I HAVE the overwhelming urge to tell him I love him every time he looks at me, and I don’t know how to make it stop.
I’m scared it’s going to come out by accident and that somehow, I’ll burst this bubble we’re happily floating around in.
I’m sure every new relationship starts with you thinking your partner is perfect, but mine is? He’s attentive and affectionate, he makes me feel valued, and he strives to make me happy. Not in a materialistic or a frivolous way, but in a way where he actively works beside me, hand in hand, to try to make my life better. I don’t imagine there are many men, college men at that, that look at the ugliest parts of you and want you anyway.
The irony is, if I were to say this to him, he’d tell me I didn’t have ugly bits.
But I do, and I feel like they’ve been on display for weeks, constantly thrown in my face as a way to bring me down. Being here with Nathan, miles away from everyone, I feel like I can finally breathe, knowing I’m not going to get blindsided. Part of me wishes we didn’t have to go back to LA at all, but somehow, I think the bubble will probably pop as soon as Nate’s dad—my new archnemesis—gets home.
I can’t imagine growing up somewhere like this; staring at the sprawling estate through the kitchen window with Nate took my breath away. It’s all covered in snow, but even so, you can tell how big it is.
As stunning as it is, everything feels so vacant, and I’d give anything for a baby Nathan picture. Anything.
The ski resort has been in his paternal family for generations, passed from father to son. Nate prefers Nate or Nathan, but his full name is Nathaniel, named after the great-times-something-grandfather who founded the resort.
Nate has no interest in taking over; he hates that it would go to him because he’s a man, arguing why would he want a ski resort when his sister is a skiing prodigy. He grumbled something about fucking the patriarchy and went back to whatever he was doing at the time.
The resort is only fifteen minutes from here, and I can see the tips of the buildings from Nate’s bedroom. Nathan said I’m not allowed to ski while I’m here, since I’ve never done it before. He doesn’t want me to risk hurting myself when I hopefully have a competition next month. He said we can come back in the future, and he’ll take me on the bunny slopes with the little kids.
It felt good hearing him make plans for the future, and I could pretend I don’t know why, but denial is useless at this point. Everything he says makes me melt, and half the time I don’t know how to react, so I kiss him, then things escalate, and before I know it, I’m screaming his name and seeing stars.
Nathan’s dick deserves an honorable mention in the list of his positive attributes. His mouth, too, and his fingers. Have I mentioned his body yet? And his face.
God, I should probably tell him all this and then say I love you and find one of the million rooms in this ginormous house to hide in.
I could hide for at least two days before he finds me. “How willing are you to get dressed?”
I don’t answer him straight away, pretending I’m thinking about it, and that I don’t know the answer is not willing at all.
“It’s not the getting dressed bit. It’s knowing I have to get undressed later.”
“If I promise to undress you later, will you put your clothes on and come somewhere with me?”
I link my pinky with his. “Only because you promised.”
Getting dressed is a lot easier than getting undressed, and within ten minutes Nate is dragging me toward his backyard, skates in hand.
“I can’t believe this is the first time you’ve done this.”
When Nathan said we could skate on the frozen lake in his backyard I assumed he was exaggerating a little, and I’d be skating on a little pond, but I should probably never underestimate him because this is not a little pond.
I can’t work out where it ends, since it branches off into what looks like smaller streams through the trees. Nate taps on his phone until “Clair de Lune” begins to play, and he gives me a smile that makes me dissolve a little. “Dance with me?”
We practice my routine until my body is sore and I can’t see anything but my breath in front of me. There is something different and refreshing about being outdoors while doing it, but something is missing. I rack my brain, trying to put my finger on what it is, then I realize.
Brady. Nobody is shouting at us.
“Wait here,” he says, skating off toward the house again. Reappearing a minute later, he’s holding two hockey sticks and a tiny net. “Let’s put all that rage you have to good use, Allen.”
Finding out I’m terrible at hockey was not what I wanted this holiday season, especially given my company.
I’m not used to being bad at anything—especially on ice.
