He’s panting as he grips the metal handrails and propels himself up. His cheeks are pink, and his eyes sparkle and, fuck, I hate him and hate that I love him. My chest heaves, and I feel a bit breathless, so I look away, pull the wool hat low over my eyes and slump against the window so he doesn’t see me. Sofía, who is next to me, does the same, almost acting like a shield, and Chloe, who sits in the row across from us, turns toward the window, so her back is facing the aisle. Thankfully, he plops down in the front row toward the door, and I hold my breath for what feels like the entire drive.

When we get to the mountain, we wait until Jack is off the bus and heading into the lodge before we bother getting up. The girls defer to me, and I tell them to be cool, act naturally, and we’ll try our best to avoid him. But inside, I’m literally dying a thousand deaths a minute.

Since neither Chloe, Sofía, nor I have ski or snowboard equipment, we head to the rental area of the lodge, which means I don’t have to worry about running into Jack for a solid thirty minutes.

By the time we make it out onto the mountain and up to one of the only two chairlifts, I’m finally able to breathe.

As the tips of my skis graze the ramp at the top of the lift and I glide down the snowy slope, I’m alive in a way I only am when skiing. Dad was an avid skier, and Taylor and I grew up in the mountains every winter. No matter how much our family struggled, we somehow always found a way to get on skis, and I started when I was five. Dad insisted it was too late and made Taylor start when she was three, much to Mom’s chagrin.

There aren’t many things I give Dad credit for, but I’ll admit I’m happy he stuck me in ski school and forced me out of the safety of the pizza wedge, because as I skate under snowmaking machines and down the few open trails, I’m able to disconnect my mind from Jack. I feel the mountain beneath my blades and the crisp, clean, pine-scented air that envelops me and whooshes past.

Sofía, daredevil on a snowboard that she is, skids to a halt at the opening of an ungroomed tree trail. “Last one to the bottom buys hot cocoa!”