Page 6

CHAPTER FIVE

paige

I can’t really be a pairs skater without a partner, can I?

Why did I tell him that? Why did I even answer?

The answer is as simple as it is complicated—because he’s Nate.

No matter what’s happened between us, he will always be the person who knows me better than anyone. Better than Kylie. Better than my brother.

Nate has a piece of me no one else will ever have. A bond forged over years of blood and sweat and tears and love. Of laughter and fears and celebrations and insecurities.

I haven’t even told Austin about the retirement comment, or how I can’t stop thinking I should. I’ve had an abysmal last two years of skating. Sportscasters and fans alike all agree I’m not a strong enough skater without Nate.

They keep asking: if I don’t have him, what’s the point?

The point is I love this sport like I love breathing. I need it like I need to eat. It’s essential to my very life.

Just like trust, which I don’t give easily.

Blame it on my parents for not choosing me over themselves, but I have a really hard time letting people in. Almost everyone in my life, I keep at arm’s length.

The only people outside of Austin I’ve ever let in fully have been Kylie and Nate.

They chose me. They wanted me.

Until Nate didn’t.

I can’t skate with him again.

We can’t go back. That bridge has been burned with the remains scattered in the wind.

But he wants to. I saw it painted loudly across his face.

And before he was able to give a voice to those desires, I did what any emotionally unstable twentysomething with avoidant tendencies would do.

I ran.

Knowing even as I did, the matter is far from settled. Once Nate gets an idea in his head, he becomes an even more annoying version of himself.

Yay me.

So while I know it’s only a matter of time before I run into him again, I push what happened this morning as far from my mind as possible.

Not just our conversation, but also the way it felt to have our bodies pressed together. His intensely dark eyes barreling into mine, sweeping over my face like he was trying to memorize every inch of my skin. Like he couldn’t get enough…

Ugh. No. We are not thinking about this. Get it together, brain!

I adjust the godawful hat Kylie has somehow conned me into wearing, ignoring the way my body practically catches fire at merely the memory.

I’m not attracted to Nate Ford. I’m not.

It’s just the beard. Somehow, a layer of facial hair has tricked my mind into thinking he’s a completely different person. Instead of my rival in disguise.

Didn’t feel like much of a rivalry today.

Good fucking lord, why won’t this hat stay still? I start to rip it off my head when Kylie stops me.

“Wait, wait. One more. I’m going to send this one to Austin.” Kylie holds up her phone as we walk, pausing every few feet to take pictures along Sugar Peak’s festively decorated Main Street, our bodies bundled from the cold.

Me in a pair of non-athletic, fleece-lined leggings, knee-high boots, and a black sweater under my winter coat. And Kylie, the far more stylish of the two of us, is wearing a bright red sweater dress with a black belt cinched around the waist. Tights and thigh-high boots that fold over at the top cover her legs, and she completes the outfit with a matching red Santa hat.

She looks like a sultry Mrs. Claus, and I’m her unstylish, sleep-deprived friend. But don’t worry, Kylie made sure to slip a purple Santa hat onto my head before we left the resort to match her holiday spirit. Stating that the color is to make my coal-heavy heart less offended.

“Ooo, pose here.” She directs me to a free-standing mailbox that is decorated to look like a gingerbread house. “Drape your body over it and give me your biggest smile.”

I barely feel my lips move, but Kylie doesn’t comment on it, and I’m forever thankful to have her as a friend. I know I haven’t been the most enthusiastic person to have on this trip, but she hasn’t complained about my more reserved attitude.

“Oh, it’s so cute.” She’s probably lying, but I love her for it. Her thumbs fly over the screen, sending the picture off to my brother, before she locks it, shoving the phone back into her oversized coat. “Okay, we’re almost there. Come on.”

By some miracle, we’ve almost completed every item on Kylie’s itinerary for the day. A feat not for the weak, and one I would definitely celebrate, if not for the fact the only thing left is the very thing I’ve been trying to ignore.

A trip to Dirty Dick’s. Whatever that is.

Kylie leads us down the street, past the cute little shops with their windows all decorated for Christmas. I even spot two done up for Hanukkah and one for Kwanzaa.

We don’t stop in any of them, and instead she leads us further down, to a place where the red and white tinsel-wrapped street lights end and a dingy, worn-down building remains.

We’re not in the Christmas village anymore.

“Please tell me you didn’t bring me to a murder den because of my slightly depressing mood.”

