Page 26 of The Mountain
Before coming to Utah—back when I had the false safety of an allowance and my parents putting a roof over my head and foodin my fridge—I would have made some show about refusing her offer. Now, my stomach grumbles, reminding me that the last meal I had was the oatmeal Seth made me.
I swallow my pride and paint on a smile. “You certainly earned it. You nailed that toe-side turn on the last run.”
I don’t tell her that I’m planning to take her to the main lift after lunch, that her time taking baby steps on the learner’s slope is done. No point in giving her a chance to worry, to let the fear seep back in.
The cafeteria is packed, noise ricocheting off the wood-paneled walls, plates clattering on laminate tables alongside snowmelt and discarded ski gear. Jackie wrinkles her nose, giving me a disgusted look before pulling out her phone to check her messages.
“Is this the only place to eat on the mountain?” she asks, thumbing through her phone. “I thought there was supposed to be something more exclusive. A Michelin-star place or something…”
“There is,” I say cautiously, my brows lifting. “It’s upstairs…” It’s also so expensive, the first time I glanced at the menu when I was walking past, I nearly passed out.
“Perfect,” she says, not looking up from her phone. “I’ll have them meet us there.”
“Them?” I ask dumbly, my mind still consumed by silent panic about the impending price of lunch.
What if we go there and Jackie changes her mind about paying? I’m pretty sure their cheapest dish would equate to an entire week’s worth of groceries, and my bank account is currentlysitting on empty—though my first paycheck should clear by tomorrow.
“My daughter and her instructor,” she replies idly, pocketing her phone. “And, apparently, my daughter’s ‘best friend in the entire world’ andherinstructor…” She gives me a wry smile, making finger quotes as she speaks. “Because of course we couldn’t fly halfway across the country without running into someone we know.” She gives a dramatic sigh, then flips her wind-mussed hair over one shoulder. “Right, lead the way, Lily. I’m starving.”
I’m not surprised to find the restaurant upstairs has a table for us, given the price tag seems intentionally aimed at keeping people away.
I am, however, surprised to see both Antoine and Eddie sitting shoulder to shoulder, eyeing each other awkwardly as two preteen girls chatter to each other at hyperspeed at the other end of the table.
Chapter 9
Antoine
The woman standing next to Lily says something, but I can’t seem to make my brain take in the words. My eyes are fixed on Lily, a delightful bubble of surprise rising up at the sight of her.
Her cheeks are flushed, eyes sparkling, and lips parted as she glances from me to Eddie, her helmet clutched to her chest, the battered plastic a contrast against her newly issued instructor’s jacket.
“Bonjour,ma puce,” I say softly, but not soft enough that my student, Indie, doesn’t take notice.
“Oh my god,” Indie squeals, knocking her shoulder against her friend. “Did you hear that, Mari? He speaks French!”
“That is so slay,” Mari whispers loudly. “Mine only speaks Kiwi.”
Lily grins, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Next to me, Eddie lets out an irritated huff, picking up his salad fork and wielding it like a pointer. “Look here, kid,” he tells Mari, but I can hear thesmile in his voice. “Keep up that sass and we’ll see how well you do on a double-black diamond run after lunch, eh? I’m the best instructor you’ve ever had and you know it.”
“Whatever.” Mari rolls her eyes, slumping down in her chair and lifting her menu so that her face is screened from view.
“Good to see you too,” the older woman deadpans. Mari’s mother, presumably, given Mari looks like her surly, miniature replica. “Looks like you and Indie have been having a good morning.” She turns a bland, polite smile on me and Eddie. The expression reminds me unnervingly ofMaman, and I try not to think about her latest text message, laden with all the guilt that only a Parisian mother could fit into three simple lines. “And these must be your instructors.”
Eddie stands, his fork clattering to the table as he stretches out a hand toward Mari’s mother. “Eddie Walker. I’m Mari’s instructor. You must be Jackie, Mari’s mum.” He gives his signature smile—the one that instantly transforms his face fromenfant terribletoangelique. Jackie’s expression softens, and I bite back a grin.
“I hope Mari’s been a good student,” she says cautiously, casting a disapproving frown in Mari’s direction. “She’s not always the best listener when she’s around her friends.”
I feel a protective burst of irritation rise up at this woman’s criticism, my gaze darting to where Indie sits, liquid brown eyes staring watchfully between her best friend and her best friend’s mother. I’ve been her—torn between wanting to impress my friends, and wanting to gain the approval of their parents, and all the while, conscious of my race. Of the differences stretching between me and my white friends, of the way those differencesfeel branded across your flesh when you’re a child. When all you want is to fit in.
“Nah, she’s been sweet as,” Eddie drawls, his smile never faltering. But I know him well enough now to see how forced it is, that it’s as much a mask as the polite smileMamantaught me to wear. “Actually, she and Indie here have really been pushing each other. I think you’ll be amazed at how much she’s learned.”
I’m surprised at the rush of gratitude I feel toward Eddie in that moment.
Of all of my flatmates, he’s probably the one I’ve spent the least time with. He’s certainly the one I understand the least. I’ve always felt like he and I are magnets in reverse, pushing off each other, never even connecting enough to have a real conflict.
Until this morning. Until I saw the way he is with his students—putain, the way he’s been withmystudent. Constantly watchful and protective, endlessly patient—even when his sharp words would have you thinking otherwise—and giving his whole heart to each lesson.
“I’m Antoine Lafosse,” I say abruptly, refusing to be casually dismissed as some nameless instructor.
