Chase is in marketing for our local ski hill, Powderkeg. More often than not, he’s the face of all the promotional advertising—the billboards, the website, the commercials—but I can never keep up with which west coast ski resort he’s filming in, or when. Most of his work is November through April, but there’s always the odd shoot in the summer months to preempt the new season. It’s nice to have him around more at this time of year, though. He helps a lot with meal planning.

“We just did some promo shots for next year.” He inspects the wine bottle vaguely. “Inside-outside stuff in Breckenridge. They turned out great. They took a lot of head-and-shoulders shots of me, and the director was really happy.”

“Of course he was. Are you going away again over the summer?”

“No, that should be it now.” Chase cracks the wine and pours a generous portion, sliding the glass across to me. “Downtime.”

“Good,” I say. “I miss you when you’re gone.”

He reaches across the countertop to hold my hand, but I withdraw it—I haven’t had a chance to wash properly yet. If I told him what I’d touched today, he’d be horrified.

His smile falters. “Are you hungry?”

I shake my head. “I have to take a shower first. I have to get this day off my skin.”

“Oh,” he says. There’s a second where I imagine him taking the expensive wineglass back. “I’ve made a new turkey and quinoa dish. It’s paleo. Full of good proteins. But we can hold off. We can eat in, say, twenty or so.” He picks up his knife and begins dicing again, the knife easily severing the tomato’s skin.

“That’d be great.” I take a sip of the crisp wine, then slide off the stool. In the bathroom, I peel off my clothes. Social work makes me want to scrub my entire body with a wire brush every day. I wonder for a moment if Sully feels that way about his job, too. After a quick shower, I head back out, toweling my hair as I enter the kitchen. Through the open bay windows, a chickadee is singing its binary song in the street. That’s when I hear a knock at the door. Chase, tea towel over one shoulder, pauses his chopping.

“Are you expecting someone?”

“No, definitely not.”

I wrap the towel around my neck, then head to the front door and pull it open. I see a face more than anything, the paleness of it stark against dark hair. Long hair, familiar. Blue damaged eyes. Immediately I feel my knees might give out, like I might fall to the ground. I cover my mouth with both hands and stare.

It’s her. It’s Ruth Van Ness. My sister.

RUTH