“Antibiotic,” Latika corrects him automatically. “Come on, bud, time for chocolate milk.”
“Aksel is back out?” I ask.
“Yeah, with Ember and Freja. Those three are going to kill themselves one of these days.” She’s smiling indulgently as she places a marshmallow on the whipped cream atop the chocolate milk.
“Why?” Calypso sips her coffee. “Are they not good skiers?”
Latika bursts out laughing. “No, the problem is that they’re too good. Aksel, as you know, skied professionally. National junior team. Ask him, he’ll show off until the cows come home. Freja is good. But it’s Ember they both want to beat. She’s the best.”
Calypso’s eyes darken. “Really?” There’s a challenge in her tone, which I don’t like to hear.
“Yes,” I interject quickly, before she gets any bright ideas about joining the Rousseau siblings in their unofficialwho-can-survive-the-steepest-black-diamonddeath match.
She meets my gaze with quiet, simmering jealousy. “We’ll see.”
Fucking hell.The last thing I need is to end up in the emergency room because Calypso decides to ski beyond her skill level and snaps a leg.
Although, if I’m being honest, that might mean she’s off the slopes—and out of my hair.
I feel guilty the second the thought crosses my mind.
As we leave the chalet—skis slung over our shoulders, boots crunching through the fresh powder, Iwonder if I’m just not built for this kind of togetherness. In San Francisco, Calypso and I see each other a few evenings a week—dinners out, the occasional gallery opening, a nightcap at her place or mine. Now, suddenly, we’re in each other’s pockets 24/7, with no room to breathe.
Maybe that’s why we’re sniping at each other like mismatched scissors.
Or maybe it’s because, deep down, we both sense this thing between us doesn’t stretch far enough to cover two full weeks in a snow globe.
I need a break from Calypso to get my thoughts in order. Today was supposed to be that day.
Calypso had plans—spa day with Heidi, Gisele, and Margot. Steam rooms, glacier facials, cucumber water, the works. But this morning, in what I can only assume was a last-minute burst of competitive flair—or jealousy—she swept in, wrapped in a designer ski suit, and declared she’d “give the slopes a whirl.”
So much for space.
I suspect it has to do with her insecurities around Ember, and not wanting me to be alone with her since she had said she’d be skiing today as well.
Is that why I wanted Calypso away so that I could spend time with Ember? Was I that much of a lowlife?
“How do I look?” Calypso asks as we step out into the sunlit cold.
“Gorgeous, as always.”
She preens.
She’s dressed in pristine white gear, all matching, all designer, with a pale pink helmet. She looks beautiful, sure. But uncomfortable. And she hasn’t stopped adjusting something or other for the past ten minutes.
“It was so comfortable when I tried it on,” she complains.
“Once you’re on the slopes, you’ll be fine,” I say instead of being condescending, which was my first instinct.
I mean, you don’t dress for fashion when you ski, you dress to fucking ski.
We meet Ember, Aksel, and Freja waiting at the Brévent lift base station, along with two German snowboarders and a French family discussing après-ski plans.
Calypso keeps shifting her weight in those pristine white boots, fidgeting with her goggles, and reapplying lip balm. She smiles for a few selfies. She stopped trying to get me into any of them a month ago. She posts everything to her social media, which I’ve never been on.
“You ready, or are we fitting this into the next fashion week?” Freja snaps when Calypso struggles to get on the gondola because of…what the fuck ever.
Calypso glares at Freja, and that sets the tone of our cable car ride. She pouts while the rest of us talk. I’ve had it up toherewith the woman. She’s behaving like a teenager, and I’m ready to throw in my scalpel and call it a day.
