Crossing Borders (44 page)

“Oh,” said Tristan. “I planned on just boarding till I couldn't stand upright anymore, man. I'm not feeling very social at the moment.”

“I see,” said P.K.

“Not that I don't want to have fun or anything,” Tristan added quickly, thinking P.K. might regret coming with him. “I just…I'm not here for that.”

“Trouble in paradise?”

“You could say that.”

“Fresh air is good,” replied P.K. as they worked, mostly silent again. Once the chains were safely on, they continued up the winding mountain road.

Tristan pulled into the parking lot of a resort that had a series of cabins in a horseshoe around a lodge. “This is it.” He got out and stretched his legs.

“Ponderosa Pines,” said P.K. in his clipped Pakistani/British accent. “How utterly
Bonanza
.”

Tristan looked at him. “Dude, you watch
Bonanz
a
?” He didn't seem like a
Bonanza
kind of guy.

“Every chance I get. But if you tell anyone, I'll have to kill you.” P.K. made to get his duffel out, but Tristan stopped him.

“Leave your stuff; we'll drive around to the cabin as soon as we check in.” He walked ahead of P.K., who was looking around with shameless delight at the Western décor.

Tristan went through the motions of checking in, then drove the car around to their cabin. He dragged his gear into the small building and suited up, itching to get out and move. “I'm going to grab my board and go. If you want, you can come with me.”

“I think I'll stay here and watch the rest of the football games. I'll come tomorrow.”

“Do you want to ski or snowboard?”

“Either one. I'll probably seriously suck at it, whatever.”

“Don't be like that.” Tristan smiled. “It's really not that bad. Have you ever tried a skateboard?”

“No.”

“No time like the present. I'm sure you've got the moves. I hate to just leave you here, P.K. I just need to…”

“I know. Go ahead. Maybe I'll make the acquaintance of injured snow bunnies or something.”

“I hope so.” Tristan left the small cabin and P.K. behind.

Tristan parked his car and shuttled to the mountain, glad he'd purchased his lift ticket online. The temperature was probably in the low thirties, crisp and biting, and his breath fanned out before him. Already he felt better, freer than he had in weeks, and he consciously tightened and relaxed his shoulder muscles, letting the fear and anxiety roll off him in thick waves. He slipped on his sunglasses and waited, intent only on the feel of the air as it rushed past his face. He moved forward in the long line, clamping his front foot on the board and taking the lift as it came, natural as breathing.

Once Tristan slipped off the lift chair, he found a level spot and clamped his other boot onto his board. All that was left was carving the snow, several fresh inches of it spewing out behind him like white sparks off a welding torch. He repeated the whole process over and over again, until all that existed was the cold and the rush and the exhaustion of his body as it gave itself to the mountain. Line… Lift… Freedom. Over and over again until the lifts stopped, the light faded, and the last shuttle came to deposit Tristan by his car.

Tristan entered the tiny, rustic cabin to find P.K. dozing in an avalanche of junk food, so he stripped down to his boxers and made his way to the tiny shower. Once inside, he let himself go and sat on the floor, crying, until the water turned cold.

P.K. was up and tidying things when he returned from the shower with a towel wrapped around his hips. Tristan knew his eyes were red and puffy, but P.K. said nothing, preferring a tacitly agreed upon silence to probing questions that might upset the delicate balance of domestic harmony.

“I'm hungry,” said Tristan. He didn't feel hungry, but thought it might appear more normal if he suggested they go somewhere to eat.

“The man in the office told me there's a German restaurant that lots of people seem to like.”

“Oh. Yeah, I know the one. My dad used to like that place. Sure. Let's go.” Tristan dressed in jeans with a couple layers of T-shirts and sweatshirts, and grabbed a hat. P.K. seemed to watch him and follow his lead.

“I don't think I'm used to the mountains,” he said, putting on his own hat.

“It's a good idea to remember to stay hydrated,” said Tristan. “Hydration and Tylenol help with altitude problems if you're prone to them.”

“I might be,” said P.K. ruefully.

“Let's get you some carbs too. I read somewhere that helps.
Kartoffeln
.”

“What?”

“Potatoes.” Tristan opened the car door and let P.K. slide into the passenger seat, crunching through the snow to the driver's side. Tristan raised his head and tasted the air. “It feels like we're going to get fresh snow.” He would
not
think of how much he wished Michael were here to see it. “That'll be good.”

