Page 79 of On the Slopes of Tahoe
“Shit, sorry,” I say at the same time she says, “I thought we were on the same side.” Her hands find her hips, brows quirked up, cheeks flushed with exertion and cold. We move closer, turning in circles, eyes darting around the trees, on the lookout for our target. I use our new proximity to my advantage and push a tendril of Rory’s hair from her face. “Where is she?” I whisper.
“I don’t know,” she whispers back.
“HA!” I hear from behind me just before a snowball collides with the back of my head.
“Hey! No head shots.” I spin and hit Willow in the back. Catching up to her as she runs away, I throw her over my shoulder, tickling her ribs.
“Dad! Stop!” she screeches through her giggles. I let up and slide her to the ground, in direct view of Rory, who tosses one final snowball, splattering Willow’s chest. “Ah, man! No fair!”
“Well, you had time on your side with your little stash of snowballs,” Rory says, her breathing a little ragged from chasing after us. “You’re fast,” she tells me.
“For an old man,” I quip.
“You’re not that old, Daddy. Melissa’s dad is forty.” Willow makes a face as if that’s unimaginable, even though it’s only five years away for me. But I guess to an eight-year-old, five years seems like a lifetime.
“Are you excited to see Melissa when you go home?” Rory asks.
Willow looks down at her shoes and shrugs, all the playfulness from a moment ago vanishing in an instant. She’s been avoiding any mention of Sydney. I get it, since I don’t really want to think about it either, but we can’t ignore it. Tomorrow, we pack. The next day, we get on a plane.
Rory looks at me, eyes wide and mouth set in a grimace. She mouthssorry, but I shake my head. It’s not her fault. She inclines her head toward the car and walks that way, giving us a minute.
“Willow?” I feel like I’m approaching a wounded animal.
She kicks at a pile of snow with her boot and hits a rock. “Ow!” Her shoulders slump before she jumps up and down a couple times and then hobbles over to me.
“Hey.” Small cries escape her as I rub my hand through her hair. I doubt hitting her toe was enough to bring on this level of distress. “Wanna tell me what’s bothering you?”
“I don’t want to go back. Can’t we stay longer?”
“We can’t, love. It’s time for us to go home.”
“But why? I’m doing fine with school. And Rory is here. I like Rory, and I get to help her with her work,” she rushes out.
“I know. But aren’t you ready to see your friends again? You haven’t had many kids around the last three months.”
“So,” she huffs. “I have you guys, and Jamie. We could stay, couldn’t we? You don’t have a job at home now. Mom is—Mom isn’t there. I like it here.”
“I know you do, and so do I, but we can’t—”
“Why not?” she shouts, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Because, sweetheart. It’s not our home. I may not have a job right now, but I will have to get one eventually. Your school wants you to come back and be in the classroom too. They’ve given us a lot of freedom for the past month, but this wasn’t supposed to be a long-term arrangement.”
I swipe the tears from under her eyes and hold her close.
“Let’s make the most of the time we have left, okay? I promise we’ll come back and visit. You know Uncle Wes will want to come back again soon. We can come with him.”
She sniffles and pushes away from me, storming off toward the car. I blow a breath out through my lips.
That could have gone better.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Rory
I’m pulling off my damp socks when the sound of a slamming door echoes through the house.There goes Willow, I think with a sigh.
In the kitchen, Breck is hunched over, forearms propped on the counter, head in his hands. He looks exhausted, dejected. I saw the sadness in his eyes on the dock, the same as my own.
