Page 13 of The Lodge

I nod at the helmet. “You’re sure?”

He grins. “We won’t be leaving the Zen Zone today—I could ski it in my sleep. Also, that helmet is good luck.”

“Because wearing it will automatically turn me into a pro?”

“Because it’s just like the one my mom gave me when I was a kid,” he replies. “It was a limited-edition color, super rare, made only that year—the year I started skiing. Finally found it on eBay in an adult size a few months ago.”

He leans in close, and I get another heady whiff of… freesia, maybe?

“Don’t tell the six-year-olds I’m going without,” he whispers conspiratorially as he hands it over. “They’ll never want to wear theirs again.”

“Don’t make me regret this.” I accept the helmet. “Your face is too pretty, and it would be a shame to break it.”

I didnotjust say that out loud.

I did not.

I did.

He laughs as if he hears it all the time, as if it is a completely normal thing to say—never mind that what I said doesn’t even make sense, since the only part of his face a helmet would protect is his forehead.

“Too late,” he says, going along with it, pointing to his ever-so-slightly crooked nose.

“How didthathappen?” I ask. Its crookedness really is subtle, but now that he’s pointed it out, I can’t unsee it.

“You don’t want to know,” he replies, then glances at his watch. “Hey, we should probably get started, yeah?”

We head up to the Zen Zone, a gently sloped area of the mountain where beginners (and people like me) can practice skiing without fearing for their lives. Turns out my helmet isn’t all I forgot—I accidentally left my poles at the café—but Tyler did have some adult-sized extras of those on hand.

“I’ve never actually done this before on any of my ski trips,” I admit as we carefully make our way out into the snow.

“What? A private lesson?”

“Anysort of lesson,” I say. “Ski school. The Zen Zone. My brother taught me how to ski when we were kids.”

Admittedly, it was years before I tried to ski parallel and not just in wedge formation—Ian used to be so patient with me while I figured things out.

If only that had carried over into adulthood.

“Your brother’s the daredevil of the family, then?”

I snort. “When we were kids, yeah. Now he’s an accountantwho goes on the same vacation every year and never orders anything new when he eats at a restaurant.”

Ian is predictable and safe and logical and firmly convinced his opinions are the best opinions—now, anyway. He wasn’t always like that.

“What about you?” I ask. “Any siblings?”

“I—Oh, hang on a second,” he says, twisting his wrist to check a message on his watch. He taps it and hits the tiny microphone icon. “Yes, comma, confirmed for seven this evening, period.”

“Do you always voice text with perfect punctuation?” I ask, impressed, though it’s not lost on me that he’s deflected yet another personal question.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

I laugh. “I try to… but that’s just because I’m a writer.”

His face lights up. “Maybethat’swhy you look familiar! Have you written any books I might know?”

I stop in my tracks. “I look familiar?”

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