I remember the magic.
— R
I press a hand to my chest, where his note is tucked.
A paper-thin apology for a heartbreak that cracked me open.
And yet….
How he managed to get chocolate from my favorite chocolaterie in San Francisco is a mystery. I’m charmed, despite myself. Touched, even though I don’t want to be.
Damn you, Ransom.
“Hey, that’s cheating,” Freja squeals when Anika’s snowball hits her.
“No, it’s not.” Anika chases her aunt.
Their laughter echoes off the trees.
We’re about halfway through the trail. Some of us have taken a break, gathered around a ring of benches that surround a fire pit we didn’t bother to light. The air is crisp, our breath visible as we sip hot chocolate from brushed steel thermoses Chef Pascal packed forus. It’s thick, rich, and laced with something extra—cognac, just enough to feel the heat bloom in your chest.
“How’s the heart?” Latika asks as Mama and Tanya join the snowball fight with Freja and Anika.
“Sore,” I admit.
Her brown eyes are gentle. “He says he’s sorry?” It’s a question.
She wants to know if I believe him. If I intend to forgive him. If I want to be in a relationship with him. Or, if I’ll simply walk away.
“I didn’t expect it to hurt this much,” I admit. “I feel so weak…and stupid.”
Latika squeezes my shoulder. “Love is not weak…though it can be stupid at times.But, Ember Rousseau, you’re one of the smartest people I know. I think it’s okay to trust your heart.”
I take a long sip of chocolate. “My heart steers me into places where I get hurt. I’d much rather listen to my head.”
“You love him,” she states.
“Yes.”
“You think he loves you?”
“I don’t believe him…I don’t want to. I…think I’m scared.”
Warmth flickers in her eyes. “Whatever you decide, we’re behind you. Just don’t let anyone else’s judgment—yours included—steer the wheel. Do what feels right for your spirit, your heart, your healing.”
It’s good advice. I want to take it—I will, as soon as I stop being afraid.
We hike all the way into town in a loose, laughing line, boots crunching snow, coats zipped tight, cheeks rosy from the cold.
The air smells like chimney smoke and frost, and the lights in Chamonix sparkle like someone scattered a box of stars.
Tonight’s plan is to have drinks at Le Monchu, and then dinner there or at another restaurant. Chef Pascal is taking the night off.
La Monchu is a Chamonix institution. It’s indulgently alpine with the warmth of a blazing fireplace. The chairs are draped with furs, evoking the ambiance of old mountain huts.
We claim a long table near the windows where we can watch the snow as it starts to fall again.
Anika is bouncing with excitement and asks for a “grown-up drink.”
