I stare up at him, his brows furrowed, guilt lurking just under the concern.
Last night tried to drag him back into hell. Today, I’m not letting it.
“I’m not quitting halfway down a beginner slope,” I say. “Help me up.”
He hesitates. “D …”
“Help. Me. Up,” I repeat.
He offers his hands, and I grab them, letting him haul me upright. I wobble, nearly go down again, then find my balance. “You know this is miserable, right?” I tell him. “I am having a horrible time.”
“I know,” he says softly.
“But I’m glad I’m here,” I add. “With you.”
His eyes go shiny in a way that has nothing to do with the cold. “Me too,” he says.
We make it down the rest of the run in a series of awkward, stop-start turns. I fall twice more, swear creatively both times, and by the time we reach the bottom, my legs are jelly, and I’m sweating like I’ve run a marathon in a sauna.
But I’m also laughing.
So is Charlie.
So is Everly, when she sees the snow plastered to my back. “You look like you got into a fight with a snowman.” She cackles.
“I did,” I mutter. “He won.”
Faith claps me on the shoulder. “You survived your first real ski run,” she says. “You’ve earned your hot chocolate.”
Caroline links her arm through mine. “With whipped cream and extra marshmallows,” she decrees, leading us toward the slope-side bar. “My treat.”
Charlie falls into step on my other side, his gloved fingers brushing mine, just enough contact to say I’m here.
Last night was rough.
Tonight, might be, too.
But right now, in this moment, legs aching, butt bruised, face half-covered in concealer, surrounded by this loud, ridiculous, loving family, I feel like everything is going to be okay.
89
DERRICK
By the time we get back to the penthouse, every part of me hurts. My shins hurt. My thighs hurt. My pride hurts. And under the concealer, my cheek throbs in a slow, pulsing ache I can’t quite ignore. The family peels off toward their rooms to shower and change for dinner. Caroline is still buzzing from the ski day, Faith is already talking about ordering schnitzel, and Everly is planning her outfit like she’s hitting a runway instead of a restaurant. Charlie lingers in the hallway with me, helmet under one arm, gloves shoved into his pockets.
“Are you okay?” he asks softly.
“I’m going to die,” I announce.
He huffs a laugh. “Okay, but besides that?”
I sigh, leaning against the wall. “I’m exhausted. And sore. And bruised. And I absolutely never want to see skis ever again.”
“But?”
“But … I’m glad we went.”
His shoulders drop like he’s been holding himself tense all day. “Good.”
