Rude, but sadly not untrue. “I wonder what it would be like to have actual privacy.”
“You can ask Blizzard Girl. If she survives her alone time.”
“Okay, Grim Reaper. I’ll give her a call. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear from me.”
Jean elbowed her, hard. “You could interview her!”
“Because they’ll definitely give that story to a rando from Oahu whose biggest byline is from a free community newspaper.”
“Want to bet?”
Libby ignored her roommate’s outstretched hand. “No way, no how.”
And not only because Jean was a notorious cheat. Why gamble when you had zero chance of winning?
Chapter 2
lovelillibetThere are so many areas in life where we can either accept the average or seek our own extraordinary. Take ice, for example. Are you settling for the same square edges as everyone else, or do you challenge yourself to explore the full spectrum of frozen expression? Crushed, shaved, craft, etched, infused: there’s an entire world of cold waiting if you’re willing to push beyond the basic.
Love, Lillibet
Image: An ice sculpture depicting a swan embracing a naked woman.
#neversettle #chillvibes #amateurmixologist #bemoreseemore
The scene was a Christmas card come to life: vanilla-frosted slopes and inky fir trees as far as the eye could see. Stick it in a frame and every gallery-crawling tourist would get a whiff of pine boughs and crisp mountain air. No need to tell them it had been taken in May.
A splash of auburn trotted into the picture. Jefferson’s four-hundred-millimeter lens picked up every glint of copper and rust threaded through the vixen’s fur.
“What’s a high-class dame like you doing in a joint like this?” The words emerged as frosty puffs, a reminder that he was talking to himself.
Like an antisocial loner,said the memory of Genevieve’s voice. As if there were another type of loner who loved crowds.
And yes, sometimes Jefferson spoke to animals, but it didn’t mean he preferred them to people (another of Gen’s accusations) or had forgotten how to be civilized (because he never posted pictures of her on Instagram). He happened to like the quiet of open spaces, and the what-you-see-is-what-you-get behavior of wild animals. It was a lot harder to lie when your actions did the talking.
Speaking of which: A male fox was creeping into view. It looked like he was psyching himself up to shoot his shot, which meant Jefferson needed to be ready to do the same. He adjusted the exposure to compensate for the bleached brightness of the snow as Mr. Fox circled the vixen, hopping and kicking like a rodeo bronco.
The female settled onto her belly, head resting on her paws in an attitude of deep boredom.
“Could be worse,” Jefferson murmured into the fleece balaclava he’d pulled over the lower half of his face. “At least he doesn’t wear purple leggings.” And strut around behind a plate-glass window all day waving his oversized knives while his Edgelord 101 playlist shook the walls. To choose an example at random.
“Is that supposed to be a martial art?” Jefferson had asked Genevieve the first time she insisted on stopping to watch Crispin the Artisan do his thing. If that was even his real name. It sounded as made-up as his job title. What the hell was an experiential butcher?
“He’s doing capoeira,” she’d hissed, as if Jefferson was eating his soup with the butter knife. It didn’t occur to him to ask how she knew, any more than he’d questioned Gen suddenly sprinkling words like bavette into casual conversation.
Lesson learned: Some females preferred a flashy mate. Which was why Jefferson was out here in the cold, trying to capitalize on the soft shadows of an overcast sky instead of hunkering down ahead of the storm. The weather had started off mildenough by Mountain West standards, but the temperature was dropping fast.
A dozen yards away, the foxes were stalking something, a silent glide across the surface of the snow. Not a new romance, then, but an established pair, probably with a den nearby. No sad bachelor pad for Mr. Fox. They must be hunting to feed a litter of kits. Jefferson felt the buzz in his blood that told him he was on to something. Fat white flakes sifted down from the sky. If he could get a shot of one of them mid-leap, it would be worth the chill in his fingers.
Almost.
Wait for it…
A squawk of static pierced the silence. Jefferson lunged for his backpack, but it was too late. With a last look at the paw prints that were all that remained of the foxes, he radioed back.
“Jefferson Jones.”
“It’s Nate, at Jenny Lake station. We have a problem.”
