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I glance over, hiding a grin. We’re on our way to Aspen for Thanksgiving. This is the first time we’ve ever been on plane together, and it turns out Lennon is a nervous flier. Or maybe she’s more anxious about arriving. “It’s going to be fine, Len.”
“I know,” Lennon says quickly. Her grip loosens, so it feels like we’re holding hands instead of her hanging onto me for dear life.
“You do?”
“Yes!”
“We can back out.”
“You’ve been saying that for weeks. And we’re already in the air, Caleb. If I was going to back out—which I’m not—I couldn’t anymore.”
“They’re not going to say anything.”
They’d better not. I made it very clear to my mother—to both my parents—that there were conditions for accepting their Thanksgiving invitation.
Lennon gives me a small smile, then turns back to her laptop. She’s been typing one-handed for the past hour, working on the essay for the journalism grant she’s applying for.
I’m glad she is. It makes me feel a little less guilty about everything she gave up to come here. I know it was about a lot more than me, but I doubt she would have ever applied to Clarkson, let alone transferred, if this wasn’t where I was.
That comes with some responsibility for her to be happy, it feels like.
And if that happiness doesn’t include Landry, if it’s a fancy job at an important newspaper, then that’s great.
But I’m not convinced it is. The happiest I’ve seen Lennon was walking around the east pasture with Dusty following her. Wild, windblown hair and grass-stained jeans.
I want her to have choices. I just don’t want her to choose something because it’s an option now she didn’t have before.
* * *
When we land in Colorado an hour later, I have to surreptitiously shake my arm for five minutes to get the blood flowing again. We hit some turbulence mid-flight that had Lennon’s grip tightening again. Then as soon as the skies quieted, she fell asleep on my shoulder.
Lennon stirs as the plane fills with activity, everyone standing and opening the overhead bins or turning on their phones to make calls.
Once it’s finally our turn to disembark the plane, we follow the exit signs through the airport. I’ve only been here once before, and it wasn’t half as packed then it is today. We pass a long stretch of gates and then the baggage claim. I’m grateful Lennon’s a light packer. We didn’t have to check a bag, so we bypass the huge crowd waiting for the belt to begin moving and another one watching the luggage spin. Lots of people brought snow sports equipment, clogging up the chute with bulk other than suitcases.
It’s a shock to step outside. Kentucky hasn’t fully transitioned to winter yet, temperatures still hovering above freezing. I didn’t check the weather here before we left, but I wasn’t expecting it to be this cold. There’s even snow on the ground, cleared away from the sidewalk and road in white piles that suggest it fell recently. I was only expecting the artificial kind.
“Wow,” Lennon breathes. Her attention is focused on the towering, snowy peaks that make up the distant landscape.
“Just wait until you see the view from the top of one,” I tell her.
“Wouldn’t that require skiing down from the top afterward?”
I give her aduhlook, and she laughs. “Yeah,no. Hard pass.”
A long line of cars is waiting to pick up new arrivals. I guide Lennon over to a black SUV, climbing inside the warm car as the driver loads our two suitcases into the trunk.
When he asks where we’re headed, I have to look up the chalet’s address on my phone to relay it to him.
Lennon’s eyes are wide as she takes in the downtown section we drive through. It’s approaching dusk. The lights lining the street are just turning on, casting a golden glow over the shops and restaurants and condos.
The awestruck expression on Lennon’s face makes me second-guess what I was thinking earlier. Maybe this is what she wants. New experiences. Different places.
She looks even more stunned when we arrive at the five thousand square foot property. The chalet was a twenty-five-year anniversary gift from my father to my mother. Less romantic and more of an acknowledgment he’s not the easiest person to get along with. Now that I’m not living at home and hardly see them, I never know exactly what the state of my parents’ relationship is. Since this is the most ostentatious of the luxurious properties my parents own, I’m guessing not great.
Lennon isn’t the only one taken aback by the sight of the chalet. Our driver doesn’t attempt to school his amazed expression when he reaches the top of the winding driveway.
The chalet is meant to blend in with the mountain it’s built on. It might succeed, if seven-bedroom, seven-bathroom mansions just popped out of rock formations like magic.
