didn’t become a professional snowboarder because I’m attention adverse.
But the things I really care about, I keep those close to my heart and out of the public eye.
“And you don’t know me well enough to know if, or why, I avoid the spotlight.”
That’s where she’s wrong, but I have a feeling we’ll end up fighting about it if I push any further, and that’s not how I want to spend this snowy Sunday where we’re pretty much going to be trapped here together. “Fair enough,” I say.
I go to step back to my seat, but I forget that Winston is lying behind me and I end up with my heel pushing into his side.
He jumps up with a yelp and in my attempt to not hurt him, I fall backward into the chair with my knees tucked up so my feet are off the floor.
He runs to Sierra, who squats down and cuddles him, rubbing her hands up and down his sides gently while she rubs her nose to his.
I have the perfect profile image of them from where I’m sitting, so I snap a couple shots quickly, trying to frame the image just right.
“C’mon, boy,” she says to him like she’s soothing a crying baby, “let’s get you a little treat.” She heads to the kitchen with Winston on her heels and I pull the photo into my favorite editing app.
I know this is a good shot, and I’m going to make it great. Maybe somehow this photo will make her less mad at me. Or maybe it’ll get even more attention than the half-naked photo of me so I can win our little contest without her insisting it’s because of my body rather than my photography skills.
As I make a few tweaks to the photo to curve the light illuminating them, I hear her banging around in the kitchen talking to Winston.
I get up and take a few steps across the living room to peek into the kitchen.
Sierra’s got a spoonful of peanut butter she’s using as an incentive for him to sit.
On my phone, I swipe over to my camera and capture a short video of Sierra getting Winston to sit, then holding out the peanut butter for him to lick off the spoon.
I sneak back to my seat on the couch, where I post the photo and video with the caption Things Winston loves: his foster mom, snuggles, and peanut butter. I add all the hashtags I’ve identified to help the post get noticed, and sit back and wait to see how it does.
As I scan through my email, Sierra comes back to the couch and sits at one end, her knees bent and her feet tucked up beside her with her Kindle in her hand. She pulls a blanket over her lap and Winston jumps up on the couch and curls up on the blanket.
What is this tightness in my chest? This banal domestic scene has me feeling things I’ve never felt.
My feet aren’t itching to get outside and shred through the trees on my snowboard.
I’m not even sure where I’m headed after Aspen because I haven’t bothered to plan it, have even put off making plans when Lance and Drew have pressed me.
I’m not trying to figure out the quickest way to get laid, or the best place to party.
In fact, this weekend is one of the first I can remember where I did neither. And yet . . . I’m content.
And that contentedness scares me. Deep down in my bones I’ve always had an aching need to move, a restlessness that’s never satisfied unless I’m thinking about the next place I’m going to land.
And not feeling that—no matter how temporary this might be—has me wondering what is so great about the constant travel, the never-ending rotation of women and parties, and fresh lines through deep snow at new mountains.
Surely the joy of truly knowing and loving someone, of staying in one place long enough for it to become more than just familiar, that could be as fulfilling as the excitement of constant change, no?
I glance over at Sierra and wonder if this isn’t some sort of crazy mind meld, where her need for consistency and predictability has somehow seeped into my psyche.
Instead of hating the idea of her having taken over my brain, I wonder at the possibility—what would it be like to wake up every day to a woman like Sierra? To have someone to come home to?
She glances up at me, and I don’t look away.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks. “Do I have a big smear of peanut butter on my face or something?” She rubs her cheek with the back of her hand.
“I don’t know.” I shrug, because that’s the most honest response I can give her.
I can’t tell her that I’m sitting over here imagining a future with her.
Aside from the obvious physical attraction, there’s no reason to believe she feels anything more than that for me.
If anything, I have every indication that she doesn’t.
That she’s repulsed by her attraction to me because she still thinks of me like a little brother.
“Well, stop,” she says, setting her Kindle down and picking up her phone. “You’re weirding me out.”
I don’t take my eyes off her, even as she intentionally looks away from me. “Stop it,” she says, with a little laugh following the request.
“My eyes have a mind of their own,” I say. I’m halfway smiling and even though she isn’t looking at me, I think she can hear it in my voice.
She glances up at me, then back down at her phone. She looks like she’s swallowing a smile, but it’s attempting to escape anyway. Then she gasps and looks at me with wide eyes and a half-open mouth.
“What the hell, Beau? You didn’t ask me if you could post these pictures! You didn’t even tell me you took them.”
It takes me a second to figure out what she’s talking about.
“They’re really good pictures.”