I wanted to believe that I could come back to the condo, my shin fully healed after a gold-star rehab effort, and just resume my life as it had been before. But I think some part of me was already dislodged and knew nothing would go back to the way it had been.

Liz at High Tea

THE DAY comes and I feel the weight of it from the moment I wake up. February 12. The opening ceremonies. I lie in my bed, trying to let the late summer sunshine coming through the cracks in the blinds and the humid February air distract me from the fact that on this very day, many thousands of miles away, nearly everyone I cared about in my old life is gathering for the opening ceremonies of the Vancouver Olympic Games. Whistler was one of my favorite mountains to ski, and it would have been close enough that my family could have easily come to cheer me on. At thirty, I’d be at the peak of my career, with several World Cup globes in my collection, as well as a handful of medals. Speed skiers like me take time to develop and, so long as they can avoid catastrophic injury, get an edge from the extra years of experience and peak later. This was supposed to be my moment.

I manage to drag myself to my Spanish class, and by the time I’m finished, I have several messages from Gemma, who has decided that we must go to the Alvear Palace for tea that afternoon. I rush back to my apartment to change into a sundress.

I’ve not yet been to the Alvear, though I’ve suggested it to many a tourist. The hotel is a stunning mass of marble and gold gilt, like the children’s book version of a fancy hotel. The staff wear tuxedos, and the carpets are bloodred. I arrive a few minutes late—after changing my outfit three times—and everyone else has arrived. Gemma, Edward, Cali, Anders, and Gianluca stand on the sunny street outside the hotel; their attention is drawn in a tight circle around a petite woman animatedly telling a story. I find with a stab of dismay that Edward’s cousin Camilla is in the center of the group. When she sees me, curiously, she greets me like I’m a long-lost friend.

“This place is really something,” I say to Gemma, who takes my arm as we head into the Alvear. She pushes her sunglasses back into her hair and shivers with delight.

“Isn’t it? I hope you’re ready for the tour.”

“Please!” I say as we make our way through the massive gilt columns, the chandeliers, the mirrored sconces.