The Perfect Snow (Seasons #1)

Chapter 7: Brentwin Cliff

We're driving up a snow-covered mountain in a car that feels like the tropics exploded on the inside. Preston is determined to keep my core temperature as high as possible before I jump into frigid waters. I agree with him, but I'm also sweating like a burglar caught with his hands in the vault.

The storm has receded, but left a chill in the air that lingers, permeating to the bone.

"If I live to tell the tale, my grandkids will someday be in awe of what a badass their grandpa was," I say, pretending to sip the scalding, hyper-caffeinated concoction Preston made for me before we left. Pretend being the operating word; I burned my tongue once already.

"What your grandkids will know is that you were always a dumbass, dumbass. And that's if you live to tell the tale. Big if. Now drink your tea," he says, muttering something about how stupid this is. "I'm not sure if I'm the bigger idiot, or you. I am actually driving you there," he grumbles.

I'm slathered in some weather guard cream from head to toe that's supposed to insulate my body, wearing Preston's wetsuit that's a little wide around the torso and short on my limbs, my winter jacket over it, and I notice the thermostat says it's balmy 85 degrees in the car and going up. I feel like dinner that's being marinated and boiled at the same time. "Can I please take my jacket off for a minute? One minute?" I ask, for the umpteenth time.

"No. Drink your tea," commands Preston. "The electric blanket is charged up and I will have the car parked down close to the edge. You better not get that far. Not a millisecond after him, you're out of the water. You hear me?"

"Yes, mother," I say, sipping the tea cautiously.

We park in a clearing with several cars there already, and a crowd mills about. It's likely everyone who was at Clement's party the other night and everyone they know and their third cousin twice removed. All here to see me be a dumbass, as Preston would say.

"Finish your tea before you go over there," he says.

I try to, but I am boiling in my own skin. There's only so much heat I can take. When he's not looking, I unscrew the top and toss it out to the side. "All done!" I hand him the empty tumbler.

We spot Clement before he sees us. He's sitting with his friends, unzipped jacket revealing a stark white wetsuit in a honeycomb pattern. It looks like something a SEAL would wear on a mission. I wouldn't be surprised if it is. If anyone would be able to afford it, it's probably Clement. I'm about to make for him when Preston clamps a hand on my shoulder and pushes me forward. "Keep walking," he says.

"I hope you are ready," Clement calls as we pass, taking his jacket off.

I start taking mine off, while Mother Vance fusses around me. "I learned there's eight minutes to reach from here to the cliff on a calm day, but given the earlier storm and likely elevated water levels, velocity... I'd say it'll carry you there in half the time," he says, standing feet apart with hands crossed, eyeing the cold, dark waters like a general preparing for battle. "You probably have about the same time before hypothermia kicks in," he says, turning to me. "Rhys, do what you gotta do, but don't be a dumbass—get out before the four minutes are up."

I start setting my digital watch to four minutes, and then think about the freezing temperatures, and shave another thirty seconds.

3 minutes, 30 seconds.

Whatever happens, it's minutes, right? I am stubborn enough to last for three-and-a-half minutes through anything.

"Ready?" says Clement, walking up beside me as I'm taking my jacket off. No taunting, no dramatic speeches. I can see it on his face: he's as terrified as I am.