“Helpful,” I say dryly.
She shrugs. “I’m just saying, it’s not the same situation.”
Anna is quiet for a beat. “What if you actually like him?” she asks softly.
I stab at a piece of pasta that hasn’t done anything wrong. “I don’t know him,” I say. “I like his skiing. I like that he listened. That’s not… like Peter.”
“Yet,” Eva says under her breath.
I give her a look. She raises her hands in surrender, then immediately drops them to reach into the Pringles bowl.
They let me eat in relative peace for a few minutes. The food helps. So does the wine. The knot in my chest loosens just enough for honesty to sneak in.
“Dinner means…” I start, then trail off.
“Talking,” Anna offers.
“Being seen,” I say. “By other people. As one of those women at his table. And if he turns out to be an idiot, then what? Do I sit there and nod while he explains my own sport to me?”
Eva winces. “Okay, fair fear.”
“Another gondola is…” I search for the word. “Contained. Short. It’s just us and the storm again. I can put it in a box in my head and keep it as… mine. A wild holiday thing. No witnesses.”
Eva’s eyes light up. “So, you’d pick more sex over small talk with cameras. Honestly, respect.”
Anna tilts her head. “More sex is not inherently a bad choice,” she says. “Just make sure you’re not cutting off anything you might want later just because it scares you.”
I stare at the condensation ring my glass has made on the table. There’s a small, mean little voice in my head that sounds like Peter—You really think he wants to talk to you? He just wants to shag you—and a newer one that sounds a lot like the woman in the gondola who put her hand on a world champion’s thigh first.
“He probably messaged five girls today,” Eva says, teasing, breaking the silence. “Efficiency. Copy-paste ‘special and weird’ into every inbox.”
The line hits harder than it should. For a second, I see it: a whole list of names, all with their own gondola, their own side-quest stories. My chest tightens.
Not your business, I tell myself briskly. You asked for sex, not exclusivity. You don’t get to be mad about imaginary copy-pastes.
Out loud, I snort. “If he did, that’s between him and his thumbs. I’m not here for a soap opera.”
“What are you here for, then?” Anna asks.
I take a breath. Let it out slowly. “I don’t want a relationship right now,” I say. “I want… more of that. Of feeling like my body is mine and I get to decide what to do with it. Something that’s just for me, without adding a whole story about girl meets boy and moves to Austria and waits for him at finish lines.”
Eva lifts her glass again. “To sex without after-school special feelings,” she toasts.
Anna clinks, but her eyes stay on me, thoughtful. “As long as you’re honest—with him and with yourself,” she says. “Then I’m on board.”
Honest. Right.
***
Later, when they’re cleaning up and arguing about who left the wet socks on the radiator, I sit on my bed with the duvet around my shoulders and my phone in my hand. The DM is still there, patient.
I type:Dinner would be nice.
Stare at it. Delete.
I try again:That was wild, thanks, let’s never speak of it again.
Delete. It tastes like ash even in my head.
