Bailey’s pink tube tightens as she plops down into it, nodding. “Can confirm.” She looks at Harlowe. “So, you gonna pay up now?”
Harlowe’s gaze flicks to me, a devilish grin tugging at her lips, a glint of mischief in her eyes. Without breaking eye contact, she lifts her foot and swiftly kicks Bailey’s sled, sending her flying down the hill before Bailey can stop it. Bailey’s scream echoes all the way down, and I can’t help but laugh as I watch her arms flailing at her sides, her head bobbing over every bump in the snow.
“She’s going to kill you for that,” I manage to say between fits of giggles.
Harlowe just shrugs. “Worth it.” She pauses, her eyes flicking between me and Bailey. There’s a soft, almost knowing smile playing at her lips. “So… what about Darcy?”
I shrug. “What about her?”
Harlowe gives me a look I’ve known for years. One that tells me she’s not buying my ignorant act. “Does she feel the same?”
Despite the brittle chill of the winter air, it starts to feel thick. Too dense to fill my lungs, too heavy to reach my mind. My tongue drifts over the dent in my cheek, grounding me as I search for the right words.
“I don’t know,” I admit, voice quieter than I intend. My eyes fall to the ground like maybe if I look hard enough, I’ll find a new answer buried in the snow. “I thought maybe she did. But she told me she’s not into the whole dating thing. And now…” My words fumble. “I don’t even know anymore.”
Harlowe grows quiet for a moment. She drops into the tube beside mine, her hands planted behind her, eyes on the slope where Bailey’s still screaming all the way down.
Then, those pretty blue eyes flicking to me, she says, “So go ask her.”
A sarcastic laugh tumbles out of me. “Yeah, okay. I’ll just show up to her apartment like some crazy stalker.”
“You’re not a stalker,” Harlowe says calmly, though she rolls her eyes. “You’re confused. And a little pathetic.”
I shoot her a look.
“I say that with love,” she adds quickly. “But seriously, Pey. I know this is a first for you, but we both know I’ve been through this more than once. Remember Odette from freshman year?”
A small gasp escapes my mouth, and I collapse into my tube beside her. “Oh my god,Odette!I hope she’s doing well. I loved her.”
Harlowe’s frown deepens. “Yeah, me too.”
I give her a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
“Anyway,” she continues. “Remember how I basically went feral for five months because I wasn’t sure if she liked me back?”
I nod, the memory flooding back. “Yeah, and then I had to come drag you out of a party on frat row because you’d watchedPitch Perfect 3and were mad that Beca and Chloe still didn’t end up together.”
“Bechloe is real, and I’ll die on that hill,” Harlowe says with a pointed look. She sighs, getting back to the point. “The thing is, this—” she gestures toward me, “—if it’s real, it doesn’t just go away. You can ignore it, but it’ll always be in the back of your mind.” She gives me a teasing grin, her tone softening. “And listen, I’m not losing the playoffs ‘cause you’re out here emotionally concussed over some girl. So you better go talk to her.”
Harlowe and Bailey have both had their fair share of heartbreak and pitiful pining. Which is ironic because both of them are the type people pine after. I remember each and every one, pushing them to have the same conversation that Harlowe is pushing me to have now. But it feels different, being on this side of it. I now suddenly understand why they’d have so much resistance. Why they said they couldn’t, or that it was a bad idea.
Some things are better left unknown.
“It really sounded like she meant it when she said she was done,” I say.
“Maybe she’s scared,” she replies. “Or maybe she really doesn’t like you. But either way, don’t you want to know for sure?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to, because we both know the truth.
We look out over the summit at the crowd of bodies below. We don’t say anything. We just stand there in silent acknowledgement.
“Mister,” she calls after a moment, patting the icy slope beside her. Mr. Bubbles trots over, watching intently for her command.
“And I just… say it?” I ask hesitantly, glancing at the bottom of the hill. Bailey is a baby pink ant, but I can make out her tiny little arms propped on her hips, waiting. Harlowe nods.
“You just say it,” she says. Then she whips her head toward Mister, and, with a snappy command, shouts, “Go!” The big dog springs forward, his belly brushing the snow as he slides down the icy slope, following Harlowe’s lead.
I watch them for a beat, my heart picking up speed. I glance back at Bailey, her impatient stance stagnant. I take a slow breath.
