38. Kayla

Chapter 38

Kayla

Eleven Winters Ago / Age Seventeen

Ryan sits on the lip of a snowbank, rummaging in his backpack for the chocolate spread sandwiches he made before leaving his house this morning. Once I’ve jammed my skis and poles into the snow, I drop my helmet next to his and sit behind him.

The back of his jacket is warm from the midday sun, and I rest my cheek against it, then pull at his collar so I can kiss the skin at the nape of his neck. He hums and a shudder rolls down his spine.

“Here’s your sandwich,” he says, passing it back over his shoulder. I take it, then rub my nose against the back of his head and inhale deeply.

“Did you just sniff me?”

“I really like your hair gel,” I tell him, raking my fingers through the tufts his helmet has ruffled up. I still can’t believe I get to touch him like this, though my spidey senses are on alert in case one of our parents skis past our chosen picnic spot.

“That’s weird.”

“No, what’s weird is opening pots of it in the supermarket back home so I can remember what you smell like.”

“You are such a freak,” he teases, grabbing my thighs and pulling them tighter around his waist.

I yelp and throw my body back into the snow. “Careful! You’ll tip us over the edge. I’m not ready to die. ”

“At least we’d die happy,” he says, leaning back so his head rests on my stomach.

In these stolen pockets of time, my thoughts run away with me. “I wish we could live here all the time.”

He makes a satisfied humming noise. “What would we do?”

“I’d like to teach skiing, I think. Maybe guided touring.”

“You’d be so good at that, but what about summer?”

“Bikes. Walking. Swimming in the lakes. Beers. Barbecues. Suntans.”

“Sounds like a pretty good life to me,” he says, rolling over and pressing himself up to kiss me.

Four days later, I’m back home in Edinburgh, sobbing my way through unpacking. When I pull my half-zip fleece out of my suitcase, something falls to the floor and rolls under the bed. I drop to my knees and scramble about for it, but I know what it is as soon as my palm wraps around the hard plastic container.

Twisting open the cap, more tears come when I press my nose to it. It smells like green apples, mountain air, and Ryan’s hair.