She dishes up the food in silence, leaving the lettuce and cucumber abandoned on the counter. This is the second time I’ve sensed a lie from her today. What else is she lying about?

—

Woodsmoke chokes my throat as I carry the plates out. The restaurant is just as I remember it. Dark wooden panels and exposed beams; cowhide rugs; black-and-white photos. Flames flicker in the huge stone fireplace; a stag’s head juts out above. On the mantelpiece a familiar clock ticks, face yellowed with age.

The lighting is dim, from chandeliers hanging low over the tables. It should seem cozy, but there are too many shadowy corners for my liking just now.

Brent and Dale sit chatting at the table closest to the fire. I dump the plates, relieved to see them getting on again. Dale’s on the whiskey too now, and a second bottle of Jack Daniel’s sits beside the first.

“Have you drunk a whole bottle already?” I say.

Brent grins. “Free bar. What’s not to like?”

I fetch a stack of glasses from the bar and pour myself another measure, knowing I shouldn’t, and blink through the smoke to look around. Antique climbing equipment is pinned to the walls: vintage glacier goggles, crampons, a well-worn pair of climbing boots.

A rusty ice axe. Le Rocher’s savage summits make it a popular ice-climbing destination in winter. I finger the metal tip. Still sharp as hell.

Curtis kneels by the fire, rummaging through the log pile.

“What are you doing?” I say.

“Looking for the phones.”

“I already checked there,” Dale says.

Curtis continues rummaging. The smoke is making my eyes water.

Heather arrives with the rest of the plates. “I have to get that laptop back.”

“Will you shut up about the laptop,” Dale hisses.

Heather always struck me as a strong woman. Back then, she seemed to call the shots in their relationship, but the power balance appears to have shifted.

I sit down next to Brent. The chairs have fluffy sheepskin covers. I want to wrap the sheepskin over my legs like a blanket, but it’s tied in place.

“How about Billy Morgan’s Quad Cork eighteen hundred?” Brent says as we eat.

“I saw it on YouTube,” I say, grateful he’s making an effort to lighten the mood.

Dale nods. “And now some Japanese guy landed the first-ever Quad Cork nineteen eighty.”

“That’s insane,” I say. “What’s that, like five full rotations?”

“Five and a half,” Dale says. “Snowboarding’s come a long way.”

Heather checks the clock like she’s counting the minutes until she can get out of here, and Curtis remains watchful, but with the casserole and alcohol warming my belly and the flames warming my face, I’m starting to relax.

“Can you believe we used to ride without helmets?” Brent says.

“I didn’t,” Curtis tells him.