I have no idea what any of these words mean, but Katherine looks at the grandmas, then nods.

“Cool. Ellie said she’s never skied before,” Dylan continues, “so someone will need to stay behind and help her get her equipment and learn how to use it. Jack?”

Jack is standing a few feet away, behind Gillian’s tailgate. Her skis are vertical and she’s leaning against them. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Jack tries vaguely.

“Why not?” Dylan asks. “You’re a skier, and you usually stick around the beginner and intermediate trails, anyway.”

Jack frowns, but makes no other defense.

“Okay, everyone!” Katherine calls out, and Meemaw abandons me to rejoin the family. “We’re meeting at the Blue Ox Bar at noon for lunch. The forecast says it’s going to start snowing this afternoon. It shouldn’t pick up until this evening, but we’re leaving by four at the absolute latest to avoid bad road conditions.”

Andrew and Dylan grab their snowboards and head toward one of the ski lifts. Katherine and the grandmas all walk in the opposite direction. And Jack and I are left alone with our awkward silence and avoidant glances, and—“Are you going to push me off the mountain?”

Jack finally looks at me. There are purple bags under her eyes, and her mouth is a thin, pale line in her face. “I’m considering it.”

“I suppose I would deserve it. Jack, look, can we—”

“I was really drunk last night,” she says quickly. She’s not looking at me again. “We both were.”

I wasn’t, but this doesn’t seem worth pointing out.

“We made a huge mistake, but it’s not like it will ever happen again.”

“Um, right. Of course.”

Jack turns away from me, so I’m staring at her solemn face in profile. “In the future, it’s probably best if we…” She adjusts her beanie. “If we don’t spend a lot of time together. Like, any time together.”

I inhale sharply through my nose and tell myself it’s the cold, not tears, stinging my eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“But for now, we’ve just got to get through today. So let’s just get your skis.”

Jack pivots in the snow, and I have no choice but to follow her quietly and miserably on the path up to the lodge. At the rental shop, a conventionally attractive man with an inexplicable tan for the middle of Pacific Northwest December measures my foot (huge), then the length of my leg (long), and then straps me into a pair of boots and some skinny death sticks.

“I can’t do this,” I tell the Tan Man in a wobbly voice.

“Sure you can,” Jack answers, sounding bored.

“I really can’t do this,” I repeat when the Tan Man asks me to stand up on my skis to test the fit.