She throws her arms around me. “God, I’m sorry. I’m just…I’m feeling insecure.”
I hesitate, then wrap my arms around her. Iamfond of her, and she’s here with me.
“What’s going on, Cali?” I ask, my voice low as I stroke her back, comforting, coaxing, easing.
She pulls back slightly, looking up at me. “I…I know you said we were just friends. But I want more, Ransom.”
I stare down at her beautiful, polished face, and feel that familiar pull of discomfort settle low in my chest.
The reason I spend time with women like Calypso, who are charming, fun, and uncomplicated, and not women like Ember, who are sincere, open, and frankly have stars in their eyes, which I can do without, is to avoid conversations like this.
But here I am, backed into a space that asks for more than I’m prepared to give.
Before I can say anything, she shakes her head vigorously. “Forget…just forget I said anything.”
How the fuck am I supposed to do that?
“Please. Just…please forget it,” she pleads. “What we have is…more than enough.”
I nod because that’s the easy thing to do.
The next morning, I wake up early with the kind of alpine clarity that makes the world feel like it’s been scrubbed clean overnight.
Calypso’s distress last night is still making my chest hurt. Usually, she’s bright, infectious, and can make even some of my crustiest colleagues crack a smile.
I don’t love her, but among the women I’ve spent time with, Calypso has been one I’m most compatible with. We get along. We have fun. I’d even let myself imagine that we might actually go the distance—not forever, but maybe something with no obvious expiration date.
I’m forty-five. I’m not interested in bed-hopping or playing games. Easy, enjoyable, stable—those things matter more now than whatever lightning bolt I once thought love had to be.
But in Chamonix, Calypso is different.
Maybe it’s the altitude.
Maybe it’s being surrounded by a family that knows each other down to the bone.
Either way, what felt easy in the Bay Area feels strained here, like we’re trying to waltz to the wrong rhythm.
I know the fault lies with me. I’m making her feel insecure because she’s seeing through me, seeing how I feel about Ember.
And how do you feel about Ember?
Fuck! Not going there with a ten-foot pole. I’m going to live in the now and not dwell on the past or worry about the future.
So I make a quiet promise to myself: make this vacation work. I owe Calypso that much.
Maybe we won’t last—but then again, maybe we will. We don’t live in Chamonix. Back home, things work. We get along, fit into each other’s lives with surprising ease. We share the same values, the same rhythm. Whatever the future holds, for now, we’re together. And while we are, I owe her grace. I owe her my full attention.
Even if part of me is struggling to give it.
We meet Latika and the kids in the kitchen.
The kids have already been on the slopes.
Anika babbles about how fun it was to ski with her Auntie Ember, while Thomas wants everyone to kiss his boo-boo, the one he got when he tumbled down the bunny slope.
I crouch, kiss his forehead, and then his nose. “You doing okay now, Tank Engine?”
Thomas nods solemnly. “Mummy says that kisses are the best anti-totic.”
