Our flash cards are forgotten as the car climbs in elevation and the road conditions become more treacherous. At first the snow is just sprinkled on the side of the road, then it’s banked on the side of the road, then it’s covering the roads. We pull over so Andrew can put chains on the Tesla—a truly ridiculous choice of vehicle for snowy terrain—and I white-knuckle the dashboard the rest of the way on Highway 26.

Eventually, Andrew turns the Tesla onto a steep country road, and the chains grind against the fresh snow. He calmly maneuvers the car going ten miles per hour, past silvery evergreens and the dense forest in the distance. We turn a final corner, crest a hill, and the trees thin to reveal a house.

“Andrew!” I shout.

“What?”

“Andrew!”

“Oliver!”

“Andrew! I thought you said your parents had a cabin?”

“They do.” He gestures ahead of us. “It’s right there.”

“This is not a cabin! It’s a fucking ski chalet!”

He looks confused. “You can’t ski here. We drive up to Timberline to do that.”

“You’re missing the point. That—” I jab my finger against the windshield. “That is a Swiss mansion, not a cabin.”

“It’s a log cabin.”

It is seemingly made of logs—or at the very least, meant to look like it’s made of logs—but the four-story monstrosity sprawled out on the snowy hill in front of us looks like a hotel. As dusk settles on the mountain, a hundred porch lights bathe the giant home in a golden glow. The ground floor is a whopping five-car garage and there are stone freaking columns.

“I’m confused as to why you’re so hung up on the semantics of the word cabin.”

“Because there are balconies!” I count them. “Six. Visible. Balconies!”

Andrew pulls the Tesla into the driveway but doesn’t turn off the engine. “Well, if I’d known about your balcony-phobia…”

I slink down in my seat, hoping it will absorb me, make me part of its leather so I never have to get out of this car. While I knew the Kim-Prescotts were wealthy, it’s another thing entirely to be confronted with a multimillion-dollar vacation home. I could fit every place I’ve ever lived combined inside this alleged cabin, and there is no way I can walk in there in my Old Navy jeans and cardigan with a hole in the armpit and introduce myself as Andrew’s fiancée. I should have let the bastard Pretty Woman me.

And more to the point, I never should have left the safety of my apartment. I won’t know how to talk to these people. They’re wealthy and normal, and they’ll know right away that my childhood was marked by dysfunction, not decorating Christmas cookies.

Andrew notices the whole-body anxiety melt taking place in the passenger seat. “What is this? What’s happening?”