It’s the thing I hate in equal measure.
“She is gorgeous, isn’t she?” Fitz says longingly.
Not actually my point. I allow myself an eye roll, thankful to the dark sky for hiding it. “What was the final straw? The height, the rain, or the unfortunate combination of both?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He lifts his head and fiddles with the band on his activity tracker. The school baseball coach makes all the players wear them, even in the off-season.
“Since when?” I ask, thrown by his departure from our usual script. This is the part where he relays every last word and brutal text, describing in heart-wrenching detail how her tears rolled down her cheeks while she yelled at him or kissed him or whatever it is that happens during a breakup.
Fitz looks up at me from under his lashes and my breath catches in my throat. Why does my breath still catch? Like one of those girls in one of his movies. When will my brain accept the fact that I’m not the heroine in Fitz’s love story? His expression shifts from mopey to serious, his blue eyes trained on mine. Even after all this time, one look from him can make my stomach falter and my mouth dry. And suddenly I want to burn the letter in my pocket, the one that highlights all the reasons why we can’t be friends anymore. It’s messy and vulnerable and written in excruciating detail, and it boils down to this: I hate how much I love him. For the first time all evening, I’m certain I won’t give him the letter, because I don’t want to live in a world where he doesn’t look at me like this.
“Wanna see something cool?” he asks, turning his attention to his phone. His bad mood vanishes and the weird tension between us breaks. He opens his weather app and pulls up the forecast for Williams, Arizona, a tiny mountain town near Arizona’s northern border where Fitz’s family owns a cabin. Snowflake icons begin the day after Christmas and continue for the rest of the week.
“Are you trying to kill me?” I moan enviously. As a born-and-raised Gilbert kid, snow is nothing more than a fairy tale. Only as real as the stories Fitz tells me.
“I know it’s a few days early, but merry Christmas.”
“Excuse me?”
“This is your present.” He gestures to the screen.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s about time I made good on my promise.” His eyes search mine, looking for the answer to a question he hasn’t asked. I’m transported back to a night two years ago. My face flushes hot, despite the chill nipping at my cheeks. I wonder if he’s thinking about it too.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s not Venice, but—”
“Who needs Venice?” I grip the railing in front of us with both hands to stop myself from throwing my arms around him. Hugging Fitz is a clear violation of my rules.
My rules for touching are as follows. It is only acceptable when it is:
accidental (bumping my knee against his when we’re watching a movie)
helpful (brushing a bug from his hair)
or necessary (swatting his shoulder when he’s being annoying).
Maybe I should add another category for spontaneous, cannot-be-helped touching. How many categories is too many?
“You do,” Fitz says, bringing my attention back to our conversation. “You need Venice and Florence and Milan and Rome. And that’s just one country.”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” I laugh, giddy at the thought of spending winter break with him and his family.
“I can’t give you those places, but I can show you a snow-covered town at the mouth of the Grand Canyon. You in?” He rubs his hand on the back of his neck, a dead giveaway that he’s nervous. As if I’d say no.
“Of course! I don’t expect you to give me all of Europe.” I laugh again, because how ridiculous would I have to be to turn my nose up at his cabin because it’s not nestled in the Swiss Alps?
Fitz knows as well as anyone how deep my wanderlust runs. When I lie in bed at night, surrounded by pictures ripped out of travel magazines, I imagine future lives as a ranch hand in Montana and a sheepherder in Ireland and a churro maker in Spain. I don’t know if I love sheep or even churros, but nothing summons a panic attack faster than the realization that if I’m extremely lucky, I’ll get one of those imagined futures.
One.
I’m paralyzed by the fact that walking through one door essentially means slamming shut fifty or a hundred or a million other ones.
“When do you leave?” I ask.
“Tonight. The truck’s packed and ready. I’ll pick you up early the day after Christmas; we’ll turn around and be back before the snow hits.”
“Snow!” I shake my head, still in disbelief. “Do I need special clothes so I don’t freeze to death?”
“My sisters have plenty that you can borrow.”
“As long as my mom says yes, which you know she will, I guess I’ll see you in a few days.” I get to my feet, unable to suppress my grin. I’ve been dying to go to Fitz’s cabin for ages, and he’s invited me up a few times during the summer, but the timing never worked out. Until now.
“What’s that?” Fitz plucks the letter out of my back pocket, raising an eyebrow at his name scrawled across the envelope.
“Hey!” I lunge for it, my feet slipping on the damp aluminum. My arms scramble through the air, my fingers slipping off the metal railing.
“Whoa!” He grabs me by the waist, steadying me. “Are you okay?”
I nod, too shaky and breathless to say anything.
“Holy shit. I thought you were gonna fall.” He tilts his wrist so we can both see how high his heart rate has spiked.
“So did I.”
He slowly removes a hand from my waist and gently presses two fingers to my neck, tracking my pulse. I nearly stop breathing. A lazy smile spreads across his face. “Damn. You were scared.”
“Mm-hmm,” I agree, secretly thinking that the feel of his warm fingers on my cold skin is having more of an impact than the near fall. His hand drops, and he releases my waist.
We both look over the edge, taking in the fifty-foot drop.
Get out of the car or stay in the car?
Climb or don’t climb?
Tell him or don’t tell him?
This is what I mean about decisions. I could be smashed against wet cement at this exact second, and it’s impossible to untangle the reason why. Is it because Molly dumped Fitz? Because I drove out here to either break off our friendship or cheer him up? Because I climbed this tower?
When bad things happen, I want to know where to put the blame. I hate the swampy maze of endless regret that comes with wondering.
“So.” I take a shaky breath, steeling myself for the trek down the ladder. “I’ll see you after Christmas?”
“Unless you bail on me again,” he says softly. Surprised, I meet his eyes. We don’t ever talk about that night, and I’m not sure what to say. “Never mind.” He shakes his head. “See you after Christmas.”
I’m sorry. I messed up. I regret it.
I could say any of those things, and mean it. But I’m dealing with a racing heart, shaky hands, and only a fraction of the bravery I’d need to say the words out loud.
My mind spins as I retrace my steps backward: down the ladder, past the warmly glowing twinkle lights, and into my car. I think about decisions and paralysis and regret the whole way home, and it’s not until I pull into my driveway that I realize tonight’s tragedy will not be almost falling off the water tower.