Jillian of Banff X0

Chapter 1

AS THE CHAIRLIFT BOUNCES over the towers on the way to the top of the Cascade run, I press back in the seat, so I don’t have to see how high up we are. Greg leans forward, calls out to a boarder below and his enthusiastic wave shakes the chair. I clench my fists inside my gloves.

After the last tower, we lift our snowboards off the footrest and Greg raises the bar. I feel pretty confident this afternoon and my wipeouts are nowhere near as sensational as yesterday. In fact, I have not fallen once since lunchtime. Well, technically that’s not true. My butt didn’t dent the snow. But I did put my hand down a couple times when gravity was winning. Huge progress though.

Yo, Greg, a ski patroller calls out waving an arm in the air as we slide down the off ramp. Got a minute?

Greg grabs my hand and pulls me across the slope to join a group of people with the patroller. When he lets go, I thank whoever is in charge upstairs for keeping me upright and saving us both the embarrassment of me falling.

The patroller reaches her arms out with ski poles hanging off her wrists and Greg goes in for a quick hug. My tinted goggles hide the surprise in my eyes as the others who were with her take off in different directions down the run. Maybe they’ve worked together on ski tours or climbing trips.

Almost Merry Christmas Eve, she says to Greg. Have you got any plans?

You bet. Jillian’s aunt, Greg points at me, is putting on a big brunch for a bunch of mates.

That’s great. She waves at me and turns back to him. So, we have a bit of an incident. What are the chances you can help out?

Sure. What’s up?

A missing kid. She waves her phone at us. There’s a picture of a smiley-faced kid in a bright orange ski suit but with the helmet and dark goggles on, it’s hard to tell what he, or she, looks like. She swipes the screen and a girl with huge blue eyes and short-cropped black-hair stares at us.

She’s a good skier. Thirteen years old. She was supposed to meet her family in the lodge for lunch, but she never showed up. They’re new to town and her folks are panicky with the hill almost closing.

Greg nods.

Can you go to the top and check the runs? She points to the North American Chair, the highest lift on Mt. Norquay.

I stare up the steep run. Even from here, I can see the shadows of the huge moguls and there are only a few people making their way down.

She’s not supposed to go up there but, the patroller shrugs, you know kids.

I’m on it.

I can go check the tube park and the lodge, I volunteer, in hopes her expectation isn’t that I go with Greg. It would take us a week to get down that run if I was with him.

The tube park would be good. Thanks. There are lots of people looking at the base already. Can you also check around the old lodge and the upper parking lot? She could be hiding there if she thinks she’s in trouble. Her name is Olivia. Meet back at the Ski Patrol hut, she checks her watch, in forty-five minutes. The lifts will be closed by then.

Got it. Greg straps in his boot. Catch you in a bit. He taps my chin before he takes off. Straight down.

Thanks for helping, the patroller says.

No problem.

I wait for her to leave, do up my binding and work my way over to the tube park. At the bottom, I put my snowboard in the rack and head to where people finish the ride. Lots of people shout and screech as they hurtle down their lanes, spinning on the hard packed snow while they sit inside giant inner tubes. I lift my goggles and watch for the bright snowsuit. Nothing. I go to the lineup of people waiting to go up the lift. No orange snowsuit.

The walk through the lodge is tougher because most people have their coats off, so the short black hair is my only clue. Again, nothing. I feel lame hanging out in the bathroom until all the stalls have cleared, but still no Olivia.

There’s a lot of laughing at the far end of the parking lot where the trees start, so I wander over. The closer I get, the skunkier the smell is. There are six people, some even older than Greg, maybe university age, sharing tokes.

Hey, come on. Join us, a guy calls out and gestures me over. It’s been a rad day.

Incredibly bright orange ski suit, helmet off, black-haired Olivia is in the midst of them. What the hell?

Nah, I’m good thanks. I smile, so they don’t think I’m a snob. I have to catch my ride home. I point towards the cars and walk away, shoulders up and with purpose. A total karate training exit. Show confidence even when I don’t feel it.

Shit. I don’t want to be judgy. That’s not my thing. Well, I try not to let it be my thing but Olivia’s way younger than the rest of them and I’m sure not brave enough to walk up to her and say, Hey Olivia, your folks are looking for you.

I grab my snowboard and take the run back down to the patrol hut.

