Page 4 of Remembering You
My foot cut through the pile of snow and I fell knee deep into the snowbank letting out a surprised yelp. Ice and snow coated my socks and Famalore shoes and a chill permeated all of my layers, zipping up my legs. “Oh, God!” I cried, yanking my leg free of the snow. Only, in pulling myself free, the heavy bags over my shoulders threw off my equilibrium and I stumbled to the right, falling down onto the other side of the snowbank.
My wavy, waist-long hair whipped across my face, a sheet of blond that blurred everything else in my vision. The world around me slowed as I felt myself going down. My shoulder hit first, the impact against the snow surprisingly hard and not soft like I’d expected. More like falling onto a giant pile of ice cubes. Hard. Cold. And jagged.
Groaning, I stayed there an extra second, taking inventory of my body. It didn’t feel like anything was broken. One by one, I wiggled each toe and each finger. Next, I rolled my wrists and as I went to wiggle my ankles, a sharp pain pierced up my calf.
“You okay?” a deep voice said from above me.
I answered by groaning again. “Oh, sure. I just decided it was the perfect time to make a snow angel.”
The voice chuckled, but despite the laugh, it had an edge of concern to it. “Here, let me help you.”
“Help me make a snow angel? Pretty sure that’s a one-person job.”
Two strong hands wrapped around my arms and hauled me to my feet. I pushed my now ice-covered hair behind my ears and looked up to thank the man. Breath punched from my lungs past my lips in a hurried breath and a painful cramp bunched in my legs as my muscles seized.
Words strangled in my throat. Tall. Wow, was he tall. Broad with a muscled chest and shoulders that were defined even through his canvas coat. His dark hair contrasted his startlingly, fair blue eyes. When he smiled, a row of white teeth were perfectly straight. He looked like he was straight out of… of… an LL Bean catalogue or something. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m… fine,” I said, managing to find my voice. “A little wet, but I’ll survive.” I went to take a step, but hissed through my clenched teeth. As soon as I put weight on my ankle, pain resonated up my leg.
For the second time in a one-minute window, the man caught me around the waist. His heated touch burned through my layers of clothing and my body gave a little shiver of excitement despite the pain radiating in my leg. “You don’t seem fine. Maybe we should take a look at that ankle. Get some ice on it.”
“I thinkicewas the problem. Not the solution.”
His smirk widened. “I think the real problem is you chose fashionable shoes over practical ones,” he said, gesturing to my beautiful Famalore boots.
“You’re too young to be such a square,” I sighed and rolled my eyes. He wasn’t wrong about my boots. Logically, I knew that. But I wasn’t ready to admit it just yet. Looking down at my leg, I bent, trying to brush the snow off my saturated denim pant leg and I gasped as I caught a glimpse of my vision board submerged in the snow. “No,” I cried and reached for it, brushing some icy particles off the edges.
“Doesn’t look like it got too wet,” he said, taking the poster board from me and examining the rolled-up paper.
His gaze shifted from my vision board to my bags, abandoned in the snowbank and leaned down, retrieving both. Effortlessly, he slung them over his broad shoulder. “You’re new,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Literally fresh off the bus,” I said, pointing to the Greyhound parked behind me. “I’m starting at the artist residency center.” I ignored the panicked thoughts creeping into my conscious. It was just a vision board… I could make another one. Except, if I was being honest, I couldn’t. That vision board had been the only thing keeping my going while I saved every penny I had to move here. Every time I felt downtrodden or hopeless, I would look at it and be filled with possibility once more. Every time I felt like escaping my tiny town was an impossibility, I would grab my scissors, and a stack of old magazines and get to work at adding all my goals for my life.
I took a deep breath. I was pretty sure most of my professors thought I was a lunatic; my nursing thesis earned me a lot of blank stares, eye rolls, and murmurings of ‘hippie’ beneath their breath. Using art as rehab for post-surgical patients was innovative. But the research supported me. Art therapy improves mood, and reduces pain and anxiety when performed at bedside as a portion of acute hospital treatment. I knew it would work. Now I just had to prove it.
Perhaps the specialty I chose was a subconscious effort to move here—the one place I knew would allow me to create an internship of my choosing. The small town was notoriously open-minded and when I contacted the artist residency center, they agreed to let me partner with Maple Grove Medical Center just for this particular thesis while I attended UNH.
“No kidding, you’re moving into the residency center?” he said, a grin forming across his full mouth. “I was headed there now.”
I swallowed. “You’re heading to the artist residency center?” But… he looked so adult. Not like he belonged with a bunch of students and young artists. My eyes swept his tall, muscular body once more. He wasn’t old looking by any means—but he looked like a man. Not like the boys I was in college with. Was he a student, too?
He nodded. “I mean, I was going to grab a quick coffee from the cafe first. Want one?”
There were two deep creases around his mouth—smile lines. Wow, those were sexy. Like a frame for his lips and it had me imagining what they would feel like pressed to mine. The only boy I’d ever kissed was Tom Wilkins on prom night. Tom didn’t have smile lines. Or sexy dimples like this guy. Heck, Tom barely had hair on his chest. I bet this guy had hair on his chest… and other areas.
Oh, Good Lord. What was I thinking? A flush heated my cheeks and I dipped my gaze to the snow with the inappropriate thought.
This man was doing things to my brain. He was a whole new type of sexy I had never before felt. He had to be older than me, but not by too much—maybe in his early twenties? Was he a teacher at the residency center? An intern? Or a student artist?
“Coffee sounds good,” I managed to choke out an answer. “How far away is the cafe?”
“Just up the block.” He pointed ahead, narrowing his gaze at me. “But… we should really get you to the hospital. Have that ankle looked at.”
“Five extra minutes isn’t going to change whatever I did to my ankle.” If his arched eyebrow was any indication, he looked skeptical. “I’m a nursing student,” I clarified. “After a cup of coffee and a couple minutes sitting with my foot elevated, if my ankle still hurts, I’ll go get an x-ray.”
“That sounds like a plan.” He held out a hand. “I’m Jim. Jim Tripp.”
“Marty Vaughn.”
