Page 27 of Winter Break Up

“I hate this. I hate it for you. I wish I could take away any pain he caused. You’re so …” Mercer breaks off, his head turning to look at the ceiling before he speaks after a moment. “Em, you’re magnificent. Fuck any guy, you alone are this beautiful force. I’ve always been in awe of you. To think that you doubted, or doubt, any of that … it kills me. You don’t deserve any of this.”

His words are a balm, and I want to burst into tears. I hurt him terribly during our last summer together, yet here he is, caring for me like he’d never let me go.

Suddenly, I recall the night we were supposed to have that I’ve now stomped all over, and my hand flies to my mouth.

“You wanted to talk. I’m so sorry I ruined that. Let’s do it now.”

A flicker of emotion passes over Mercer’s face before he shakes his head. “Stop, you need to rest.”

“I don’t. I want to talk about this.” I try to push up on one elbow, but he anchors me to the bed.

“You’ve just had a hell of an afternoon, and I don’t want to put any more weight on your shoulders. Just lie with me, Em.”

My heart drops with disappointment. As much as I was having anxiety leading up to that talk he proposed, I want to have the conversation. I told him I regretted breaking up with him; he said he thought of nothing else but me our whole college existence, and now he’s turning down the chance to talk about it.

I probably spooked him with how mentally fragile I am. Mercer doesn’t need a head case like me weighing him down once he goes pro. Another sour feeling, dulled by the pill I’d taken, fills my chest at the thought that I’ve ruined any chance at reconciliation.

The negative self-talk in my brain tells me he doesn’t want a girl who sinks into herself some days and can’t seem to get out. It tells me that Mercer thinks I’m not ready for something new with him when I’m still hung up on my ex, even though it isn’t. Those evil voices say that I’ve blown any chance at him forgiving me and wanting to be together again.

So I lie in his arms, but the whole thing feels a little more stifled than it did just minutes ago.

These thoughts in my head, words in my heart … I was scared to let them out before. Now, all I want to do is pour them out to Mercer, but he doesn’t want to hear them.

It feels like a deserved punishment that he’s so close yet so far at the same time.

12

EMILY

“Make it stop, please.”

My brother’s pleas are barely heard over Genny’s belting, and I can’t help but laugh at their dynamic. We’ve been in the car for an hour and a half, and my friend has been singing Christmas pop songs at the top of her lungs since the car engine started.

“Oh, you know you love it. I heard you humming along after we got back in the car at the rest stop.”

In the passenger seat, Mercer sips the coffee he bought at said rest stop. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet on the drive, and I’m surprised he even agreed to carpool. Part of me thought he’d take his own car to escape me if need be.

It’s been a strained two days since the night of my anxiety attack, and we’ve barely been alone or spoken. I wasn’t quite sure he’d come on the annual snow tubing trip, seeing as he hasn’t attended in years due to our breakup. Yet he showed up this morning and threw his duffel in the trunk, and my heart hasn’t beat normally since.

Sharing a house with my ex, with whom I’ve very recently locked lips, and a bunch of booze is a recipe for disaster, but I’m not making wise choices when it comes to Mercer these days. In fact, this weekend feels like I’m inviting something catastrophic to happen. I just hope it’s the good kind of catastrophic—if that even exists.

“All I’ll say is that I’m fucking glad we’re ten minutes from the house or I’d throw your ass into a snowbank.” Charlie winds us through mountain roads until it’s nothing but trees and hidden driveways.

The annual snow tubing trip started when we were juniors in high school and has grown exponentially over the years. We always venture up to the Poconos for three days during the week so as not to miss the busy weekends at the tree farm. Charlie’s friend Zach, from our high school, has a family house that’s more like this enormous log cabin mansion, and his parents have always let us stay there. We spend the weekend tubing down the hills, going in the hot tub, playing beer pong, and getting up to whatever craziness everyone feels like. What started with eight or so kids from Queenwood has increased to twenty-five plus and includes college friends and partners. We’ve resorted to pooling air mattresses on the floor in the big living room so that people can have a place to sleep.

Yet another place that Mercer and I have history; we spent many a night locked in one of those bedrooms when we were together. It feels surreal to have him here now after his absence was felt for so many years, and I wonder if our powder keg is going to blow during this trip.

I woke up alone the morning after my anxiety attack to discover that my ex had slipped out sometime during the night. We haven’t spoken to each other since, and I feel so ashamed and embarrassed that my mental weakness pushed him away. Clearly, he’s changed his mind about having a talk about what’s going on with us, and to say I’m mortified and heartbroken would be an understatement. What started as high hopes when he kissed me behind Baker’s has suddenly turned into an awkward, silent stand-off, and I hate it.

But I’m trying desperately not to let it ruin this trip. I’ve always loved it here, out in the snow, the rush of the tube sliding down the mountain, time with friends. If Mercer no longer wants to try to reconcile or have a fling or whatever it is that’s happening between us, then I can get over it, too. My heart feels forever stuck on him, but I can suck it up.

We pull up to the house, and there are already a bunch of cars in the circular driveway.

“Let’s unpack, get our gear on, and head to the mountain,” Charlie instructs us.

It’s still light enough that we could get a few hours of good tubing, and since we’re only here for two nights, we have to make the most of it.

“No wearing that gross green coat you did two years ago.” Gen makes a disgusted face. “It’s the color of baby poop.”

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