As Long As You're Mine

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-One

Elle

You know that feeling you get when you’ve come to the conclusion that you’re actions probably weren’t the smartest ones to make? There was a pit in your stomach as deep and uneasy as the Grand Canyon, and all you could think was that you were making a mistake. An ache was in your chest and your nerves were bouncing everywhere. There was an overall sense of regret in the upcoming exploit you had yet to actually pursue. Currently, that was exactly how I felt.

      “It’s a chairlift; it’s neither a monster, football, nor Jake Anderson. It is a fucking chairlift!” Nick sighed in an attempt to be encouraging. To me, listing two of my previous phobias and an ex boyfriend didn’t quite scream “supportive”.

      “I’m sorry, Miss, but if you’re not going to get on, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, so someone else can go up,” an employee dressed in the regulation uniform of a black snowsuit and a neon yellow vest informed me.

      Despite the fact that the chairlift operator’s words were directed to me, Nick decided to answer, because, well, he was Nick. “Oh, she’s going up. She’s going up on that thing if it’s the last thing she does!”

      “I don’t want to!” I protested, staring up at the swaying machine that did resemble a monstrous creature in some aspects.

      Nick was wrong. The contraption that was needed in order to ascend up the mountain scared me. Not because I was afraid of falling off at the insane height it carried one, but rather because I didn’t want nostalgia to hit me like a person after they had conveniently discovered that you possessed a brutal sunburn.

      “I don’t care!” Nick mimicked back.

      “Excuse me, sir, but that’s no way to talk to a lady,” the neon vest said, stepping into our dispute once again.

      “Listen, bro, she’s my girlfriend and promised me she’d get her ass on that thing. She owes me,” Nick said.

      And now, I suppose a little background knowledge would come in handy. Basically, Nick announced that he wanted to go skiing with me last night. I obviously refused, neither wanting to face the memories nor the cold. He pulled the “you kicked my mom out of our condo that she’s paying for” card, claiming that I owed him. Technically, I was in debt to Danni, not him. Nevertheless, he had somehow convinced me to drive up to Vermont with him. I think he may have slipped a sedative into my coffee this morning, the reason behind my unusual tolerance.

      “I can’t do it, Nicky,” I said, the sides of my mouth upturning as I said the last word in my sentence.

      “That wasn’t funny,” Nick said dully in response to the century old nickname I had resurfaced.

      “Sure it was,” I reasoned. “It was funny when we were eight, and it’s still funny now.”

      In about second or third grade, Nick had somehow acquired the wonderful name of “Nicky”. He didn’t like it. Actually, that was an understatement— he hated it. How did one go about in obtaining the lovely addition of a “y” to end of their name? They didn’t.

      We were doing art project geared towards our age range in class and it involved three key materials: paper, scissors, and glue. It was some art project about the rain forest or something. Anyways, if you’ve ever witnessed eight year olds interact with those three substances, then you probably know it never results well.

      Almost everyone in the room was done cleaning up their mess by the time we were supposed to be wrapping up with our visual masterpieces… except Nick. Somehow, this brilliant child had glued a piece of paper to his forehead. Don’t ask me how; it was one of those unexplainable phenomena that occurred in life periodically. When asked why he hadn’t taken the piece of thin, tree trunk fibers off of his head, he replied with the oh so bright, “It’s stuck.” And so developed the name “Sticky Nicky”, which, over time, shortened to just “Nicky”.