“Stop pouting,” he teases, burying his head into my neck, his warm mouth a contrast to the bitter wind.
I don’t stop pouting, not even when he let me score against him twice. “You are such a sore loser, Stas.”
“You’re literally a division one hockey player! And you’re fucking huge, you take up the whole goal!” I shout over the sound of his laughter.
He skates out to me and plants his front to my back, reaching around me to grip my hands on the stick, cheek flush against mine. “Practice makes perfect, Anastasia,” he whispers, hitting the puck straight into the back of the net.
Okay, that was hot.
“Let’s go inside, it’ll be dark soon and I can sense that you’re getting hangry.” He pecks a kiss against my temple and takes the stick out of my hand.
“I’m beginning to think you know me really well, Hawkins.” I sigh, spinning to wrap my arms around his waist. “I think I’ll stick to figure skating.”
His cheeks are flushed with the cold, the tip of his nose bright red, eyes glossy. I love seeing him at his childhood home, smiling, teaching me
something he loves.
He reaches down to kiss the top of my woolly hat–covered head. “Of course, I know you really well, Anastasia. You’re my favorite subject.”
 |
NATE INSISTED ON COOKING DINNER, which gave me nothing to do other than sit in front of the fire in my snowman onesie, drinking a fancy wine from the wine cellar.
By the time dinner is over and we’re sitting on the couch in front of Home Alone 2, I’m a little bit tipsy. Tipsy is fine, tipsy is fun, tipsy means that my camera roll is full of candid pictures of Nathan strutting around in his reindeer onesie and I can’t stop giggling.
When I reach drunk, that’s when we’re going to have a problem, because I’m feeling exceptionally mushy, and there is a real risk that drunk Stassie is going to confess all her feelings. The irony that I encourage people to communicate and share, but I can’t tell my own boyfriend I love him, isn’t lost on me.
Nathan brings his beer to his lips, tilting the bottle up slightly, and I watch him like a creep. He must feel my eyes on him because he looks over, eyebrow raised slightly, then goes back to watching the movie. His hair is a little long right now, and he’s got the start of little brown ringlets at the nape of his neck. It’s so cu—
“Why are you staring at me?” he grumbles, tugging me closer.
The proximity to him is more intoxicating than the wine. He smells great. Exceptionally and overwhelmingly great.
“Anastasia?”
I sigh and take a glug of my wine, prolonging the silence. How do I say what’s in my head without sounding obsessed? I’m a bit obsessed, but I can’t let him know that.
“You’re just really fucking pretty, Nathan. It’s super hard to concentrate sometimes, do you know that? Do you understand how difficult it is sometimes to focus on literally anything when you’re around me looking effortlessly beautiful?”
His eyes widen at my confession, and his cheeks blush a little. Oh my God, I think I’ve embarrassed him. I should probably feel more
embarrassed than I do but watching the blood rush to his cheeks and him avoiding eye contact, scratching nervously at his jaw is too good.
“Uh,” he mumbles, threading his fingers through the hand not clinging to my wine glass, bringing the back of it to his lips. “Right back atcha, Allen.”
The movie finishes and he changes the channel to sports highlights, stretching out on the couch until he’s horizontal, holding out his arm for me to curl up beside him. Butterflies flutter around in my stomach as I look down at him, so relaxed and settled. This feels like a sneak peek at my future, cuddling in front of a hockey game, drinking wine in a house surrounded by snow.
“Would you ever want to move back to Colorado?” “Christ, no.”
“Why do you hate your dad so much?” God, I’m unstoppable this evening, what is wrong with me? “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that. I know you’ve told me some stuff, it just feels like there’s more to it.”
His arm reaches out and tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, pausing to cup my cheek. “You can ask me anything, Stas. I’m not sure hate is the right word,” he explains. “My mom was sick for a long time before she died, and he hired all these private nurses to look after her so she was very comfortable, but he hardly saw her. He buried himself in work, Betty made dinner and he’d show up to eat then disappear again. He saw Sasha on the slopes but other than that, it was like he was a ghost.”
