Page 46 of Head Over Skis

Sketching, eating junk food, scrolling on TikTok, watching Gossip Girl reruns.

‘Nothing,’ I go for instead.

‘Wanna hang out?’

Yes, my head says straight away, like an eager puppy.

‘Sure.’

At my answer his face finally loses some of the hardness it’s had since we got back in the car and instead shows the calm confidence I’m used to.

‘On one condition,’ I add, moving towards the car’s volume dial.

He catches my drift and sighs, running one hand across his face before cupping his jaw. ‘Can I make a request for no more Bublé at least?’

I pout, my bottom lip sticking out in the way it always used to in pictures of me as a baby.

‘Okay, fine, you have total control,’ he says, hands up in defeat as I smugly re-connect my phone.

‘So, where are we heading, driver?’ I ask, queuing all my favourite Michael Bublé tunes.

‘You’ll see,’ he says, and I catch the smallest smile on his face. I decide that of all his expressions so far, that’s my favourite one.

15

Rory pulls the car into a space by some tall fir trees, and I hesitate before I start to get out.

‘You good? It’s just a little walk through the trees, but I can’t drive any closer because the snow gets pretty thick this time of year.’

Thick enough to bury a body in, says the voice in my head, worrying again that I’ve been led to the middle of nowhere with no details to text my friends to help them find me other than ‘somewhere high up, lots of snow’. I should’ve spent less time karaokeing to Bublé and more time memorising road signs.

‘Squirrel House.’

‘Hm?’ I murmur, not sure if I heard him right as I try to ignore my escalating panic.

‘Squirrel House, Fernley Road. That’s where we are so you can let your friends know. We’re at my house.’

‘Oh,’ I say, immediately relieved but also embarrassed that I’d let myself think he was a secret serial killer. Rory the Ripper does have a ring to it though.

I take my phone out of my penguin coat pocket and open my text thread with Tilly.

PSA that I’m not at the chalet right now. Yes, I got you morebiscuits. Address is Squirrel House, Fernley Road.

Three dots start to bounce before I turn my screen off.

Hang on, who are you with? Is that some kind of après club?

I go to type out my response, picturing the way she’ll freak out when she reads it, but the dots reappear and she beats me to it.

NO SHIT, Kevin heard me ask what the fuck Squirrel House is andplease tell me it’s true and you’re at RORY’S HOUSE?!

I can’t type anything because a series of messages ping through at such a rapid rate I can’t keep up.

This is amazing.

Hold on, are you going to shag?

What’s it like, send pics?