“I am going to be terrible at skiing,” I tell him. “I am going to complain the entire time. I am going to fall on my ass in front of small children and Italian men in catsuits. But I want to go. I need to do something that’s not … this.” I gesture between my face and his chest.
He searches my eyes for a beat, then nods. “Okay. We’ll take it slow.”
“Good. I’m not breaking a leg on this trip. I have fittings when we get back.”
Caroline claps her hands, instantly sliding into Mom Trip Coordinator mode. “Wonderful. I’ll call down, have them get our passes ready at the concierge desk, and let them know we need rental gear for Derrick. We’ll go after breakfast.”
“Are you coming up with us?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? I’ve had my ski gear planned for weeks,” she says.
Fast-forward an hour, and I’m standing at the base of the mountain, encased in layers, boots locked into skis, helmet on, goggles pushed up on my forehead, questioning every life choice that brought me here.
“Okay, you look like a skiing Ken doll,” Everly teases.
“I feel like a newborn deer on roller skates,” I say.
The slope in front of us is allegedly a beginner run, but it looks vertical to me. Tiny children zoom past like suicidal marshmallows.
Charlie adjusts my poles, patiently. “We’re starting on the baby slope,” he reminds me. “No heroics, no black diamonds.”
“The only black diamond I know is in Harry Winston,” I mutter.
Charlie steps in front of me, skis parallel to mine. “Okay. Pizza and French fries, remember?” he says. “V-shape to slow down, parallel to go straight. Keep your weight forward, not back.”
“I thought this was supposed to be fun,” I complain.
Faith slides by us effortlessly, like she was born with skis attached. “It is fun,” she calls over her shoulder. “Once you stop fearing death.”
“Cool, cool, very reassuring, thank you so much,” I shout back.
Charlie smiles softly. “We’ll go together. I’ll stay right next to you. Statistically, you’re also the one most likely to take me out if you wipe out,” he tells me.
I look at him, really look at him. The tired eyes, the faint bruise under one of them from lack of sleep, the way he’s carrying himself like he deserves to be punished.
“Let’s do this.”
His throat bobs. “Okay. Ready?”
“Absolutely not, but I’m not going to waste this outfit,” I say. “Let’s go.”
He laughs, pushes off slowly, and I follow.
The first thirty seconds are … chaos.
My legs feel like they belong to someone else. The skis try to cross. My brain screams at me about gravity, velocity, andbones. I somehow manage to move without immediately dying or breaking a limb.
“Good!” Charlie calls from beside me. “You’re doing great!”
“I am absolutely not,” I yell back. “My quads are on fire. My ass is clenched. This is a hate crime.”
A tiny Swiss child in a neon snowsuit shoots past me.
“Fuck off, toddler!” I shout, which makes Charlie howl with laughter.
We reach the bottom of the baby slope without me eating snow. I’m sweating under my layers, heart pounding.
“I did it,” I pant. “I am a god.”
