Page 1 of Avalanche (Endless Winter #3)

Seth

“You smell like my dad.”

The small ski boot I’m holding clatters to the floor of the rental shop, drawing a few amused looks from my coworkers.

“I—I’m sorry, what?” I give the kid a confused look before stooping to retrieve the boot with shaking hands.

I need to eat. Drink some water, probably. Something to flush the bourbon and cola I can still feel floating in my veins.

“Kevin,” the boy’s mother hisses, her face flaming red above a knit scarf. “That’s rude.”

The boy stares up at her with wide eyes.

He reminds me of my little brother in that moment, even though I’m sure his mom would hate any comparison of her precious child to someone like that.

A kid with downs. Still, the thought has my chest aching uncomfortably, a twinge of guilt twisting low in my stomach.

It’s been too long since I called home.

“What?” the boy argues, with all the defiance of a seven-year-old who knows he’s right. “He does. He smells like dad used to smell.”

The woman makes a choked sound in her throat, shooting me a horrified look before mumbling out something that sounds like an apology. I give her what I hope is an understanding smile before dropping to one knee so the kid can try on his ski boot.

“Try this one, buddy,” I tell him coaxingly. The words sound raspy in my throat but I shoot the kid a smile anyway. “It’s a size up. Should fit you better than the last pair.”

The kid’s expression twists as he steps into the boot, thick socks pulled up nearly to his knees. After a moment of struggling, his foot finally slips into the ski boot with a thunk, but the pinched look on his face remains.

“How does it feel?” I ask him. “Is it still too tight?”

His lips press together, his chin tucking in as if he’s pulling the words he wants to say back in.

“Kevin,” his mother urges, bringing herself to his level. “You need to answer the nice man.”

There’s something brittle in her voice now though, in the tense way she’s holding herself. As if she’s made of the thin ice that coats the puddles in the parking lot, ready to fracture at the slightest pressure.

“They… they’re still too tight,” the kid warbles.

He’s staring intently at the floor as if determined to avoid my gaze. Maybe that’s why I don’t notice it at first. Not until his lower lip trembles and something wet and snot-like drips down his chin.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffles.

“Hey. Hey.” I wrap my hands around his booted foot, working to unlatch the buckles, helping him pull it free. “That’s okay, buddy. Nothing to be sorry about.” This time, my grin feels heavy. Stretched. Like the layers of snow ready to tumble into an avalanche. “We’ll try a bigger one.”

“You’re not mad?” The kid looks up at me, eyes shining and wet. “You’re not gonna go off on me?” That face twists again, a scowl of blotchy red and freckles. “Dad always did when he smelled like that. Mom said to make sure I watched my tone so I wouldn’t piss him off.”

It takes a moment before the kid’s words sink into the fog that’s been surrounding my brain since I got to work this morning.

Or, if I’m being honest with myself, for the past two weeks.

Ever since the bourbon and cola I’ve been mixing for myself each evening got stronger and stronger.

Since one glass turned to three. Since I started losing count.

I reel back, the boot clutched against my chest as I rise to stand so fast it has my head spinning.

“Kevin!” the boy’s mother squeaks. But she seems to be just as much at a loss for words as I am.

“I’ll… I’ll just go get the other boots,” I mumble pointlessly, sweeping the second boot from where I’d left it on the counter. “Just be a moment. Sorry.”

My heart is racing by the time I reach the stock room, thundering with an almost sickening rhythm that has my vision whiting out.

I dart a quick look around to make sure I’m alone, then give my armpit a surreptitious sniff.

Stale sweat mixed with deodorant fills my nostrils, alongside the sickly-sweet smell of alcohol.

I swallow, feeling suddenly queasy as I lean forward to brace my forearm on the nearest shelf.

The boots above me rattle in warning at the sudden weight.

“Fuck.” The curse comes out on a dry breath. One that probably smells like bourbon and cola. Or would, if I wasn’t so used to it. “Fuck,” I say again, and this time its louder, heavy with self-loathing and frustration.

“Hey, Seth. You okay in there?” Grant, the new guy we hired to replace Tom, calls out from the open doorway. “Need me to help find anything?”

