I lean forward and brace my elbows against my knees. She’s so terribly, frustratingly annoying. Schoolyard taunts and a big mouth. Full lips and pretty hair. “Don’t worry. Excellence isn’t contagious.”
“You mean having a big ego isn’t.” She sets down her glass. It’s a 2014 Nebbiolo, one of my personal favorites. “We’ll have to make sure it looks natural. You know, at the wedding.”
“Darling, you’re not suggesting we practice?” The nickname slips out, even without an audience. Her eyes narrow, and that’s why I’m using it.
Because she hates it, and I love making her squirm.
She leans forward. “No practice in the world would make you a good kisser.”
“No practice in the world would make me enjoy kissing you.”
“Then we agree,” she says. Her lips are cherry colored, tinged by the red wine.
“Agreed,” I say. “No practice.”
“None at all,” she says.
CHAPTER 18
RAFE
The dream starts the way it always does.
A cold winter day, with a blue sky above and air so crisp it nips at my cheeks. My brother standing across from me in his red parka and waving to the right.Race you.The mountains spread out across us as far as the eye can reach.
We ski down an off-piste, powder snow rising like mist from our runs. It always starts that way. Like it’s just another day skiing, something we’d done so many times before.
But it never stays that way.
Soon we’re atop another slope.
I yell something to him. It’s different in every dream. But it’s always the same outcome. It’s always my decision to cut over the ridge and start down the opposite slope.
The snow looks pristine. It’s sparkling white, powdery fresh, draped across the mountain’s nooks and crannies in a way that screamsof fun.I race down the slope and hear my brother call for me as he follows.
Skiing off-piste is new for me. Etienne’s older, more experienced. But for me this is still wickedly fun, with no other skiers around and pure adrenaline racing alongside us. Thedream is good until this happens. Until I decide what run we take, and he has no choice but to follow me.
And then everything goes wrong.
There’s the giant roar of snow, grated against the mountainside. Pain and silence and screaming for Etienne that goes unanswered.
I wake up with a hoarse throat and drenched in sweat. I lie still for long, panicked moments, looking up at the ceiling.
I’m in my house in Como. I’m not buried beneath snow.
It takes a long time for the instincts to fade.
And then the guilt comes like a sucker punch to the gut. Sudden nausea makes it hard to breathe. I sit up and brace my feet on the cool wooden floor. They say deep breaths helps. I’ve always found fighting to help me more.
Lock me in a ring where every second counts and pain is my penance.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s too late to find a place now. There aren’t that many, at any rate, and I have to be so damned careful where I go. No photos. No phones. Nothing leaked to the press.
I run a hand over my face.
It’s been over fifteen years, and the dreams haven’t stopped. They fade sometimes. I can have months when I don’t have a single one. But they never stop. They never disappear.
I don’t deserve to have them gone.
