“That was the flattest part,” Faith points out as she glides to a stop, barely breathing hard. “Wait until the top.”
“I don’t need that negativity,” I tell her.
We shuffle back to the magic carpet, the little conveyor-belt-thing that drags you uphill. I almost fall just standing on it. By the third lap, my legs are shaking, my dignity is in tatters, and I’ve sworn in three different languages. But I haven’t actually fallen yet, and Charlie looks stupidly proud.
“See?” he says. “You’re a natural.”
“I am absolutely not,” I say. “But I am stubborn, and that’s almost the same thing.”
Caroline waves at us from further up, elegant in a white ski suit with a faux-fur hood, looking like she stepped out of a luxury catalogue. “Come on!” she calls. “Meet us at the top for one proper run. Then we can have hot chocolate.”
“Hot chocolate,” I repeat, like a prayer. “Okay. For hot chocolate, I’ll risk my life.”
Charlie’s jaw tenses slightly, like the word risk lands differently in his head. He pushes past it, forcing a smile. “We’ll keep it slow. I promise.”
We take the chairlift up, me gripping the bar like it’s the only thing tethering me to the earth.
“This is high,” I say.
“This is medium,” Charlie replies. “You’re doing great.”
The view is disgustingly beautiful. Mountains stretching forever, powdery slopes dotted with skiers, the lake a little toy mirror in the distance. We dismount at the top with minimal drama. I only half stumble, and then we’re standing at the start of the green run. It looks long.
“Okay,” Charlie says, planting his poles. “We’ll do big, lazy turns. Take our time. If you freak out, we stop. Got it?”
“Define freak out.”
“Anything involving screaming my name like I’ve set you on fire.”
“Copy that,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”
We push off.
At first, it’s okay. Slow, careful turns, my thighs screaming but manageable. Charlie stays just ahead of me, glancing back every few seconds, coaching. Caroline and Robert are dots further down the slope, Faith and Everly are showing off somewhere, carving back and forth.
Then I hit a patch of slightly steeper terrain.
My speed picks up.
Panic flares.
“Pizza! Pizza!” Charlie calls, motioning with his hands.
“I’m trying!” I yell, but my skis feel like they’re on greased rails. The wind bites my cheeks, my eyes water, and the trees on the side of the run blur. My weight tips back, skis shoot out from under me, and I go down on my ass with an undignified yelp, sliding for a good ten meters before friction and panic finally stop me. I lie there, spread-eagled in the snow, staring up at the sky.
“D!” Charlie’s voice, closer now, anxious. “Are you okay?”
I groan. “I am one giant bruise.”
He shuffles down to me, snow spraying, and crouches beside me, breath puffing white in the cold. “Anything hurt?”
“Besides my pride? All of me.” I moan. “I think my soul dislocated.” A kid skis past and laughs at me. Fucking asshole.
Charlie snorts. “Can you move your legs?”
“Yes,” I grumble, wiggling them. “Unfortunately.”
“Then you’re okay,” he says gently. “Want to call it? We can walk down and go get that hot chocolate.”
