I glance at Curtis again, amused he’s gone to so much effort when we’d have been happy to just drink ourselves stupid. He strides past me to the window, rubs condensation from the glass, and peers out. The fluidity of his movements always reminded me of a male gymnast, and that hasn’t changed. He still has the same powerful grace.

I need more alcohol in me before I approach him, so I head over to Brent instead. I’m surprised by the beer bottle in his hand. He never used to drink.

“Been snowboarding lately?” I say.

“Once a year,” he says. “All I can afford. I still do a load of skateboarding.”

“I can tell that from the state of your shoes.”

His DCs are so worn on one toe that I can see his sock. DC used to sponsor him, but presumably he had to buy his current pair. I’m touched he stayed loyal to the brand, but that’s Brent all over.

He was only twenty-one that winter, with the lean frame and all the energy of a teenager. He’s filled out a bit now. Hard to say beneath his baggy clothing, but he still looks in pretty good shape. Still wears his jeans halfway down his arse as well.

His dark good looks, courtesy of his Indian father, brought him brief success as a model before his snowboarding career took off. I check him out online now and then, but his Instagram doesn’t reveal much. I want to ask if he’s seeing anyone—if he has children even—but he might get the wrong idea. I need to know that he’s happy.

“So you really didn’t invite me here?” Brent asks.

“No,” I say. “I told you.”

Curtis meets my eye from across the room, looking . . . troubled? Wondering where the staff are, probably.

“You still riding?” Brent says, clearly making an effort to steer the conversation to safer territory.

“Not since I left here,” I tell him.

“Seriously? Not once?”

“Busy with work.” I can see his surprise. Back then snowboarding was all I could think about, and I always imagined I’d be doing it well into my old age.

The truth is I’m terrified of it. Terrified of who it makes me become and what other lives I might destroy. The moment I fasten into my bindings, nothing else matters.

Brent doesn’t know what I did, not all of it. None of them do.

And I intend to keep it that way.

CHAPTER 3

Heather claps her hands for attention. “Icebreaker time.”

“Aw, I’m starving,” Brent says.

“Me, too,” I say. “I found a casserole in the kitchen.”

Heather pouts. “It’ll be fun. We can eat after.”

Was she always this annoying or has being married made her bossier? She tips back the rest of her wine. Maybe she’s just drunk.