Page 49 of The Snowflake Effect

I don’t return her smile. “How many guys have you been with since then? Since Aspen?”

One beat. Two. She lowers her voice. “I’ve been on dates with a string of losers.”

I don’t ask if those losers made it to first base, or further. Not something I care to hear. Gradually, I ease my death grip on the water. “I may not have known you when all that went down, but the woman I know now is strong. Independent. And I wouldn’t want her any other way.”

Her hazel eyes glaze, her emotion close to spilling over. Instead of replying, she says, “Tell me something about your wife.”

I lean back, sifting through the memories, some sharp, some fuzzy. “Marina had just finished nursing school when she got pregnant. She wanted to work in pediatrics. Help kids. She had a big heart—big enough to deal with the anguish inherent in the job. She skied, too. Not as good as you, but she liked it. We had a bad time apart our first year at university, but, mostly, things were easy. We laughed a lot.” By the time I look over at Shay, she’s wiping at the corners of her eyes. “Thanks for asking. I don’t talk about her much.”

She places her hand on my upper arm. “Anytime.”

The bench below us hasn’t moved, dust still hangs in the air, but the space between us shifts. Intensifies, almost. The way her touch lingers, I’d say she feels it, too.

“You should eat,” I say through the odd pressure in my chest. “Wouldn’t want your McDonald’s to get cold.”

A nod later, she takes a massive bite of her burger, and I can’t look away from her: the skinny jeans and those high red boots that were latched around my waist the first night we hooked up, her long curls braided down her back. With minimal makeup, she’s the definition of beautiful.

Tearing my eyes away from her, I unwrap my burrito, and for the next five minutes neither of us speaks. The silence is companionable, nice.

As I crumple my napkin, I sense Shay’s attention. I’ve become attuned to her the past week, my scalp tingling whenever she looks my way. It happens often.

“If you don’t finish those fries,” I say, “I’m calling dibs.”

“The hell you are.”

I sit, arms folded, waiting. It won’t be long now. When a grin lights her face, I know she’s found the note I placed at the bottom of her container, a reminder of our time in Aspen:

I have five bathrooms in the house I’m renting. Go out with me.

My heart pounds in time to the hammering echoing off the walls.

Cheeks pink, Shay pulls out the piece of paper and leans back to tuck it into her front pocket. With a sigh, she looks at me and says, “No.”

She stands and walks away, as I expected she would. I’ll give her a day to reread my words. A day to let my intent crack the wall she’s built between us.

A day before stage two goes into effect.

CHAPTER 21

SHAY

The next afternoon, I find a small, rectangular box sitting in the middle of my desk at work.

I squint at it and frown.

No design samples would fit into something that size, and there’s no exterior logo hinting at its contents. Confused, I pry off the lid and freeze.

PEZ.

And not just any PEZ. A Snoopy-headed PEZ dispenser lies inside, and my throat tightens.

Three months ago, when lying with Kolton on the snow, worried about his dislocated shoulder, I told him that ridiculous story about my dog Snoopy’s bad stomach. I also told him my brother bought me PEZ dispensers and candy when I was upset.

He remembered everything I said.

Feeling too fluttery to be safe, I lift out the plastic dispenser to find another note:

If the PEZ doesn’t make you feel better, I have other ways to help. Please, go out with me.