I take in a shuddering breath. As if that will be enough to drive down the stench of my failure. Push down that constant welling up of unwelcome emotions. I shove the too-small boots on the shelf—probably in the wrong spot—then grab the next size up. “Nah. I’m good, man. Thanks.”

I plaster on another smile as I walk past him, ignoring his look of concern, the ski boots clutched in my hands like some apologetic offering.

They’re new season ones, the type that we normally ask people to pay an upgrade for.

It’s not much, but it’s the least I can do for this kid.

It’s the one thing I can make right, even if I’ve done everything else wrong today.

I brush past the front counter, nearly knocking my hip against the corner as I hurry to get back to the floor. To that freckled-face kid and his embarrassed mom.

“I’ve got your boots,” I announce cheerily, glancing down at the trophy in my arms. They’re red and blue and shiny, exactly what a kid his age will like.

At least, it’s what I would have liked when I was his age if my parents had thought to take me up the mountain skiing.

“These ones are going to be epic, I promise.”

Silence answers. The heater hums.

The kid and his mom are gone.

I’m the first one back to the condo at the end of the day.

Just like yesterday, and all the yesterdays in the past two weeks.

At first, I’d enjoyed it—having a couple hours to myself, taking a long shower, getting dinner ready for everyone.

But I’ve never really been good with silence, with being alone.

And after a few days, my brain started to fill the silence with the noise of my own worries.

My self-doubts. Looking over everything beautiful until I could see the cracks.

My phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. I glance over to it from where I’m chopping vegetables but don’t bother to pick it up.

Mom: What are you up to? I know work has been busy, but the kids would love a call from you. FaceTime soon?

I rub my forehead against my arm, then gather up the vegetables with damp hands and toss them into the steamer. The guys will start coming home soon, so I want to have dinner prepped at least. Take some of the load off them.

And Lily.

I rub at my chest and look expectantly at the closed front door. As if I expect Lily to come in any moment, Matty holding the door open for her, Eddie close on her heels and talking a mile a minute. Antoine and Liam behind them, sharing secret smiles.

The door stares back at me, chipped yellowing wood under dim lights. The refrigerator hums.

I swallow, mouth suddenly dry. I could pour myself one. Just one. To help me pass the time while I wait for them to come home. To silence the chatter of doubts rattling in my brain.

They don’t need you. There is nothing you can give them that they don’t already give each other.

Who would want a relationship with someone like you — someone who doesn’t even want to fuck them?

This isn’t going to last. And you can’t go to New Zealand, what would your family say?

Who will help look after the twins when they’re home for summer break?

You should just let them go. They’d be better off without you anyway.

My phone vibrates again, the sound sending a frisson of something ugly coursing beneath my skin. Irritation. Resentment. The hint of that dark anger that always seems to lurk beneath the surface, like some primordial creature at the bottom of a lake, ready to rise at the barest provocation.

Like it did that night with Tom.

I swipe my phone off the counter, planning to turn it off, put it on silent. Maybe toss it through the ever-growing wall of beer cans on the island that separates the kitchen from the living room.

Mom: I’d love to talk to you too. Hear about what you’ve been doing. I miss you.

My throat constricts, fingers tightening around the phone.

When I was a kid, that’s all I wanted. Someone to talk to.

Someone who would listen. I was one of those kids who would follow my teacher around, rambling about whatever topic I was interested in at warp speed, asking questions until the polite answers became terse and I was eventually told to go away.

Give me a moment of your time, a listening ear, and I was your best friend forever.

Mom didn’t have time for that. Not after the twins were born. Before that, though…

I squeeze my eyes shut as memories flood over me, more drugging than any amount of bourbon.

Mom’s arms wrapped around me as she pressed a kiss to the top of my head.

My hand tucked in hers as we’d walked through some shops.

The curve of her smile as she’d pulled blankets up to my chin and told me goodnight.

The warmth of her as I’d curled up beside her on the couch reading on a snowy Sunday morning.

She had seemed so big then, like she could hold the whole world in her hands. Like I could bring her any of my problems and she could carry those too.

In the end, she couldn’t even hold herself. Couldn’t hold the twins to feed them. Couldn’t hold the weight of her own grief. Certainly couldn’t bear the weight of my insignificant problems.

In the end, I’d learned my own strength about the same time I discovered mom’s weakness.