Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,34

branches. Police cars are parked on the highway, blocking traffic. And suddenly I’m out of the truck. I’m running.

“Clint,” Pop calls. But I’m already sliding down the bank, my boots sinking into inches of snow. Pop’s feet crunch behind me as he tries to catch up. My lungs are on fire, burning against the cold.

Black uniforms stand ahead of me. One of them sees me, holds his hand up. “Son,” he shouts, “you don’t want to be here.”

“Rosie?” I screech. “Rosie?”

Pop catches the back of my parka, but I break away. I race forward, feet sinking. Everyone is screaming, and ahead—I can see it now—a windshield, cracked, and that paint, that damned white paint, camouflaged by the snow. A Miata, roof caved and crunched. It rolled, I think, my eyes darting back up to the highway. I drove by this place a hundred times the past couple of days. I just didn’t see her. She always drove too fast anyway, like a maniac, even in bad weather. How many times did I warn her?

The officers all join in, raising their hands, all of them calling, son, son … I slowly begin to realize that the scream bouncing against my skull is coming from me. Rosie, Rosie …

“Hey—over here.” Chelsea’s voice makes the landscape turn green and muddy and empty of police officers. Cars fly down the highway above my head, oblivious to what happened two years ago in this very ravine. But I’m still shaking all over.

Rosie’s gone.

As I make my way toward her, Chelsea kneels down next to a fleshy-looking bloom. Her camera flashes. She reaches for the orchid as though about to pick it, but I lunge forward and grab her arm, wrench her away.

“Come on,” I snap. “We’re leaving.”

“But, I—”

“Don’t argue with me,” I bellow, because being here, reliving it, makes the accident seem fresh. Not like a memory at all, but like something that’s happening now. I can’t believe I let my guard down long enough to wind up here.

Chelsea

restrictions

What they say about absence isn’t true, Gabe writes. It doesn’t make the heart fonder—it makes the heart want to break, it hurts so much. Just like a compass, my heart keeps pointing me straight to you. If I didn’t have this stupid job, I’d be on my way to Minnesota …

I sigh as I balance the netbook on my knees, wiggling my toes on the front step of cabin number four. My cell phone reception might be iffy all the way out here, but Mom had to get the bright idea of bringing her netbook so she could check the incoming emails and orders at White Sugar. (It’s driving her crazy to be away from work this long … in addition to tweaking the annual cookbook, she’s already brainstorming ideas for an August wedding cake whose order came in yesterday.) And the stupid Wi-Fi connection in our cabin’s pretty rock solid. Which allows me no breather from Gabe.

Not that you need one, I remind myself. You love him as much as he loves you.

Right. Exactly.

I miss you, too, I reply, in what has become my daily exchange of emails to the guy who, according to his latest message, writes me at one in the morning when he can’t sleep for thinking of me. I wish I could come up with something beautiful to tell him. Something that would make his heart turn as sticky as a half-melted lollipop.

My mind drifts forward, wildly, like a raft on the rapids near the resort, as I imagine how it will feel to finally not just touch Gabe’s hand or his mouth, but experience the entirety of his naked body against my skin. I imagine the moonlight seeping in through a window of the Carlyle, playing off the golden curls on his chest. Imagine wrapping my entire body around his …

But I can’t write this down, can’t even begin to bring myself to type such a thing. So all I manage to come up with is, Carlyle: 15 days and counting …

After pressing send, I absentmindedly pick up a pair of binoculars Dad’s left on the front porch and hold them to my eyes.

The lenses fill with a head of black hair as Clint steps out of the lodge. I feel a gasp kick the inside of my throat as I’m forced to admit to myself, yet again, just how much I hate the idea of losing a day with Clint. He’s taking a group out kayaking today, and stupid