“Don’t be silly,” Kylie laughs. “I’ve had so much fun with you today. You’re not as sullen as you think.”

Again, I love her.

Maybe.

I might revoke that as she pulls me through the warped door. And into…

Oh my god.

Turns out, Dirty Dick’s is not a weird Canadian delicacy or holiday-themed swingers’ party. It’s something else entirely.

“Isn’t this place amazing?” My best friend is beaming like she just found a golden ticket stuffed inside a chocolate bar.

I’m not sure I’m doing a good job keeping the disgust off my face. The muscles feel scrunched, and it’s deep frowning, at best.

But it’s hard to even fake excitement with this smell.

One thing I wish everyone knew about Kylie isn’t that she has almost four million followers, or that she has a fondness for really expensive handbags and vintage shoes, or that her boyfriend is the definition of a green flag.

No, all of that is boring.

This is something Kylie would never show on any of her social media, but it’s probably the thing she loves to do the most, and I can’t believe I actually forgot until this moment.

Kylie loves a dive bar.

But I’m not even sure she brought us to that. This place looks several rungs below a dive bar.

Kylie’s mom used to joke about dropping her as a baby and it’s only now that I’m realizing we probably should’ve gotten her head checked.

Because there are a lot of ways for me to describe this place and none of them are amazing.

“It’s…um.” How do I put this nicely? “I hope you’re updated on all your shots.”

If there is ever a place to catch some kind of venereal disease…it’s here.

Maybe that’s why the place is called Dirty Dick’s.

Kylie laughs like I’m a headlining comedian, slapping me across the shoulder as she shimmies out of her coat, hanging it on the rack by the door. Begrudgingly, I follow suit, making sure to place my coat over hers as a barrier to any germs.

“I’m so excited!” Kylie’s practically bouncing. “Do you think they can make me a gingerbread martini like they had at the spa?”

“I think you have a better chance asking for a glass that doesn’t have some kind of stain on it.” I look around the space. They’re not making anything that isn’t in the name of the drink. “And even then, the results aren’t promising.”

Dirty Dick’s certainly lives up to its name of being…well, dirty. We haven’t even been here for two minutes and I already know my feet are stuck to the floor. The moment I try to move, I’m sure they’ll make a wet, suctioning sound that already sends a shiver up my spine.

I don’t even want to know what my shoes are touching to make the floor feel this way. Booze and bad decisions can only make up a small percentage.

I don’t need to know the rest. There is a beauty in mystery.

But if I do drop something, anything tonight, including my passport, I will not be picking it up and instead will resort to causing an international incident to get home.

So while cleanliness is not a high priority of this place, at least it’s nailing its marketing. A+ on that front.

Aside from the grime-infected shoes that will no longer be making it home with me, the place has extremely low lighting—probably to hide most of the filth—high top tables with mismatched stools throughout, and dark stained wood walls that are decorated with a menagerie of neon beer signs and metal vintage car logos.

A few dart boards are on them as well, and an old-school jukebox sits against the far back wall.

“Silver Springs” by Fleetwood Mac is playing, and I feel my shoulders start to move in rhythm. Thankful for the sounds of classic rock, giving my ears a break from all the Christmas music that’s been playing at all businesses in town.

So maybe a point in the plus column for Dirty Dick’s?

Though this isn’t my typical music choice, musicality is so deeply ingrained in my bones, I can get lost in almost anything. Including Skrillex’s infamous “Bangarang.”

I’m about to ask Kylie if she thinks they have it on their song selection, already giggling at all signs pointing to no, when she does something so horrifying, so concerning, I don’t even have words as my jaw becomes unhinged, watching my best friend of eighteen years take a long, deep inhale.

Breathing in the stench.

Oh my god.

It’s official. We’re not leaving here without some kind of infection or illness.

How is she not gagging? I’m trying to barely breathe and it’s a struggle.

The smell of stale smoke and piss and bile and regrets are not a pleasant combo.

But not only is she not immediately doubling over retching, her impossibly wide grin gets bigger. “I’m so excited we found this place.”

“Oh no.” I wave her off, swallowing a gag. “This is all on you. Please, don’t feel obligated to give me any credit in this. All the glory belongs to you.”

Her smile dims, not with sadness but concern. For me. “You’re having fun, though, right?”

So much for not being as sullen as I think.

