1
ESTE
I’m going to die out here, and my dads are going to find my Kindle and all the kinky shit on it when they recover my body. Who the hell survives a plane crash just to die driving up a goddamn mountain?
Growing up, it was drilled into me and my sister, Sloane, that flying is safer than driving. Statistically, you’re thousands of times more likely to get in a car crash than a plane crash, and your risk of getting injured in a car crash is much higher. As a pilot, those facts used to be comforting. But if getting in a plane crash is so unlikely and I did that, I don’t love my odds for making it up this mountain alive.
I really should’ve known better than to postpone my appointment to make a will last week so I could get my nails done instead.
It’s April, but the ground (because that’s what it is: ground, not a road) is still covered in thick snow, and a fierce wind howls around me, throwing leaves at my windshield. The sun is peeking out through the trees, which explains why the snow is more slushy than fluffy. It’s not warm by any means, but between the sun and the stress, I’m overheating enough to have my windowcracked. Still, I’d rather crawl up this treacherous mountain than set foot on the flight my family is taking to Wyoming.
If we’d made this trip back in January when we were supposed to, I bet the snow would’ve been pretty. But I was six weeks out from the crash, and my dads weren’t willing to leave me for even a few hours. So, they changed our plans. By April, surely, I would be ready to fly again. Surely.
Yet, here I am, white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel of my Mini fucking Cooper. Mimi the Mini was never meant to be on a mountain, let alonethismountain. I assume there’s solid ground somewhere under the tires, but I sure as hell can’t feel it. I slip and slide all over the slick road (ground) and, for the second time in the past twelve months, my life flashes before my eyes.
At least this time, I only have myself to focus on instead of a 737 full of passengers.
What I’ve learned, between my two near-death experiences, past and present, is that if my life were a movie montage, it would be dull as hell. There’s a lot of luck and privilege involved in being able to call any life dull, let alone mine, and I’ve had both in spades. Sloane and I were raised by a single father until Pops met Dad. They got married, and Dad formally adopted us when I was six and Sloane was three, and we couldn’t have gotten luckier to end up with the family we did. We’ve been loved since day one and wanted for nothing. Our family owns a major airline, and we had trust funds before we were born. Like me, Dad and Pops are both pilots, but they rarely worked atthe same time when we were kids, so we always had one of them around. It’s been a good life. An easy life.
Such a shame it’s all going to come to an end because I was too scared to get my ass on an airplane.
My family’s flight isn’t until tomorrow, which means I can at least give them a heads up about the drive. If I survive, that is. They’re flying into Jackson, and we’re spending two weeks in the town of Wintermore, Wyoming, with my dad’s best friend. Well, I suppose we’re not really going to beinWintermore. I can’t exactly see us driving up and down the mountain for trips into town.
It’s not my idea of a dream vacation, nor is it Sloane’s, but it’s important to my dad. He hasn’t seen his best friend, Nico Harland, in over twenty years. Sloane and I have never met him.
According to Dad, he “keeps to himself.” According to Pops, he’s a recluse. I know very little about him beyond his living situation and a few scraps my dad has dropped in conversation over the years. They grew up together in Oakland, California, and have been best friends since middle school. Nico’s a triplet. He moved to Wintermore when he was around my age, after one of his sisters died in a car accident. He hasn’t been the same since. He makes wooden furniture for a living—good furniture, at that. He’s made half the furniture in my parents’ house, and, though we’ve never met him, he sent intricate wooden memory boxes for Sloane’s and my adoption, carved with our names. I still use mine.
And he has two dogs. Have I seen a picture of the man whose house I’m about to pull up to? Not a recent one.Have I seen multiple pictures of his dogs? At least fifty. My dad forwards every single one Nico sends him straight to our family group chat, along with every other dog picture he comes across. I think he’s hoping spending two weeks with Nico’s dogs will convince Pops they should get one. He’s been hinting that the house is too quiet since Sloane moved out.
I thought I was making great time—I stopped in Wintermore for dinner and started my drive up the mountain an hour ahead of schedule. Thank god—the sun is just starting to set, and I can’t imagine driving up here in the dark. Hazy warm light streams through the trees, with the occasional flicker of bright gold from a sun I can’t see through the thick forest.
A picturesque wooden cabin gives me a moment of relief as it comes into view. If I remember the directions my dad sent me correctly, I’m only a mile away fromthecabin. And considering I read over the instructions at least a hundred times before falling asleep last night in my motel on the Nebraska/Wyoming border, I definitely remember. If there’s one thing being a pilot has taught me, it’s that you can’t betooprepared, and my GPS doesn’t work up here—which I’m hoping has more to do with the fact I’ve skipped the past dozen software updates and doesn’t mean I’m going to be stuck up here without cell service for the next two weeks.
“A mile,” I tell myself through gritted teeth. “I can handle a mile.”
My car lurches, and in a split second, I feel like I’mdriving… up. A string of curses spills from me as I clench every part of my body, as if that’s going to do a damn thing to get Mimi up this incline. It’s so sudden, so steep, that I’m not sure I could even walk up this. And then, in some twisted act of nature, the snow starts.
It’s not the pretty dusting of powdered sugar snow featured in all the pictures I found of the mountains while I was researching Wintermore. It’s thick, heavy, and icy, hitting the glass with the force of the wind, and I can’t stop, because this fucking incline is practically vertical. My wipers can’t move fast enough. My eyes can’t adjust fast enough. At this point, I could close them, and there would be no difference in my visibility.
Tears pour down my face, burning hot against my skin. Five minutes ago, faced with yet another near-death experience, I was a little pissed off. Now? I’ve forgotten what it feels like to draw a full breath. I’m only twenty-six. In the grand scheme of things, I’ve done nothing. I haven’t fallen in love, or taken enough pictures, or spent enough time with my dads and Sloane. I put my Kindle down right before the first sex scene this morning to give me something to look forward to after the drive. I really should’ve kept reading.
Ice, snow, and wind beat against Mimi from every side. There’s a concerning clank of metal as I run over something hard—I hope it’s a tree root or something equally non-sentient—and my purse tips over in the passenger’s seat, the contents falling out into the footwell. Amelia Bearhart, the bear plushie my dads gave me when they got engaged, is barely clinging onto the seat, and I risk letting go of thewheel for a precious second to snatch her up and settle her in my lap.
I might be driving for hours, or maybe it’s only minutes, but by the time the road evens out, both me and Amelia Bearhart are still holding on. I’m alive, but lightheaded. Pain pulses in my temples, and my vision is as blurred as the windshield.
But I see a light. An actual light—not an “oh shit, I actually did die” kind of light.
I’m not entirely sure the barely visible building is Nico’s cabin, but I couldn’t care less. I slam my foot on the brake, pull my key out, and fumble with my seatbelt. As soon as I’m unclipped, I push open the door and stumble into the snow, wincing as my head spins.
A towering figure in red plaid approaches me, and I blink until I can make out a worried expression.
“Celeste? Are you okay?”
Either this is Nico, or I’m about to be murdered by a mountain man who somehow knows my government name.
“Este. Are you… Are you Nico?” I croak, sucking in a gulp of air. It’s not enough. The world is becoming soft at the edges, the ground disappearing beneath my feet.
“Yeah.”