I put my hand over his and give it a squeeze. I already know that Nathan’s mom, Mila, died of a rare blood disorder when he was in eighth grade.
“Long story short, he was cheating on his dying wife with a twenty-five-year-old ski instructor from the resort.” I feel sick as I absorb his words, my heart instantly breaking for teenage Nate. “I suspect it’d been going on long before she got sick. Then a few years later, when Robbie had his accident, it was at the resort. His medical bills were astronomical, and the Hamlets are wealthy, with good insurance, but Dad wouldn’t help, even though that’s what the company insurance is for.”
I already knew that Robbie was injured in a skiing accident, but it never occurred to me that it might be here. How do you even navigate that as a teenager?
“He was convinced they were going to sue and bankrupt him; he was acting so strange. He buried his head in the sand over it for weeks until Mr. H had no choice but to get a lawyer involved, which he’d never wanted to do. The Hamlets loved my mom, and they’ve always treated me like a son.”
“That’s so awful,” I whisper, squeezing his hand even tighter.
“I won’t forgive him for those things. I think he feels guilty now, all these years later. I think I’ve already told you Dad owns our house in Maple Hills—he bought it at the end of freshman year. He paid for our garage to be converted into a room for Robbie. Wheelchair-accessible bathroom and all the shit he needs. It was strange, we’d been struggling to find somewhere suitable to live, and suddenly I got a phone call to say he’d bought a house on Maple Avenue, and it’d be renovated in time for sophomore year.”
“I’m sorry, Nathan. That’s…a lot.”
He gives me my favorite smile and pulls me to his warm body, tightening his arms around me and kissing my forehead. “It’s okay, there are people that have it far worse than me. I’m not ignorant enough to think I’m not completely privileged, and it’s the definition of first-world problems. But he’s taught me everything not to do as a dad…so our kids will be fine. Wait no, wait, that didn’t come out right. Oh God.”
Now it’s my turn to blush. He’s stilled beneath me and neither of us is saying anything. What the fuck do you say to that exactly? Wine drunk Stassie is not the person for this conversation because for some reason what’s in my head is not what comes out of my mouth. “I want to adopt.”
He clings to me a bit tighter. “Sounds good to me.”
“I always wanted to anyway but pushing out your big-ass baby would absolutely wreck my vagina. Like, totally destroy it.”
“Noted.”
 |
I’M STILL HALF-ASLEEP when I roll over and reach toward Nathan’s side of the bed, finding a piece of paper instead of him.
Running a top-secret errand, but I won’t be long.
Enjoy snooping.
N
PS I made you a smoothie, it’s in the fridge
I have so many options of things to do I don’t know what to do first. Starting with the smoothie, I stand in my new favorite spot, looking out at the back of the house. It looks like something out of a Christmas card it’s that beautiful. It doesn’t feel like real life.
It takes me all of ten seconds to realize what I want to do. Rushing to find my skates and jacket, I head out of the door toward my new favorite rink.
I’m not even dancing, I’m just enjoying the view, which is when I spot a deer watching me from the woods in the distance. Living in LA for the past few years has sucked after being spoiled by living in Washington my whole life.
The closest thing to wildlife in Maple Hills is frat row.
It walks across the frozen ground, running between the trees, so I skate a little closer. I forgot to ask Nathan where this part of the lake leads to, but it’s straight out of a movie the way the trees are overhanging with tiny frozen drops hanging from each branch.
The deer is still watching me from the trees as I get to the edge of the woods, but then my phone rings and it races off. I pull off my glove and bring the phone to my ear, unimpressed. “Hello?”
“Hey, where are you?” Nate asks. “I just got back, and I can’t find you.”
“I’m trying to make friends with a deer, but your call scared it off,” I grumble, scanning the trees.
“A deer? Where are you?”
“Skating by the edge of the woods. I was going to have a Snow White moment and everything.”
“Anastasia, it isn’t saf—”
But I don’t hear the rest of what he has to say.
Because the ice cracks beneath my feet and the water paralyzes my entire body the second my head goes under.