“Yes.” I’m not going to ruin this night for her. “But I’m not going to lie. All I’m thinking about right now is face-planting onto the hotel bed after a very thorough shower.”

Where I will have to scrub several layers of skin off to feel clean after we leave here.

“I know it’s been kind of a long day, but just a few drinks and then we can go.” She hooks her arm through mine and tugs me away from where we’re lingering near the doorway.

I don’t know if it’s because she’s afraid I’ll bolt out the door to run back to our hotel room and my hedgehog, who is way too happy to be left alone, or because she really needed to put her back into unsticking my shoes.

“I overheard the employees talking about coordinating some kind of indoor games tomorrow for the residents since there’s supposed to be more snowfall than they expected. They’re talking about closing the slopes, too, and I just wanted to see the town a little bit before we might not get the chance since we’re leaving the day after tomorrow. We can go, though, if you want.”

“I’m fine.” I’m exhausted.

But, despite my early bird nature, I do know how to rally. I’m twenty-four, not eighty-four. More than capable of staying up past my bedtime.

Especially if it means sneaking in a few extra hours with my best friend before I fly to Colorado to meet my brother and niece for Christmas, then to his hockey game two days later.

While the holiday has never been a thing for me and Austin, ever since Clover was born five years ago, we’ve tried to make it everything we didn’t get to have.

We bake cookies, leave out milk for Santa and carrots for the reindeer, get a tree that we decorate with sentimental ornaments and pile presents underneath. All for Clover, because even though we both have money now, Austin and I still don’t exchange presents.

Our one rule we’ve carried with us into our new traditions. We do, however, give each other a paperback we’ve already read and annotated for the other to read.

My least favorite holiday is a little better with a kid in the family and getting to see it from her eyes. All the magic we’ve been able to create for her.

Makes me hate my parents a little more each year, though. That they never did it for me and Austin.

“Oh, look, they’ve even decorated for Christmas,” Kylie says, pulling me out of my thoughts in the worst kind of way.

The music gave me a false sense of security.

I tug on her arm. “Noo, I’m Christmased out for the day.” The hat is my maxing point.

“Oh, my beautiful little scrooge, I think you’ll like this one.” She points to the bar and the lone red stocking sitting on top of it. Not hanging off like it’s some kind of mantel. But on. Held up by the neck of a dark elongated square bottle of alcohol.

I squint at the label, but we are too far away and the place is too poorly lit to really make out the brand. But what isn’t hard to make out is the green paint that spells out TIPS along the white trimming.

“Okay, we can stay.” Color scheme aside, I love it. That’s my kind of Christmas decoration. If only because it’s so pathetically sad, it’s funny. And that’s how my holiday has always gone.

Have I hit a new low if I feel kinship with a tip jar that can’t even be supported without a bottle of whiskey? And is technically a commercialized, impractical sock?

Probably. But I’ll just have a few drinks to forget. I think I’m finally getting the hang of this vacation thing.

Although, anyone would be after a Kylie Carlisle one-day intensive.

I’m a fool for doubting we wouldn’t be able to complete everything on it. From swimming in the steaming infinity pool, to fat tire biking on a snowy trail, taking a scenic gondola ride through the mountains, and participating in a gingerbread-making contest that was for children, and dining at the resort’s Brazilian steakhouse once again for dinner—we knew after eating there last night we’d be immediately returning—I feel like I’ve had a week’s worth of activities in only twelve hours.

I don’t know how Kylie seems to have even more energy than she did this morning, practically bouncing as she leads me to the bar. But Kylie is a rare beast that often intimidates me in social settings.

She’s an extrovert. This kind of stuff feeds her, while draining me.

But not tonight. I’m rallying, remember?

We finally make it to the bar, where Kylie immediately catches a bartender’s attention with one of her easy-going smiles.

He holds up one finger, signaling he’ll be right over after he finishes opening the beers in front of him.

The jukebox switches over to “Take It Easy” by the Eagles, and once again I start vibing to the beat as Kylie gets sucked into a conversation with the person to the right of her. Thank god it’s her and not me. Small talk with strangers is one of my worst nightmares.

Maybe I should watch Kylie and learn. But before the lesson can begin, I feel the bartender lean across the bar. His brown hair is a little too shaggy to be stylish, and he gives me an easy, if not slightly full of himself, smile. “What can I get you, beautiful? First round is on the house.”

“Tone it down, Casanova. This redhead is mine. Go get your own.”