His knuckles tighten on the wheel, and I have no idea what I could’ve possibly said to make him angry this time, so I just sit in silence until we pull up outside a backcountry gear store and hop out.
Stone greets the man behind the counter by name and makes a beeline for the ‘Heated Wear’ section.
He’s rifling through vests when I pause to look at the price tag.
“Holy shit!” I yell. “Stone, I don’t think I need one of these. This thing is three hundred dollars!”
“Youdoneed it, and I get a discount because of my job. I buy all our gear here. Go grab a cart,” he orders.
A cart? How much shit does he think we’re buying? Instead of asking my burning questions, I do as he says and return with the cart to find him holding up two pairs of gloves.
“Did you bring the heated gloves I bought you for Christmas that one year?” he asks.
Ialmostfeel bad when I remind him, “Stone, you bought those for me when I was fourteen. My hands haven’t fit in them for like six years.”
“Right,” he says without looking at me. “Try these on, then.”
“Ididremember to bring gloves, though,” I tell him. “I’m not acompleteidiot.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he says with conviction. “Look, the winters out here are different than Vermont. They’re dry, and often, you don’t realize how cold it is until it’s too late. Without the added moisture in the air, it doesn’t seep into your bones early on. Your gloves are probably fine, but when your bone marrow is suddenly cold, you need something that will get blood back into your hands and feet fast.” Then, in the softest tone he’s used all morning, he says, “Can you just trust me on this?”
It’s that tiny bit of humanity in his voice that makes me agree without arguing.
“Sure. Get whatever you think I need.”
By the time it’s all said and done, I have a heated vest, heated gloves, heatedsocks, portable hand warmers—extra, because apparently the fifty I brought with me aren’t enough—gloveliners, and Gore-Tex boots. I’m shocked he didn’t try to buy me heated underwear while we’re at it.
When we get to the register, he pulls out his credit card.
“Dude, no fucking way. Let Mom and Dad pay for this stuff,” I argue, pulling outmycredit card. “Use this; it’s connected to their account.”
“I’ve got it,” he says in a clipped tone.
“That haul’s gonna run?—”
“Your total is eight hundred forty-two dollars and sixty-eight cents,” the man behind the counter says, cutting me off.
“Stone…”
“Hanlon, I said I’ve got it,” he says in a tone that leaves no room for arguing.
Whatever.
“Okay, well, thanks. I’ll pay you back.”
The drive back to Ricochet Ridge Ski Resort is quiet. Stone’s not even making an effort to lessen the awkwardness floating between us.
“When we get back, I’ll show you where everything is. Today and tomorrow will be pretty easy, but it’ll get busier as the season goes on. The more snowfall we get, the more charges we have to drop.”
At this, my head whips toward him.
“Do, uh, do I have to go up in the helicopter?” I ask, swallowing hard. Being airborne has never really been my thing, and I was doing well to survive the two flights here.
“Did you even read the internship details for Ricochet?” he asks.
“No, because like I said, it wasn’t on my list of preferred locations. The programs all vary a little. Some are more educational, you know, basedindoorswith labs and stuff. Others are more hands-on, which I’m coming to realize will probably be this one. Lucky me.”
“Yes,” he confirms. “You have to go up in the helicopter,” he confirms. “But I’ll be with you the wholetime.”
