Sefina groans. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Claire. Stop using your memory as an excuse for why nobody is allowed to care about you.”

For a moment I can’t speak because she’s more right than she knows. After Tate left, I held everyone—maybe even Dad at times—far away from my tender spots, afraid that what was left of my heart would wreck completely if someone else I loved left me. Do I do that even now?

“That man has been in love with you his whole life. But you refuse to believe that you deserve his love, so you tell yourself you’re not good enough. Self-sabotaging at its absolute finest.” She punches me lightly in the arm. “When are you going to stop lying to yourself and just accept the fact that Tate loves you just as you are?”

I raise my eyebrows, the heaviness from before lightened by her words. “Did you just quote Bridget Jones to me?”

She laughs. “You bet your ass I did. If Mark Darcy can’t get through to you, who can?”

I listen to the snow crunch under our feet, the cold sting of flakes bouncing off my nose, feel the warmth of my friend walking beside me, and enjoy the moment for as long as I can.

I sit behind Tate, arms around his waist, feeling the snow machine glide over the frozen landscape. My fingers tingle to write about the trees flying past us, branches laden with clumps of snow. The depthless blue green of the water in Passage Canal. Or the way Billings Glacier juts off the mountain in the distance, the tip of it floating in the air like the prow of a ship.

But I can’t write it down, not with the jerking of the snow machine, so I hold tight to Tate and let myself experience every second, hoping that on some level it sticks.

After lunch, Tate walks me to the entrance of BTI. The wind has kicked up, brushing over the water in broad strokes that carry droplets in the air, stings our faces. I observe Tate from behind my face mask. He’s older, comfortable in his own skin, and handsome in that weathered way that Alaskan men get as they age. And while I can’t remember the details of the time we spent together, the air between us is laden with something warm and sweet, familiar in the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, the smoothness of his words. He’s comfortable with me.

“I’d like to come over sometime, if . . . that’s okay?” His question makes me fidget, blush like a teenage girl, so that I’m grateful for the mask. “Hang out, watch a movie? Maybe g . . . g-o to Alyeska and ski?”

I nod, try to ignore the jittery tap of my toes on the concrete. “I don’t think I smoke weed anymore, though, Tate.”