Page 32 of Boyfriend
I need to cool the fuck down.
Eleven
Merry Christmas, Abbi
Abbi
“Okay, Abbi. Now we’re going to put these boots into the bindings.”
We’re standing outside in the snow together. It’s a crisp, sunny day, and I’m decked out in borrowed cross-country ski gear. Weston had asked me if I wanted to try it. In a moment of foolish bravery, I said yes.
This could go poorly. But what does it matter, right? There’s nobody around to see me fall.
Except for the hottest guy at Moo U.
He kneels down in the snow. We’re wearing matching LL Bean snow pants from the Griggs family stash. “Put your toe right here.” Weston lifts one of my boots in gentle hands and guides it onto a cross-country ski.
But naturally, I begin to wobble. And my choices are to either grab Weston’s head or fall over in the snow.
I choose Weston’s head. He chuckles as I put him in some kind of new wrestling hold in order to remain vertical. But he carries on, setting my other foot into the other ski, while I cling to him like a doofus.
“You said this was easy,” I accuse, finally letting go of his head. I can’t help but notice how soft his hair is. I want to sift my fingers through it.
He stands up and smiles at me. “It is easy. Just stand there a second while I put my skis on.”
“Easy for you to say. I’m regretting all my life choices right now.”
Weston had asked me whether I wanted to ice skate—which I can do, but not as well as he can—or try cross country. Foolishly, I picked this. And now there are slidey boards stuck to the bottom of my feet.
“Almost there,” he says, stepping effortlessly into his own skis. Then he hands me a set of poles with straps on them. “Put your whole wrist through that loop—upward—and then grab the pole.”
“Got it. Thanks. If I fall down and break something, we can use these to drag my body back to the house.”
Weston cracks up. “C’mon, Abbi. You got this. We’re just going to shuffle forward. The track is just over there.” He points with a pole toward the trees. “Follow me.” Then he scoots off in that direction.
I try to mimic his stride, with each pole alternating sides with my skis. And it’s…doable, I guess. I’m shuffling along behind him with tiny little strides, taking care not to fall down.
When we reach the tree line, I see the track. It’s a flattened path in the snow. And off to the side there’s a set of two grooves through the snow, side by side. “Is that where we put our skis?”
“Yup,” he says. “You don’t even have to steer. Let the track do the work. Go on. Try it.”
Gingerly, I slide in, one awkward ski at a time. When Weston leads me forward again, though, it’s definitely easier. I scoot each ski forward in a rhythm, poling with my hands to propel me along.
“Yesssss!” he shouts. “That’s it!”
I move forward on the perfect white snow, pine trees on either side of me. There’s a brilliant blue sky overhead. “Okay, this is almost fun.”
“Almost?” he snickers.
“Well, I’m slow,” I admit. “I could probably walk faster than I’m skiing right now.”
“With all of five minutes’ experience, I really would have expected better from you.”
“I know, right?”
He leaves the track and glides up next to me on the path. “Do me a favor and try to ski like a gorilla.”
Still striding, I throw him a quick glance. “Why? So you can blackmail me with the pictures later?”