She’s behind the old day lodge at the far end of the parking lot, I tell the patroller we met. With a bunch of people.

Seriously? The ski patroller rolls her eyes. Are they smoking up?

I shrug. I don’t want to be a narc.

After I walk back and forth from the ski racks and lodge to the Cascade Chairlift a few times, I spot a snowboarder carving down the steep Lone Pine run. I can tell it’s Greg. He’s easy to pick out on the hill because he is so freakin’ smooth and makes it look like it’s nothing to spin a 360 off a huge mogul and land it perfectly, only to do it again. I hope to be that good one day.

Hey. I poke him in the back when he stops at the base. Show off.

Me? He lifts his goggles and does a goofy-eyed grin.

Yeah, you. I laugh.

Olivia, a lady screeches.

We both turn to see her rush towards the Ski Patrol hut and grab her daughter in a tight hug.

It looks like they found her, Greg says.

I don’t say anything about my part in it. I mean, I’m glad I told them where she was, but I don’t want Greg to think I spoiled her fun.

He swings his arm over my shoulder, and we head for his car. I’m glad it’s a happy ending versus, well, versus a not happy ending.

Yeah, happy endings are good. I stop and pull out my phone. Boarding day selfie. I stretch out my arm to get us both in the picture, but Greg grabs my phone, hugs me tight and our helmets tap against each other as he clicks the shot.

Great picture. I tuck my phone back in my pocket and we head for the parking lot. After our boards are in the trunk, Greg pulls his helmet off. His curly, messy hair is stuck to his head.

I tug a few of his damp locks. Nice to see you had to work hard on the last run.

Greg steps forward and cups my chin with one hand. He stares at me and my stomach flutters...in a really good way. I don’t say anything.

He tips his head. Can I kiss you?

Can you kiss me? Hmm. I put on a serious expression. My brain says ‘yes, dammit, kiss me’ but my mouth says, Let me think about that. Stupid mouth.

Okay. He steps back, crosses his arms and gives me the sweetest smile. Let me know when you decide.

I grab his elbows and laugh. He puts his arms around me, and I panic because I can’t remember what my mouth tastes like or if I should have had a mint. I take a quick breath right before his lips touch mine. They’re soft. So soft. And warm. The world stops. It really does. His tongue presses against my teeth for an instant and then retreats. He pulls back and I can feel him look at me. I open my eyes and he’s right there coming in for another kiss. And what a kiss.

The perfect end to a perfect day. He holds the car door open for me and I slide into the passenger seat.

I put on my seat belt and try to calm down the huge smile I know I’m wearing.

As Greg navigates the tight switchbacks heading back to Banff, the local radio station plays Six White Bloomers. He grabs the dial and turns it up.

This is the best Christmas song from back home. He mimics the story telling and I join in with the lyrics, tapping the beat out on the dashboard.

When it’s over he turns the radio down and glances over at me. Do you ever miss Toronto and your friends?

Wow. That came out of nowhere. And I can’t even remember the last time I texted anyone from home.

I used to. A lot. I look at his profile and shrug. But things got busy here and they have their lives there and...I don’t know. I guess I kind of don’t have much in common with them anymore.

He nods. Yeah, that happens.

When exactly did I stop wanting to get back to Toronto? I can’t remember. And when did I start thinking of Banff as home?

Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer starts, and Greg turns up the radio again. We both belt out the song, a bit off key and I add a few made up words when I can’t remember the real ones. I gaze out the windshield with a perma-grin on my face.

Since Christmas break, Greg and I have been hanging out a lot. The vibe is different, even cozier than our months of fun times chumming around as just good friends. I hoped there’d be a kiss at some point, but I also did not want to do anything to ruin our friendship if it wasn’t ever going to be more than that. It couldn’t be any more perfect than it is now.

Hey, I turn to him. Any chance you can give Steph and me a hand hauling up a table from the basement before you go to work?

No problem. For sure I can help.

Parked in the back behind Aunt Steph’s house, Greg passes me my helmet and coat and puts my snowboard in the garage.

Steph, I shout from the back porch into the kitchen as Bucky rushes by to go out for a pee. Greg’s going to give us a hand with the table.

Perfect, she says as she walks into the room. Hi, Greg. Ready for Christmas?

As ready as I’ll ever be, he says.

After we lug the table up, I grab Greg’s hand. Come see the tree.

