"Because you reminded me of someone I used to be," I admit. "And I wasn't ready to deal with that."
"Who were you?"
"A finance guy in Seattle. Worked eighty-hour weeks, had an ulcer at twenty-six, a breakdown at twenty-eight. Moved here to rebuild. Decided never to care that much about anything again."
She's quiet for a moment. "And now?"
"Now I lead snowmobile tours and go home to a quiet cabin and don't let things get complicated."
"That sounds..." She hesitates. "Lonely."
"It's peaceful."
"Same thing sometimes."
Before I can respond, we're mounting up again. This time, Avery doesn't hesitate wrapping her arms around my waist and settling against my back like she belongs there.
Which is dangerous thinking.
The return route is more challenging with steeper terrain, tighter turns, requiring actual skill and trust. It’s just us and another guide and his charge since we’re doing the more advanced trek. I navigate carefully, hyperaware of Avery behind me, the way she moves with the machine now instead of fighting it.
At one sharp turn, she laughs—pure, delighted sound that does things to my chest.
Back at the resort, the women dismount, chattering excitedly. Several thank me, already asking about tomorrow's advanced tour.
Avery lingers, pulling off her gloves.
"That was incredible," she says. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. You did well. Natural sense of balance."
"Really?"
"Really. Most first-timers fight the machine. You learned fast."
She blushes again—I'm realizing she does that when she receives compliments. Like she's not used to them.
"I should go," she says. "I have... actually, I have nothing scheduled until dinner. That's unusual for me."
"Must be uncomfortable."
"Terrifying." But she's smiling.
"Try leaning into it. See what happens."
"Is that your philosophy? See what happens?"
"Most of the time."
"And does it work?"
I look at her and study her. This woman came on a snowmobile tour in full makeup because, God forbid, she appear less than perfect. Who asked smart questions because preparation makes her feel safe. Who laughed with pure joy on a mountain turn because for thirty seconds she forgot to control everything.
"Sometimes," I say. "Sometimes it works beautifully."
We're staring at each other, and I should look away, should crack a joke, should maintain the emotional distance I've perfected over the years.
But I don't.
