Mulaa Joans: Phone Sex
Salzburg, November 28
ÉLISE
The living room feels like a museum after hours.
Tasteful. Quiet. Expensive in that way that whispers rather than shouts. Marble floors, cream sofas arranged with mathematical precision, curtains half-drawn against the Salzburg evening. The TV is on, tuned to the Beaver Creek downhill broadcast, and my father has arranged a selection of snacks on the coffee table like we're a normal family having a normal evening.
Olives. Cheese. Crackers.
No butler. He made a point of that. "Just us," he said. "Quality time."
I'm sitting on one end of the sofa, legs tucked beneath me, watching the pre-race coverage with what I hope looks like polite interest.
My father is at the other end, wineglass in hand, relaxed in a way that never quite reaches his eyes.
"I thought it would be nice," he'd said this afternoon, "to watch the race together. You're invested in ski racing now. We should share that."
I'd refused.
Politely. With a smile and an excuse about needing to catch up on emails.
His smile hadn't wavered. "Élise. When I suggest family time, the family participates."
So here I am.
Quality time.
On the screen, the announcers are talking about course conditions. Icy. Fast. Unforgiving. They show replays of yesterday's Super-G, and there he is. Nico. Golden and reckless and alive, flying over Golden Eagle like gravity is optional.
My chest tightens.
My phone is face-down on the cushion beside me. There's a text from him I haven't answered yet. A photo of the Super-Gtrophy with some cocky caption I can't bring myself to respond to because if I start typing, I won't be able to stop, and my father will notice.
"They're saying Reiner has a real chance today," Father says, tone conversational. "After yesterday's win, the pressure will be on him."
I keep my face neutral. "Mm."
"He's very talented. Aggressive style. A bit reckless, perhaps, but that's what the crowds love."
He takes a sip of wine, eyes still on the screen.
I don't answer.
On the TV, they cut to the start house. Racers warming up, coaches hovering, the camera panning across faces I'm starting to recognize.
And then, there he is.
Nico. Start number thirteen. Grinning at someone off-camera, all confidence and energy and that stupid, beautiful recklessness that pulls like a magnet.
My stomach twists.
I reach for an olive I don't want and force myself to chew.
