"As my final will and testament, you may have the neon pink stress ball in my desk. The one shaped like a tiny dumbbell."
"You’re not dead."
"And do not, under any circumstances, let Miranda in finance take my ‘No Mondays’ mug. I want to be buried with it." I tell her, heading towards the sign that says "TAXI".
"You can’t be buried with a mug."
I shake off her comment. Her logical thinking won’t derail me.
"Are you writing this down?" I demand, adjusting my suitcase as another gust from the automatic double doors nearly takes me out at the knees. "I don’t hear you writing this down."
"I’m documenting everything for the authorities," she says dryly. "Cause of death? Dramatic overreaction to precipitation."
"This is not precipitation. This is an extinction event. It’s probably coming for you next."
"Call me when you’ve actually seen the hockey player," she says. "Preferably before you kill him for making you fly out there. We’ll need an airtight alibi. Get a burner phone before you call back."
The line clicked dead before I could respond.
I glare at my phone and then realize that she didn’t hang up… I lost service. This storm absolutely has a personal vendetta against me.
I spotted an airport shop and veered toward it, pride and dignity left sobbing somewhere near baggage claim.
I bought the thickest parka I could find.
It's neon orange and two sizes too big. It makes me look like a traffic cone, but at least I won’t be a freezer-burnt traffic cone, and that… I can live with.
I swipe my card without looking at the total because I'm a coward and because it doesn't matter what the price is; I have to have it, or I will surely die the moment I exit this airport.
The receipt prints, and my credit card sends up a cry for help from inside my wallet.
My savings account is now a savings concept.But if I can get Luka out of this mess, it will all be worth it.
It's temporary, I remind myself. I just need a couple of days to convince him. Come up with a plan and get him onboard, and then head back home, where the sun remembers I exist.
The cab ride feels like being trapped inside a shaken snow globe where the heater can't keep up and the defrost has given up all hope.
The driver squints through the windshield like he's trying to read fine print in the dark. The wipers are fighting a losing battle. Snow slants sideways, making it hard to see anything past the dashboard in front of us.
I check my phone again… no service still. Why me?
A little while later, the resort finally emerges from the whiteout like a mirage. The resort isn’t just a hotel, it’s a whole village wrapped around the base of the mountain. An entire alpine town built with shops, restaurants, and chalets clustered together, all connected by cobblestone paths to look like it was created centuries ago, but actually designed for the wealthy to get lost in a blizzard in comfort.
It’s stunning—exactly what I pictured a Swiss Alps luxury ski resort would look like. Warm lights glow against the storm, the building massive and self-assured, backdropped by the Alps. I know the mountains are there, even if I can barely make them out through the whiteout.
Inside, the lobby is absolutely gorgeous… and absolutely chaotic.
The reception area soars four stories tall, crowned by massive crystal chandeliers that fracture light across polished marble floors and wooden log beams. The glass atrium stretches overhead like something out of a fairy tale, all that gleaming architecture dwarfing the disaster unfolding below.
Wet designer coats are draped everywhere in an elegant disaster. Rolling Louis Vuitton luggage creates an obstacle course across the pristine floor. Frustrated voices rise in halfa dozen languages, all saying the same thing:why did I come here?
The front desk staff smile too tightly, their faces frozen as they deliver bad news on loop. No, flights aren't resuming. No, we can't predict when the storm will clear. Yes, we understand your frustration.
I stand there in my neon orange traffic cone parka, dripping melted snow onto marble that probably costs more per square foot than the mortgage on my condo, and wonder—not for the first time today—what series of catastrophically poor decisions led me to this exact moment.
When it's my turn, I give the clerk my name and reservation number.
She types. Pauses. Her face does something sympathetic and devastating.
