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My first thought was God, this guy is big, and then God, this guy is handsome. I must have said it out loud because that was the first time I saw that damned blush redden Wesley’s cheeks and slide down the collar of his neatly ironed shirt.
I spent the rest of that party sipping a glass of water, my shoulder pressed against Wesley’s on Callum’s couch as we spoke about anything and everything. Our favorite movies (Memento for him, Mamma Mia for me), our favorite bands (he listed bands from the 90s I hardly knew, and my recommendations were all indie rock), and what foods we liked the most (pancakes for both of us).
He told me he’s always wanted to hike the Oregon mountains and all I wanted to do was spend more time with him, so I agreed to come with him. I think it was his eyes that did it. He looked at me like everything I said interested him, and I would have done anything for him if he’d look at me like that again.
Three years later, I’m sitting in a couple's cabin by myself, chewing stale pasta out of a can and wishing I could rewind time. I would go back to that party, crowded beside Wesley in the dim light, and kiss him senseless. Like he wanted to do to me.
The memories make my heart ache. My fork hits the bottom of the pasta can, and I’m putting it in the sink to rinse later when something catches my eye. A piece of scrap paper.
Gone to inspect snow levels around the perimeter, it reads. If all is well, we should reach the peak by midday tomorrow.
I’m sorry about being pissy this morning, I was an asshole. Please don’t be mad at me.
Yours, Wesley F. Campbell.
He must have written the note before he left to check the snow this morning, and I missed it. He’d told me where he was going but I guess Wesley’s version of politeness requires a note.
The sight of his handwriting, neat and sloping, kickstarts my brain, shifting the world into focus. I stare down at the note, eyes lingering on Yours.
Please don’t be mad at me, he said, like I could ever. Like I wouldn’t do anything for him, including climb a mountain despite hating exercise.
Trembling, I place the note down on the counter and press my face into my hands. I’ve been an idiot. I can’t believe I didn’t see it all this time.
I like Wesley Campbell way more than just a friend.
The sun is on its way to setting by the time I make my way outside, shivering and drawing my hiking jacket closer around myself. Snow, heavy and deep, blankets the ground. I make it a few feet away from the front door, my boots sinking a few inches into the snow, before pausing. Where could Wesley have gone?
All his stuff is still in the cabin, so he couldn’t have hiked down to the base. I take a deep breath, inhaling cold, crisp air, and shove my hands deeper into my pockets.
My eye catches on something in the snow and I walk closer. Footsteps. Gritting my teeth against the cold, I set off in the direction of the marks.
*
I’m winded by the time I reach the end of the trail. A glance at my phone tells me it’s only been ten minutes since I started walking, following the footsteps all the way.
I emerge from a small path surrounded by pine trees to a clearing that overlooks a small lip on the mountain. Somehow, I’ve reached the end of the pre-determined hiking trail.
Wesley stands on a small wooden viewing platform, leaning against the barrier. His back is turned to me, but his shoulders are hunched beneath his jacket. He doesn’t turn around as I approach.
My heart aches and I want to wrap my arms around him and kiss the mole at the base of his neck. But I’ve got work to do, first. I need to fix my mistakes.
“Hey,” I say.
He rubs a hand over his face. “I’ll be down in a bit to help you pack, I just wanted to clear my head.”
“You don’t have to. We have one more day left, right?”
He’s quiet for a moment, still refusing to look at me as he stares out at the scene. It’s beautiful. The snow-covered ground stretches out in front of us like cake fondant. The sky is aflame, a gradient of orange and pink that casts warm sunlight over every surface. It lights up Wesley’s face and I’m struck again by how gorgeous he is.
“I’m sorry.” The words blurt out from me like water behind a dam. “I was an asshat to you, and you don’t deserve that. I lied earlier. When you said— that stuff.”
“There’s no need to be sorry about how you feel, Ollie. I understand.”
“You do?”
He finally looks at me. It’s a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, but it sets my nerves on fire all the same.
“It’s fine if you don’t like me back,” he says. “You don’t owe me your heart.”
