Page 71 of The Mountain
I hope he doesn’t regret it.
My phone rings, a warbling, light tone that sounds like wind chimes. I’d set that tone years ago, when I first got my phone, assigning it to my grandparent’s landline as a nod to the windchimes grandma has rigged up around their house.
I scramble upright, wriggling against arms and legs and blankets in an effort to get to my phone and silence it. Matty snuffles, then rolls onto his back, so close to the edge of the mattress I’m certain he’ll fall out. Liam frowns in his sleep, rolling away from me and into Antoine’s arms instead. I scoot to the foot of the bed, clambering in the darkness for my phone and nearly trip on Eddie’s prone form stretched out among our discarded clothing on the floor in the process.
“Hi, grams,” I whisper, bringing the phone to my ear just as I’m closing the bedroom door behind me.
Flickering golden hues dance along the walls, lighting up the hallway, making me furrow my brow in confusion, then smile when I remember Matty’s Christmas tree, set up in the middle of the living room. I stride toward it, eager to put as much space between me and the sleeping guys.
“Hello? Hello? Is that Lily? This is John Dean speaking.” I grin reflexively at the sound of Grandpa’s voice, at his formal tone, smooth and deep.
And just like that, I’m back, pattering barefooted through my grandparents’ house, in search of toys or snacks or some cousin to play with, the scent of plumeria and fresh rain wafting through clean lattice windows, the Ko‘olau Mountains rising up beyond them, capped in clouds. Grandma calling out to me from the kitchen while Grandpa talks to some client on the phone from his home office.
“Yes,” I choke out. “Hi.”
My voice is thready, a tight whisper catching in my throat. I clutch the phone against my ear, hand trembling, and sink down onto the couch, my gaze fixed unseeingly on the dancing lights of the Christmas tree.
“Well...” There’s a short pause, the faintest clearing of a throat on the other end of the phone. “Merry Christmas.”
I smile, a wide, almost desperate smile pulling at my cheeks. “Merry Christmas, Gramps.”
I pull my phone back to glance at the time, then nearly drop it. 4:43 a.m. It must be one in the morning there.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he continues, almost sounding uncertain. “I wanted to catch you before you left for work…”
I press my lips together, biting back the laughter threatening to burst out. Not because there is anything particularly funny about getting a call well before dawn, but because of the delightful familiarity of it. Because I know Grandpa would have been working late on Christmas Eve, just like he does every other night of the year, holed up in his office surrounded by folders and reports, completely relaxed and happy and refusing to retire. He’d probably sent out the last email for the day, noticed it was one in the morning and thoughtOh, it’s Christmas now. I should give Lily a call.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. Because I can count on one hand the number of times my grandpa has called me. Usually, it’s Grandma who calls, then interrupts him from whatever work he’s doing and reminds him to socialize. “I was up already.”
He chuckles. “You always did get up early on Christmas.”
I give a faint hum of agreement, cheeks heating as I recall exactly how I woke up, limbs and blankets tangled around me, with three of the five guys I’m dating in my bed.
“So how’s the snowboarding going?” Grandpa asks. “You’re training to be an instructor, right? That’s pretty impressive.”
“Um. Yeah, it’s good,” I reply woodenly. I trace the worn fabric of the couch cushion with one finger, a strange mixture of embarrassment and unease coiling in my belly.
The last time I’d seen him, it’d been just before my fight with my parents. I’d bought my plane tickets and signed up for instructor training at the mountain, not realizing that the certificate I’d be getting would only really qualify me to teach here, at this resort. That it wasn’t a real certificate at all.
“I passed the test,” I tell him, infusing as much false brightness into my voice as possible.
I try not to think about the crushing impossibility of getting a real certificate, of following endless winters with the guys I’m falling in love with.
It was easy to believe in impossible things when I’d been wrapped up in their arms and drowning in their kisses. It’s more difficult now, alone in the living room, with Grandpa’s voice in my ear.
“I was teaching groups, but then got bumped up to teach private lessons.” The niggling voice of self-doubt whispers that it isn’t real, that I didn’t earn my place on the private lesson roster, and I mutter: “I think my manager felt bad for me or something.”
Of course, there’s no way I could possibly tell Grandpa what really happened. That my asshole of a roommate had roofiedme, and that my now-boyfriends had rescued me. Maybe if I’d spoken to Grandpa the day after it happened, when my brain was still hazy with the drugs, when the panic of what had almost happened was still pumping fresh through my blood—maybe then I could have told him. After all, hadn’t I called my mom that same day, with every intention of telling her what happened? Maybe even letting her book me a ticket home?
But now? No way. It’s gone, in the past. One of many unpleasant experiences that I’d rather not think about again. I plan on burying that shit deep and forgetting it ever happened.
“Is that right?” There’s a hard edge to Grandpa’s voice that wasn’t there before, like some switch has been flicked in his brain, changing him from the grandfather who would patiently play chess with a five-year-old for hours, to the shrewd, softspoken businessman whom I’d seen gently silence judges and politicians alike. I can practically see him, elbows on his desk, bushy eyebrows furrowing over a gaze so sharp it could cut glass. “And why would that be?”
I swallow.Oh shoot.
“Lily Dean.”
“I… um… well…” I trail off, words feeling thick on my tongue as my mind races to come up with some believable story, some little white lie. But it’s not even five in the morning, and I’m running on a handful hours of sleep. Whatever part of my brain is responsible for imagination fizzes like the radio of my old car, finding nothing but static no matter how much I turn the dial.
