A Beautiful Dark

year?”
    “And every year?” He picked up a chocolate cupcake and began peeling off the wrapper, sucking some frosting off his thumb.
    “Yeah. Believe it or not, I was.”
    Ian nodded to himself, pleased. “So what do you think of the band?” he asked.
    I glanced back to the small stage in the corner where three guys were playing indie pop. “Not bad.”
    “Not as good as The Somnambulists,” Cassie said quickly.
    “Is that what we’re calling your band now?” Dan said, amused.
    “But your band wasn’t available tonight,” Ian reminded her. “You had a surprise party to make happen.”
    “True.” She reached for another cupcake, splitting it in half with a fork. “I have many talents.” She absently passed me the other half. “I sort of outdid myself tonight, didn’t I?”
    “You did,” I agreed. “Next year, though, when I say no surprise party, I mean no surprise party.”
    “Like that’s going to happen,” Ian said.
    “If we don’t throw you a party, who will?” Cassie asked, before turning her attention back to Dan.
    I knew she didn’t mean them to, but her words stung. I thought of my parents. I had such fuzzy memories of them because I was so young when they died, but my mom’s best friend—my legal guardian, who I call Aunt Jo—had given me this whole box of photos from my childhood with them. Apparently every year on my birthday, my mom would bake me a woefully lopsided cake from Funfetti mix, and she’d let me decorate it with chocolate and vanilla frosting in a marble pattern. The cakes were all pretty hideous, according to the pictures, but marble-frosted Funfetti cake was still my favorite dessert. Funny the things I could suddenly miss even though I barely remembered them.
    “You look really great,” Ian said quietly, bringing me back to the present.
    “Thanks,” I said. “Must be that one-year-older thing.”
    “No, you always look great.” He blushed, suddenly fascinated by what was left of his cupcake.
    He was wearing a green polo shirt with the Bean logo over his heart. Not exactly sexy. I knew he wouldn’t believe me if I told him he looked good, too. It would just be me trying to feel comfortable with his compliment. Trying to make us both feel comfortable with it.
    It was getting hot in there, too loud, too crowded. I never did well with small spaces and large gatherings. I wanted to be on the slopes, skiing, with the exhilaration of the bracing wind rushing over my face. That was where I always wanted to be.
    “I need air,” I announced to the group.
    “You mean frostbite ?” Cassie looked up dubiously. “Have fun.”
    “Bundle up, dear!” Dan called in his best grandma voice.
    I scanned the pile of coats on the couch for a glimpse of mine. All I could see were my hat and scarf peeking out from under someone’s parka.
    “You want company?” Ian asked.
    “Thanks,” I said, pretending to be engrossed in searching for my outerwear, “but I’m just going to catch a few deep breaths. Not worth you getting frostbite, too.”
    “That’s cool.” He stood up. “I gotta get back to work anyway.”
    “The cupcakes were great.”
    “I didn’t bake them.” His voice held a strange, disappointed edge to it, and I was left with the feeling that I’d somehow done something wrong.
    With a sigh, I watched him walk away. Why didn’t you just say yes, Skye? Would his joining you have been the worst thing ever? No, but I craved the solitude, just a couple of minutes alone. He’d understand. He always did.
    After snatching my hat and scarf from the couch and slipping them on, I snuck out the front door.
    The cold air swallowed me whole. It felt good, revitalized me. Out here, it was quiet and peaceful. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, enjoying the alone time. When I opened them, the full moon stared back at me, lighting up the mountains below.
    “Hey.”
    I whipped around, embarrassed at being caught having a moment of reflection. Someone was standing against the wall of the building behind me. I could see the outline of a guy’s tall, sinewy frame, but his face was obscured by the shadows cast by the awning.
    “Oh,” I gasped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I can—” I turned toward the door.
    “No, stay,” he said. “It was getting too quiet.” He stepped into the light. “I’m not used to living so close to the mountains. I think they create a sound buffer, or something.”
    Our eyes met, and something in the