Carry Your Heart (2 page)

“Exams,” Trevor rolls his eyes. “Real exams to be a real doctor. He’s so annoying.”

Trevor loves bitching about Dean, his fourth-year medical student sort-of-a-secret, perfect-dreamboat boyfriend. And I love watching him do it, because he can’t stop his eyes from lighting up when he says his name.

Trevor met Dean when he showed up, desperate and blackout at the one gay bar he knew of in Boulder. Dean drove him home, stole his phone number, bought him dinner later that week.

Trevor says he hates the story, says it’s stupid and embarrassing—but I’ve seen him when Dean or Courtney tells it, seen the little smile he’s holding back. He’s in love. He’s trying to be as quiet and unobtrusive about it as possible, but he can’t hide it completely.

I used to hate how brightly I flushed when Ryan would tell the story of how he tricked me and Danny into our first date. And I would say I hated the story to whoever was hearing it. And how I thought it was cheesy and stupid. But I
love
that story. I would kill to hear Ryan tell it again.

Although, I’d kill to hear Ryan tell any story again. I’d kill just to hear his voice.

“Pippa’s coming out tonight,” Courtney announces.

Trevor turns his exhausted gaze to me. “No way.
Really
?”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

“Bullshit. I am
definitely
making a big deal out of it. You’ve never been to a college party in your life,” Trevor said. “I’m having dinner with the fucking doctor first, but
then
we’re coming.”

“I’ve been to parties.”

“
College
parties,” Trevor explained.

“Parties are parties.”

“Spoken like someone who has never been to a college party.”

I nod. “Well, I can’t wait to experience it first hand. I should get going. I’ll text you guys tonight.”

“Don’t blow it, loser,” Trevor teases.

“I’ll try not to.”

He smiles and gives me a hug. “Break a leg, girlfriend,” Courtney says. The platitude freezes on her face. She’s remembering, I’m sure, that I did break my leg once. That I broke it in the avalanche.

I just smile. It doesn’t bother me. People always think they need to tiptoe around what happened—the avalanche, the broken leg, any mention of death or skiing. But the thing is, nothing anybody can say will ever be as bad as what happened. Nobody needs to tiptoe at all. It’s not like I ever forget.

It feels like there’s a constant avalanche in the back of my mind. It’s like a television I never turn off, and I’ve grown used to the look and sound of it. I work around it. I eat, sleep, live, and dream with a video feed of the avalanche that killed Danny and Ryan playing on a never-ending loop.

“I’ll try my best,” I say playfully, looking at her with the biggest smile I can pull off. I try to put her at ease.

It’s the least I can do. Nobody should ever make people worry as much about someone as I’ve made them worry about me the past year.

Chapter Two

I get home at four—just enough time to grab a snack and find clothes that actually make me look like a girl.

This means heels, which I haven’t worn since I broke my leg. Okay—so they’re boots
with
a heel, but I’m trying. I’ll change at Court’s, I tell myself, which will hopefully ensure that I won’t wear something that’s gone completely out of style.

I scurry down to the kitchen and snag a water bottle out of the refrigerator. I notice the red voicemail light blinking and hit play, wondering if my physical therapist called.

“Hey, it’s Mike Ames. I’m trying to get a hold of Pippa. I’ve been calling her cell phone for a few weeks and I haven’t heard back. Anyways, if you’ll give me a call back. It’s 207-801-9530.”

I delete the voicemail and hit play again, making sure it’s gone. The last thing I need is for my dad to call him back and invite him out for dinner. When I’m sure it’s gone, I glance at the clock and realize I’m running late.

Dashing back through the front door of our old brick house, I nearly clothesline my own father, returning from work, who swears in surprise when the door swings open and then bursts into laughter.

“Pippa!” he grins, realizing I’m not trying to jump him.

“Hey,” I say breathlessly.
Fuck, I’m out of shape.

“Where ya going?”

“Um, Courtney invited me to this lacrosse party,” I say.

“Great! That’s great!” he smiles broadly with genuine enthusiasm like I just told him I got into Harvard.

He’s probably the only man in the world who is this thrilled to hear his daughter is going to party thrown by a college lacrosse team. “Great!”

I nod. “Three greats!” I grin. “Am I really that pathetic?” I meant it as a joke—but it falls flat, my voice sounding too hurt. A spasm of pain flashes across his face and he reaches out and cups my chin.

