“Jesus. Can you not right now? I’m trying to concentrate.” I press my lips together and will my legs to do what they’re supposed to do without overthinking it. The weight shifting for each turn happens faster than I can bear, so each time I feel like I might go spinning away, like a top off a string.
“Yes, of course, don’t let me bother you. I just wanted to compliment you on your judgment. I mean, what a keeper. Don’t let him get away from you.”
Just then an orange snowsuit flies past me, his proximity creating enough breeze to move the wispy hairs poking out of my helmet. I yelp and fall over. The feeling of the solid ground along my body is actually a relief. I scooch to the side until I’m off the hard-packed trail and into the soft powder among the trees. I lie still, my legs sideways to accommodate the skis. Maybe I’ll stay here forever.
“Graceful as ever, Miss Murphy.”
I’m angry now. “I don’t know why you persist in expectingperfection from people, Mason, but it’s pretty unfair. No wonder you were always disappointed by everything. You think I should be some great skier?! This is only mysecond time. You think I should have been able to read Richard’s mind, see into the future, know what someone I don’t really know is going to do?”
“Like I said, he’s human aspartame,” he says with a shrug.
I growl. “You are so. Damn. Infuriating!” I want to keep yelling at him, but I can’t because I’ve started to sob. It’s messy and loud, with lots of chokes and snorts. I don’t even care that I’m making a fool of myself. “It’s all falling apart! Everything. Everything is going to hell! And you’re making it worse!” I feel splotchy and contorted.
Mason’s presence starts skittering around me, hovering over me. “Hey, hey there,” he says, sounding panicked. “I was only kidding. It was a joke. Fuck. Don’t cry, Murph. It’s not that bad.”
“How would you know? You’re not even really here.” I let the vowels ofherestretch out in a wail, like a preschool kid whose mom has just left on the first day of school. If he were really here, he could hold me while I cried, make me feel better and warmer. The strength of my wish for that makes my heart hurt. I close my eyes and try to stop existing. What have I been holding myself together for, anyway?
I can tell he’s staring at me hard now. Assessing me. “Hey, Murphy, we’ve got to get you down this mountain. You are really cold. Like, hypothermically cold. Let’s go somewhere warm.”
“Nah,” I say. All the crying has exhausted me. “I’m good here.” I’m probably shivering too much to ski now anyway.
“Nope,” he says, all business. “Up you go. Get up. Right now, Murphy. Let’s move.” Weirdly, it seems like he is becoming clearer and more solidly of this earth. Is that because he’s so serious?
“Why should I listen to you? You don’t even wear a freaking life jacket on a freaking lake.” I am free to say anything I want now. My inhibitions are gone. I rest my head back in the snow and listen to the rhythmic whoosh of passing skiers, and somewhere in the distance, a generator. I’ll take a nap here, and I’ll feel more energized to ski when I’m rested.
Suddenly, something is pushing and pulling me at the same time, as if the snow below me is surging upward like a wave, like I’m a paper clip and there’s a giant magnet in front of me. Without making the decision to, I’m standing.
“What did you learn to do when you started skiing earlier today?” Mason says.
“Keep my body weight forward?” I say.
“No. What do the little kids do?”
“Snowplow,” I mumble.
“That’s right! That’s great, Murph. Let’s see that snowplow.” I start to inch out of the trees, the tips of my skis coming to a point. “There! That’s great! You’re great at this, Murphy. Stay right at the edge of the trail and keep that snowplow, just like a pizza slice, push the backs of those skis wider with your heels. You’re in control now. You’re doing it.”
“I’ll hit a tree,” I protest.
“Nope. No way. I’ll let you know before anything like that happens.”
Somehow I’m moving again, concentrating on keeping the line of trees just to my right and not crossing my skis in the front. Mason is talking the whole time, cheering me on, occasionally giving directions. In fact, he won’t shut up. It’s weird to hear him so full of positivity.
“This peppy vibe is a new look for you,” I get out between chattering teeth.
“Just high on life, I guess.”
“You mean high on death.”
“Semantics,” he says. “Almost there now, Murph! You’re going to make it!”
He’s right. The hill is evening out, the incline becoming more gradual. The lodge is close enough that even my blotchy vision can make it out up ahead. The possibility of getting safe and warm fills me with a final adrenaline rush, and I straighten my skis the slightest bit to pick up speed.
This is a mistake, as two seconds later, I nearly collide with a line of orange barrels. I’ve tempted fate enough. I snowplow hard until I come to a stop, then I unclick. I drag the skis to the building and lean them against the wall. “I did it, Mason. Thank you for helping—” I say, but it turns out I’m talking to myself. He’s gone.
Now that I’m close to the lodge, it is really dark, with shadows everywhere and just the faintest gray glow off the snow to give me a clue about where the walkway is. I shuffle along at a sloth’s pace toward the oasis of illumination at the side doors, careful on my trembling legs. It would be so like me to make it all the way down a death-defying ski run and then trip on a crack in the sidewalk and break my arm.
I’ve just started wondering whether anyone can see me doing this strange creeping when I hear murmuring, shushing,giggling. It puts me on high alert. Other people’s giggling always triggers my paranoia, even though, realistically, the odds that some shadowy randos are laughing about me are near zero. The sounds are coming from a pitch-black corner up ahead. The other thing coming from that corner is the pungent skunk of weed, which is probably not a coincidence. Pot smell in an enclosed room makes me gag, but outside it’s intriguing. I pause at the door to inhale the scent. I wonder what these ski stoners’ lives are like. Is it one party after another? Do they ski all winter and surf all summer, except when they’re backpacking around Europe? Then I hear Richard’s unmistakable chuckle.
