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She’s off before I say anything. I take a deep gulp of cold air, then shove off from the snow. Despite barely brushing the frozen surface, I’m in motion immediately. Wind rushes past, chilling my ears and making my throat burn. I hastily close my mouth.
The motion is smooth. It’s not the rocking feeling I typically associate with crossing the ground at this speed. It’s a glide, even and direct.
Abigail turns to the right, sending a spray of snow off to the side. My attempt to mimic her is nowhere near as graceful, but it results in me heading to the right rather than straight into the pines that line the edge of the groomed snow.
It becomes a rhythm. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right.
Down, down, down, until the trees lining the path disappear and we’re at the bottom of the mountain, staring at the massive lodge.
“Wow,” I say. I turn slightly, and a couple of handfuls of snow go flying off to the side. The spray makes me feel like a professional skier.
“You made it,” Abigail tells me. It’s hard to tell beneath her scarf, but I think she’s smiling.
“Yeah,” I pant. Residual adrenaline is warming my blood.
“Shall we go again, or get a drink inside the lodge?” Abigail asks.
Another run sounds like tempting fate. “I’m a little thirsty.”
This time, she definitely smiles.
We unclip our skis and clomp inside the lodge in the uncomfortable boots. It’s strange being inside such a formal, fancy atmosphere dressed in heavy snow gear.
“Table for two, miss?” A waiter wearing an actual tuxedo appears.
“Please,” Abigail replies.
“Right this way.”
He grabs two menus and heads for a corner table that overlooks the bottom of the mountain. Thankfully, it’s a short walk from the entrance. I’m less graceful in the boots than I was in the skis. Abigail makes it look effortless.
“I’ll be back shortly to take your order.” The waiter fills our glasses with water, then disappears.
I shrug off my jacket before opening the menu and surveying the contents. Lobster, caviar, venison, and steak are the first four menu options. I close it and take a sip of water.
Maybe I chose wrong. At least hurtling down the mountain, I didn’t have to make small talk. I’m bad at it under the best of circumstances. This isn’t those.
“What can I get you ladies?” The waiter has already returned. I guess the nicer the place, the faster the service.
Abigail glances at me. “Is noon too early for alcohol on vacation?”
Her tone is almost…teasing. I swallow and shake my head. “I don’t judge.”
Too late, I worry she’ll take the response as a dig. But Abigail’s expression doesn’t change. “A Bloody Mary, please. And some french fries.”
I blink at her. That’s about the last order I would have expected.
“Lennon?”
“Uh, I’ll have the same. Thanks.”
Abigail looks out the window as our waiter disappears, seemingly lost in thought. I fiddle with the hem of the tablecloth.
“You’re hoping to become a journalist?” she asks me suddenly.
“Yes,” I reply. “We’ll see. It can be a tough career to break into.”
She nods. “You will. Austin wasn’t the only one who read the article you wrote on Caleb in high school. You’re a very talented writer.”