“Oh, no, no—I just…” he breathes deeply, searching for words. “I know how hard you’re trying, okay?”

I nod. “Thanks.” My eyes fill, unexpectedly and I pull my chin back.

He grins at me. “Have fun. Don’t—dude, Pip, just relax. Alright? Go with what feels right. You’re young. It’s okay to have fun. Nobody’s going to hold that against you.”

I laugh and wipe my half-full eyes. “Okay.”

He lets me go, worried. I’ve got to stop making him worry. “Sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be sorry.”

“I
am
excited to be going,” I insist, getting control of my emotions. “I really am.”

“That’s good. Have fun.” He walks me towards the driveway, like I’m a first grader going to the bus stop for the first time. He squeezes my shoulder and kisses the top of my head. “I love you, Pippa.”

***

I drive back towards campus, to Boulder, with Icona Pop blasting from my car’s speakers. Icona Pop is something I can thank Courtney for. I bob my head up and down to the irresistible beat of the song.

Court’s been sending me her pregame warm-up mixes for lacrosse since she was in sixth grade, and I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in love with a song that hasn’t come from her.

I pull up to the apartment that Courtney and Trevor share off-campus, scramble up the outdoor flight of stairs, and bang loudly on the door.

Courtney answers the door with a big grin and Trevor’s sprawled on the couch, a video game controlled clutched tightly in his hands. They’re already playing loud music and drinking lemon-lime Gatorade and vodka, Courtney’s favorite drink, which I can assure you is unpalatable.

“Want one?”

“Ew,” I say. “No.”

“Ew, no,” Trevor mimics. “Pippa, when did you become such a snob?”

“Trevor, are you seriously pregaming for dinner with Dean?”

“Uhh…I’m hydrating with side of vodka,” he says. He grins. “And wannabe Dr. Whitney already came to dinner. He likes the early bird special. He’s in my room doing his makeup.”

“I heard that,” Dean shouts.

“You were supposed to. Who goes to dinner at 5:45?”

“Our reservation was at seven—you said you were going to die of starv…”

“He’s hallucinating,” Trevor informs me seriously.

“Please tell me you have other mixers,” I say.

Trevor grins. “Obviously. We have red bull and I have a stash of 4Loko, just to piss off Dean, plus Dean brought some fancy fucking grape juice that tastes like poison if you’re into that kind of thing.”

Dean walks into the comfortable, spacious living room. Like Trevor, he’s tall and handsome. Unlike Trevor, he’s black and immaculately dressed. “Trevor, how the hell do you still have 4Loko? That was taken off the market two years ago.”

“Have you seen
Extreme
Hoarders
?” Trevor asks.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Obviously, you’ve seen it. I happen to be a perfect candidate for that show. I also have a stockpile of Twinkies and some of the original FruitSnacks in my parents’ basement,” he gives Dean a knowing look.

“I brought a bottle of wine,” Dean reassures me with a chuckle. “Come on.”

“She’s not into grape juice,” Trevor calls. “Pippa, don’t do it! It’s terrible.”

I follow him back to Trevor’s room, which is frenetically neat—more Dean’s doing than Trevor’s, since Dean practically lives here too.

I haven’t been in here since move-in day—despite dozens of invitations, I always just ended up at home with my dad on every weekend, scanning takeout menus for something new.

There’s a picture of the three of us on his bedside table—a fairly recent picture, black and white, sitting on the porch of my dad’s house this summer.

I swallow something—a happy kind of emotion, possible gratitude—that Trevor, who spends so much time denying any kind of sentimental emotion, would bother with a framed picture of me.

Dean smiles. “I love that photo.”

“Yeah, I haven’t seen it,” I say.

“I gave it to him on our one-month anniversary,” he says. “He’d always look at it on his phone.” He shakes his head. “He’ll deny that to the grave, so…”

“I won’t say anything…” I smile big and nod. “It’s really great.”

“I’ll get you a copy,” Dean says. He hands me a plastic glass of Pinot Noir. “It’s good to see you, Pippa. It’s been a while.”

“I know.”

“Been busy?”

I shake my head. “With exams, some.” I exhale.

