Page 42 of The Mountain
Liam stares in disbelief, his mouth opening, then closing again. I step forward, pulse fluttering wildly as I channel every ounce of controlled poise my education drilled into me.
“Sir.” I give him an imperious tilt of my eyebrow. The same one I’ve seen my mother give to anyone unfortunate enough to cross her. Or bring her the wrong order at lunch. Or fail to immediately procure whatever rare and expensive item she required. “If you cannot assist us, we insist upon speaking to your manager.”
I know he understands me because his eyes fly wide, then narrow as he smirks. “Well, guess it’s your lucky day, because you’re speaking to him.” His chest puffs out as he thrusts one thumb at his name badge, the title Manager embossed beneath. “I’m the man in charge here. And I say I’m not unlocking the cabinet.”
Silence falls between us at his declaration. Overhead, the fluorescent lights buzz. Someone’s shoes squeak as they walk down the aisle. A shopping cart rattles.
For a brief moment, I think about arguing. Maybe I could threaten to call the head office, or make some sort of a scene.
The old man must sense it, because his body stiffens, one hand flying to the radio strapped to his waist. “You boys need to move along now. I don’t want any trouble, you hear?”
And then I remember. I remember the many news stories that made their way across, even to my small, privileged school in Switzerland, even to my parent’s house in Paris. In fact, it had been one ofMaman’sfirst points of protest in her long, never-ending litany of why I shouldn’t go to the States to teach skiing.
You’re going to die. You’re going to end up a statistic in that country. How could you do this to me? What did I ever do to deserve this?
I’d told her she was being ridiculous. Now, I’m not so sure. My throat bobs, all words of protest dying on my tongue.
Liam links his fingers with mine in a blatant show of affection, of solidarity, his gray eyes fixed on the old man. “Fine,” he bites out. “Antoine, let’s go.” And then he’s pulling me along, his hand gripping my own so hard it almost hurts, his body vibrating with tension.
He doesn’t release my hand, not even when snowflakes are dancing around us, the shop at our backs, newly formed snow drifts soft beneath our feet. If anyone looks at us in disapproval, I wouldn’t know. Not when we’re the only ones mad enough—or poor enough—to be traversing this stretch of barren road by foot, making our way through the snow-sparkled landscape that separates the new developments from the historic town.
“It’s going to be a powder day tomorrow,” Liam muses when the shop is out of sight. He’s walking in stride with me, our linked hands tucked in the pocket of his coat to keep them warm. “Might see if I can backline and hit the Canyons. Christmas Eve is usually pretty quiet, and it might be our only chance for the next couple weeks. You should come too, if you can get free.”
So, we’re not talking about what happened in the pharmacy. That knowledge has the tension behind my ribs relaxing, and I release a breath. I don’t want to talk about it. In fact, I’d rather not think about it at all.
“That’s a good idea,” I reply, tucking my chin under the collar of my coat to shield my face from the cold. “It’d be nice to havea break.” There’s a note of longing in my voice, and I know the moment the words are out, I’m talking about more than work.
I’d experienced homesickness and culture shock when I’d gone to Oxford. The constant niggling, the off-ness. It was always the little things. Never the cliché things you’d expect, like the food or the weather—though those were horrible, of course. It was words people used and the unwritten social rules and the way I’d always feel like I was a step out of sync with everyone.
Maybe it’s because the distance between here and home is so much farther, but what I feel now is ten times worse. That was an itch, but this… this is an ache. A deep longing for a home that hasn’t really existed since my grandmother passed, a desperate need to belong, to fit.
I look at Liam, at his elegant profile, his chin dipped down as he pushes forward against the wind. I feel that with him, at least. I feel that with Lily and Seth. And even Matty and Eddie, in a way. That clicking together, that settling into place.
“We should see if the others want to come too.” I give Liam a wry smile, but it feels forced, my lips struggling to curve against the cold. “See if we can have another day hiking backcountry together. What did Seth call it? Flat-bonding time or something?”
Liam snickers. “God save us. That guy.” He shakes his head, but there’s no mistaking the fondness sparkling in his eyes. “He’s next level.”
I hum in agreement, warmth coiling in my belly at the thought of Seth. Of his kindness and that raw protective rage simmering beneath the surface. Of his bruised knuckles as he carried plates of food to the table yesterday. Of the way his usually gentlesmile sometimes turns mischievous when I read him the spicier passages from whatever book we’re reading, all while his hands draw little innocent moans from Lily as he rubs her back or her legs.
The sense of homesickness sharpens, pulling like a cord behind my ribs. Only now, home is taking a different shape in my mind, my grandmother’s sun-dappled living room morphing into our dingy condo. I quicken my pace, and Liam lengthens his stride to keep up with me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, an insistentvrrt, vrrt, vrrtthat has me reluctantly releasing his hand and rifling through my layers of clothes to find it. When I see the name flashing across the screen, I nearly drop it in the snow.
Maman.
It’s been weeks since she’s bothered to call me, complaining about the time difference, opting instead to leave me lengthy text messages that I have no doubt she types out on her computer to ensure perfect diction and structure.
It must be the middle of the night there.
I shoot Liam an apologetic grimace, and lift the phone to my ear. “Oui?”
“Antoine. Mon cher.”Maman’svoice is muffled, almost nasally, as if she has a cold. That, and the fact that my mother doesn’t instantly berate me for my poor phone answering manners, has a chill of dread snaking up my spine. “I am sorry, but I have terrible news.”
There’s something so familiar about the gentle tone of her voice, I almost don’t hear her words. That’s how she used to speak tome when I was little, before I went away to school. Back when I was small enough to tuck under her arm and breathe in the smell of her perfume and press my face against her fur coat.
“Your grandfather is dead.”
Chapter 15
