AT FIRST I’m ashamed of my meltdown, but later it feels as though I’ve passed some initiation rite, and now I talk to Gemma almost every day. The next week, Edward is having Gianluca and the team over for dinner, and Gemma insists I come. She worries about him, she says, rattling around in that mansion by himself. And she loves the team, but the team is trouble; it goes without saying that Gianluca is doubly so.

“I know Ed’s all charm and polish on the surface, but he’s really quite a mess underneath. I feel it’s my duty to keep an eye on him. Otherwise, he’ll just drink too much and sleep with floozies.”

Edward is an exotic species for me. I knew plenty of people who partied their faces off, especially in the off-season. Even Luke—with his impossible drive—was always having to be pulled back from the edge. But the skiers who were wild were wild in every sense of the word, and Edward is so polished, so self-contained. And though the two could hardly be more different physically, there’s a recklessness in Edward that reminds me of Luke, though it seems self-destructive rather than what Luke’s is: a cocky, shortsighted invincibility. If he has the successful run he’s meant to in Vancouver, he’ll be unstoppable. I have to remember that he’s no longer my problem.

The night of the dinner party, Edward is cooking and Gemma and I put place settings around the massive walnut dining table. Edward is a phenomenal cook. He loves Mexican food, which he’s making tonight. I can’t imagine where he’s learned this. But this is special, he explains, because it’s impossible to get down here.

“Try this,” he says, offering some of the mole he’s making to Cali, who’s just come into the kitchen to investigate. The team is drinking wine by the fireplace with Gemma, but Gianluca has not yet appeared. He’s on his way, almost an hour late. No one seems too invested in punctuality here.

“Oh god that’s good.” Cali smiles.

“You have no idea how difficult it is to find ancho chilis down here, they are absolute wimps about spice. It’s maddening, you can’t find them anywhere.”

A melodious cello tune begins, and Edward smiles.

“Ahhh . . . the Bach. Yo-Yo Ma. Perhaps it’s a bit of a cliché, but I love it,” he says.

“It’s pretty,” I agree.

In the sitting room, someone groans. “We can’t dance to this!”