He lets out a complimentary whistle when he steps into the living room.

I did it all except for the tinsel. I lean in and whisper, so Steph doesn’t hear. She’s got this thing about hanging tinsel. She does it one piece at a time. And when we take the tree down, it comes off the same way.

He chuckles.

I know, right? Bit of a control freak, hey?

Greg points to the archway where a sprig of mistletoe hangs and backs me up until we’re under it. He raises his eyebrows, checks over my shoulder, gives me the most adorable smile and leans in. Another kiss. Another soft, warm, unrushed kiss.

See you tomorrow, he says, as Bucky rushes back inside.

I watch Greg go. My cheeks need to cool off before I face Steph and I want to stand here and soak it in. Soak in all the parts of my perfect life. Who would ever have thought it could be this good. Especially in Banff, three thousand miles away from home.

* * *

TIME TO GET UP, STEPH shouts. "I need your help.

As I come down the stairs, I see the mistletoe and smile. Those kisses with Greg were different than any kiss I have ever had. I am definitely no expert on kissing but most of the ones I have had felt, I don’t know, flippant, almost obligatory. Like the date’s over and you know it has to happen and it does and it’s all awkward and feels inconsequential. Greg’s didn’t. It felt like it meant something. To me, anyways. Did it mean anything to him? I hope so.

I wrap my arms around my housecoat and squeeze myself for a few more seconds, reliving them before I call out to Steph, Merry Christmas Eve.

You’re in charge of bacon, scrambled eggs, pancakes and toast, Steph says from the shortbread-smelling kitchen. They’ll be here at eleven.

There’s lots of time. I grab a bowl and box of cereal as she rushes from the stove, waving cookie sheets in the air.

What would my holiday have been like if I had gone to Denver to visit my dad and met my new-to-me stepsisters and stepmom? Maybe I will find out next year. For now, I only have to deal with Steph’s silly craziness and spending time with Greg.

What have we forgotten? Steph’s eyes dart around the kitchen. Will we have enough food?

Relax. Don’t go all mom on me. This is not a big deal.

Not a big deal? I have never entertained without your Oma telling me what to do. She shakes a flipper at me. I don’t cook for crowds, and I want this to be the best damn Christmas Eve brunch they’ve ever been to.

There’s the festive spirit. I give her a hip check on my way to the table. They’re friends. They have nowhere else to go and they’re not judgy. Besides, you could feed them this and they wouldn’t care. I lift the box of cereal in the air and shake it.

That’s not the point. Now work with me. If Oma’s looking down on us, I want her to be proud.

Her ashes are in a box, on the shelf, next to Opa’s. I point towards the living room. She’s probably got better stuff going on with him than spying on us. Quit stressing.

Even though I try to lighten Steph’s mood, my heart hurts that Oma and Opa won’t be here. Our first holiday without them. Oma would whip a meal together and Opa would entertain everyone with his stories. I sigh. It seems forever ago since they were here, and yesterday, all in the same instant.

Don’t think I didn’t see that kiss under the mistletoe, Steph says.

I stare in my bowl. Shit. Really? She saw it? My face gets hot, but I say nothing.

I’m going to be like snot on a stick every second Greg is here. She snorts. Trust me, there will be no hanky-panky in this house.

I swallow and make my voice casual. "No one says snot-on-a-stick or hanky-panky."

This is not an English lesson. You know what I mean. I may not be fabulous at this mother gig, but I know what kind of trouble that kiss can get you into.

I don’t want to bring up the whole you were a pregnant teen and ditched me on your sister drama because it’s Christmas, and intentionally upsetting Steph will ruin the mood and any opportunity for me to be with Greg.

"When did you have your first kiss? I paste a genuinely curious expression on my face and turn to her. Like, you know, one that was real."

Don’t change the subject. She shakes the flipper at me again. This is about you, Jillian. Not me. You’re only fifteen.

Come on. How old were you?

I want to tell you a story. Steph leans against the counter for a few seconds. When I went to my ten-year high school reunion, they gave out a ton of awards – one for the person who moved the furthest away, one for the person with the coolest job. You name it, there was an award for it. She sighs. You know what they gave me?

I shrug.

They gave me a watermelon.

Because...you like watermelon?

No. Her nostrils whistle. Because I was the first one to get pregnant.