Truthfully, I haven’t been all that busy and whenever I admit that to myself, I feel strangely guilty. I used to ski eight hours a day and have just enough time to watch really bad reality TV with my best friend Lottie and fall in love with a boy. Now, I go to class for a few hours, and physical therapy three days a week, and nothing else seems to happen. I ignored Lottie for so long, she doesn’t bother with me, and the boy died.

Half the time, I can’t even tell myself what I did with my day, other than got through it.

He nods and I take a sip of the wine, which I can tell is fancy and was probably super-expensive. “This is really good.” Dean’s like that. Classier than anyone I know. Trevor makes fun of him, but he deserves this kind of man. Someone who appreciates the finer things, and insists on taking Trevor out to nice dinners and movies.

“Glad you appreciate it,” he said. “Trying to get Trevor to drink wine is like pulling teeth.”

We walk back into the living room. Courtney turns up the AWOL Nation song blaring from her iPod speakers, and bobs her head up and down so violently, I think it might snap off.

“You can’t drink wine on a Friday night,” Trevor shouts at me over the music. I finish the cup quickly and Dean refills it.

They say everyone gets drunker in Boulder because of the altitude, but throw in exams, and it’s a recipe for a blackout.

Dean, normally the responsible one, ends up shouting at the top of his lungs along with David Guetta. By ten o’clock, we’re all drunk.

Trevor grabs Dean by the shirt collar, mumbling something about a secret, then plants a sloppy kiss on his mouth and pulls him purposefully by the collar into his bedroom.

“Hey, girls, I don’t think we’re going to make it out,” Dean calls through the door, just before Trevor slams it behind him.

“Those two are animals,” Courtney says, making a face.

I grin. “It’s adorable.”

“Well, just us girls!” Courtney’s grabs my hand and we start walking over to the lacrosse house.

The night wind blows soft and delicate against my bare arms. It’s quiet on the dirt sidewalk by the empty road, underneath the shining stars and the long evening shadow of the flatirons. With the loud music shut off, it’s easier for me to think. Not always a good thing. So much of what I think about is so sad. Danny. Ryan.

I’ve learned this year that there are things too sad to understand. They don’t make sense. They can’t. And they get jumbled up inside your head, like riddles without answers. They were alive and then they were dead: a concept I understood until it hit me like a wrecking ball.

I glance up at the flatirons. In the dark, they remind me of ski mountains. They remind me of Danny.
Nights on ski mountains with Danny.
I stare at them, not listening to Courtney, or paying very much attention to the road we’re taking, simply mesmerized by the way the rocks cut up the horizon, equal parts defiant and massive.

We hear the noise from the lacrosse house when we’re a hundred yards or so away. It’s what you’d expect from a college party. Although this will be my first one, I can tell that’s it’s typical. Quintessential, even.

Boys in flannel shirts lean against the plywood railings, holding red solo cups. Girls in halter tops and boots call out shrilly to each other, jogging up their stairs. A handful of smokers on the worn steps in a mild, white haze of their own making. Laughter shrieks out from the windows, and the bass pumps against the ground, so deep you can feel it in your shoes.

“Oh my god!”

“I love you!”

The closer we get, the more it seems like everyone has just those two things to say to one another. With the air the way it is, and the alcohol buzzing through my body, I kind of start to agree with them.
Oh my god, I love you.

I don’t know who I’m directing that at. Maybe Courtney, maybe the flatirons, maybe eternally dead and eternally silenced Danny. But something irrefutably optimistic courses through me. It’s late, it’s noisy, there are so many people here, and things are starting to happen.

“Hey, Court!” She’s folded into a big hug by Donovan Barry, the guy she’s been hooking up with all semester. I’ve met him at least fourteen times, all during the day when he (hopefully) was sober, but he never remembers having met me.

“Hey, Donovan,” I say.
Fifteenth time’s the charm?

“What’s your name again, sweetheart?”
Or not.

“Pippa.”

“Pippa, Pippa, Pippa, got it, right on.” He nods, throws a loose arm around me, and pushes Court and me into the house. “Court talks about you all the time.”

“Really? I think we might have met a few times, actually,” I say coolly. Court gives me a look, and I roll my eyes back at her. Donovan’s cute, but nobody’s so cute that they should be allowed to forget me fourteen times. If this had been a two, or three, or even five-time thing, I’d have been cool with it, but it was starting to get ridiculous.