“Three years.”
He scoffs, then leans forward, elbows planted on his knees. “You talked to James this week?”
The air between us sharpens.
I give a slight shake of the head. “Not really. Haven’t seen him around much.”
James and Courtney have been out of sight most of the week back at the academy. Study hall has Courtney hypnotised, I think.
But James has probably found his way back into the infirmary.
Landon stares at the snow for a long moment. “Same for me,” Landon says. “He stitched me two nights ago.”
“Stitched?”
“Didn’t show. Stood me up.”
My mouth slants. “Maybe he’s sick again.”
His smile is faint. It’s… affectionate.
My face furrows, a question dancing on the tip of my tongue,do you care about him?
Sure, they have a physical relationship that I know of—but this, right now, watching the smile fade from Landon’s face, watching him stare out into the vast span of stark mountains, I get the sense it’s more than that.
More than sex.
But I don’t push it.
This, the skiing, the snowboarding, the slopes, the conversation, it’s all part of a show.
It’s pantomime.
We’re not really friends.
I don’t let myself forget that.
The chairlift arrives, and we clammer onto it, skis and a snowboard and poles knocking off each other.
It’s an overstimulating moment, and I ache to shove him and his snowboard away from me.
I bite down on the surge, and a heartbeat after, the bar comes down on our waists.
The chairlift continues up the mountain.
“We’ll go again,” Landon says as Bluestone rises up against the white landscape.
His way of telling me not to get off the chairlift, even though it’s a rule to get off and re-join the queue.
But the Snakes never do care much for rules that don’t serve them.
I can’t look at the expectant faces aimed at us as the chairlift stops at the station—and we don’t budge. I keep my crimson cheek to the stares, the scoffs, the grumbles, until we’re moving again.
There’s no more talk of James as the chairlift takes us up to the podium—and as we slip off, and land on the concrete slab, my heart slingshots into my throat.
Just off the podium, there’s a bulking silhouette looming against the white sheet of mountains.
Mildred is rooted in the snow, waiting for us.