Oh, burn. I shake my head. But I thought Oma and Opa kept it a secret.

It was, but you know how secrets work. Especially in a small town.

What did your friends say?

I didn’t have many friends. Steph laughs. Your Opa and I spent any spare time out in the bush, hiking, riding, skiing. When he bought me a horse, if he wasn’t around to do something, I was at the corrals.

I’m sorry.

You don’t have to be sorry. I’d hang out with him over anyone else. He was the best. She tips her head at me and gives me the look. "The point is, I am only telling you this because I want you to have every opportunity to do amazing things with your life and with those kinds of kisses, you have to be careful. Very careful."

Got it.

All of a sudden, Steph’s eyes zip from the counter to the table, to me. Coffee? Are you doing the coffee? Or am I?

I will do coffee. I grab the pot.

Wow. This is awful early in the morning for such a big share. And what mean people. Total jerks. Why would Steph stay in Banff if that’s what people thought about her? But then, she does love a challenge. Any kind of challenge.

The doorbell rings.

Bucky lets out his happy-to-see-you bark and Steph freezes. Her eyes open wide, like a grizzly bear is walking into the kitchen.

They’re early, she hisses.

Chill. I give her an uber-big smile and go to the door as Bucky pushes his way past me. Greg. Hi. I pull my housecoat shut to hide my flannel PJ’s while Greg wrestles with Bucky.

What’s he doing here so early? I haven’t done my hair or even washed my face yet.

Greg smiles. My face gets warm and my heart stops. It. Just. Stops. Until his smile droops, and his eyebrows get all scrunchy. Oh no. We spent so much time together. We kissed. Was it too much? My boyfriend status has always been sketchy. How does Mom say it? ‘Waiting for the other shoe to drop.’ What if it’s dropping now?

Merry Christmas Eve, Steph calls out to Greg.

To you too. He waves at her.

Both Greg’s eyes are red. He didn’t go drinking, did he? He’s not old enough to legally drink in Alberta. Not that he doesn’t drink. I’ve just never seen him get hammered.

Greg. I hug my sides. What’s wrong? I know what he’s going to say, and I don’t want to hear it. Not now. Not on Christmas. Not ever.

He closes his eyes.

Yup. I’m right. Incoming bad news. I bet he wants to just be friends again. How can I just be friends again? This is not fair. Why do guys ditch me when I least expect it? This is even sooner than normal. What the hell?

His face looks like he’s in pain as he stares at me.

Is everything okay? I hug myself harder.

No. No, everything is not okay.

What’s wrong?

Greg grabs me in a bear hug. His body shakes against mine. He pushes me back, hands on my shoulders, and lifts his head to meet me eye to eye.

What? I mouth.

Suzanne has been shot.

It takes my brain milli-seconds to digest the information. This is not about me. His sister has been shot.

I grab Greg’s hands and squeeze them. What...what happened? Is she okay?

He blinks fast.

My folks are trying to get me a flight home right away. Mom says it’s bad. They don’t know if she’ll...

Don’t talk like that. Suzanne’s the toughest girl I know. I grip his forearms. What happened?

She was at a uni party with a bunch of friends. Someone brought a gun. Two died. Three are...

I go in for a hug again, so he doesn’t have to be tough, and so that I don’t embarrass him by watching his face.

Three are...holding on.

Suzanne’s fit. She’s strong. Healthy, I mumble stuff into his parka to chase the sadness away. "You’ll see. She will be okay."

We stay there for a bit and then he gives himself a shake. And the hug is over. My heart connects the dots. Shit. Seriously? I get the best kisses ever, and he has to leave. Shit. Shit. Shit. Not about me. This is not about me.

He slides a hand into the pocket of his parka and pulls out a red, foil wrapped little box. Merry Christmas. I’m sorry I’m going to miss everything, but I’ve got to get going.

Hey, wait. I’ll get yours. You can open it on the plane. I rush to the living room, grab his gift from under the tree and run back. It’s nothing really, just something, I don’t know...I hope you like it.

We exchange gifts and I stare at the bow on the red box, hating myself for being upset he will be in Australia when we had all these plans to snowboard and skate and hang out. I bite my bottom lip, force a smile, and look up at him.

She will be okay, Greg. She will. You’ll see.

He says nothing. And then he puts one arm around my back, leans in and kisses me. My heart pounds