“The man from the desk came by with wood for the fireplace,” said P.K. idly. “I think he wondered what I was doing just lying around when I could have been skiing. I guess I really will have to try it out.”

“You should. Even if you don't like it. We'll rent some gear for you and get you a lift ticket. You've got to try it once.”

“I warn you, I'm not an action figure.”

“I know, but wouldn't it be better to be able to say you did it?” Tristan grinned.

“I guess.” P.K. didn't sound convinced.

They ordered Weiner schnitzel and fried potatoes, which came on a huge plate with scoops of red cabbage. They drank a lot of water at Tristan's urging, and P.K. did seem to be feeling better once they'd eaten. They split an apple pie-like tart with almond paste that Tristan really liked, but left P.K. cold.

“I don't like sweets too much. I'm all about salty things. Jonathon got me eating fried, spicy pork rinds, and now I can't stop.”

Tristan nearly gagged. “I guess it's not just water that finds the lowest place to run.”

“Hey!” P.K. threw a napkin at him. After they paid the bill, they walked into the cold mountain air.

Tristan shivered. “I like the cold, but whenever I go anywhere that's cold like this I roast going inside so much that I freeze going back outside. I think they must be hatching eggs in that restaurant.”

“It was rather warm by comparison. Hey.” P.K. looked around. “Is that snow?”

Tristan looked around as well, noticing that a few flakes were falling. “Yeah,” he said. “It's just beginning. I hope it doesn't get too bad. I hate digging my car out.”

“It's beautiful,” said P.K., just stopping in the middle of the parking lot to stare. “I've never seen snow fall.”

Tristan felt P.K.'s gaze on him and tried to hide the tears that had begun to fall.

“Well, shit,” said P.K.

Tristan looked away, using his remote to open his car door. When they got in, he murmured an apology. “I'm sorry, P.K. I'll bet you wish you'd stayed home.” He tried for a laugh, but it came out wet.

“Nah, I've never seen snow fall before. I'm thoroughly engaged.” P.K. looked at him thoughtfully. “Though perhaps you'd like to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Because it's a man's name that's tattooed on your ass?” P.K. asked gently. “I couldn't help but notice when you returned from the shower.”

Tristan raised his eyebrows.

“It's a large tattoo.” P.K. averted his eyes. “And I have excellent eyesight.”

“I know.” Tristan started the car, pulling carefully out onto the street now that the snow had begun to fall.

“You seemed so happy this last quarter,” P.K. prompted.

“I was. I fell in love.”

“And?”

“It didn't work out—isn't working out.” Tristan shook his head. “I'm not ready.”

“Ah,” said P.K. They drove the rest of the way in silence. Tristan thought then that he was lucky; Jonathon and Daniel didn't know how to value a silence, but P.K. made it comfortable. He was glad he was here with P.K. and not alone in the unbearable silence of snow.

When they got back into the cabin, Tristan handed P.K. a water bottle and told him he needed to drink it and took one himself. They made a fire and watched the game recaps on the news, Tristan finding his body unable to stay awake for more than fifteen minutes or so before he was fading out, fully clothed. He crawled between the sheets on his bed and knew nothing more until morning.

Tristan opened his eyes when P.K. slapped his foot. “Huh?” he asked, rising to his elbows on the scratchy sheets. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Seven. Time to get up. Snow awaits.”

Tristan was blinking his eyes and trying to make his dry tongue move. “Wait…” he murmured, rolling to his side to get up and finding every bone in his body hurt and everything, literally
everything
, was stiff. “I…oh.”

“Come on, get up. It's not like I haven't seen morning wood before. I live in a dormitory.” P.K. turned his back to give Tristan a break then and headed for the door. “I'm going to come back with coffee and a newspaper. I've been psyching myself up, and I believe that if I don't try to snowboard today, I will lose my nerve completely.”

Tristan smiled. “Thank you.”

“Not at all. I just don't want you to waste my vacation moping.”

Tristan headed toward the bathroom, and when he came out he was showered and dressed, and P.K. had coffee for him in a small Styrofoam cup. “This was the largest cup they had, but I imagine that we can get more where we're going, yes?”

“Yes,” said Tristan.

“And I imagine the whole plan for this trip was to exhaust yourself so that you cannot spend too much time thinking about things?”