"I am breathing," she argues.
"You're holding your breath. Breathe."
She exhales sharply. Her shoulders dropped half an inch.
"There. Again."
Another breath. Her grip on my wrists loosened slightly.
"Weight forward. Trust your edges," I coach her.
"Easy for you to say."
"Nothing about this is easy. Do it anyway."
We carve through a turn. She gasps, but stays with me.
"Good. Again."
Another turn. Smoother this time.
I watch her face instead of the slope. See the moment fear shifts to concentration. Then the concentration shifts to something else.
Understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of trust.
We reach the bottom, and I bring us to a clean stop.
She stares at me, breathing hard. Then down at her skis. Then back at me.
"Holy shit," she says. "I did that."
"You did that."
A grin breaks across her face. The first unguarded one I’ve ever seen directed at me.
And I grin back before I can stop myself.
Her expression shifts as if she just saw something I’ve been hiding from everyone. Like she just discovered I'm capable of more than intentional coldness. The part of me that only my sister gets to see.
I clear my throat and look away.
"Again?" I ask.
"Yeah. Again," she says, her body practically bouncing with excitement.
The second run, she's less tense.
Still holding my wrists, but her grip is steadier and more confident.
"How did you get so good at this?" she asks halfway down.
"I grew up in the cold. The boarding school was in the mountains. Skiing was more effective than therapy."
She snorts, then laughs.
The sound settles somewhere deep and warms a part of me that’s been iced over for too long.
"What about you?" I ask. "Why didn't you learn before?"
