Chapter 19

Charlotte stood at the top of what felt like the tallest mountain in the world and contemplated her death.

Rather, she thought about the choices that had led her to this point, about how December had really fucked her over good and proper this year, and she wondered just how sore her rear end would be if she slid all the way down this slope on her ass. But as she registered Brighton's presence next to her—the infernal woman had insisted on skiing with her, and Charlotte had quite pointedly not looked directly at her since they'd left their cabin—she felt determined to conquer December once and for all.

December, Brighton Fairbrook's relentless hold on her, their history, everything.

And it started with this mountain—Sloane insisted it was just a hill, a "green" slope, as the ski world called it, and perfect for beginners, but still. It felt big to Charlotte. Felt like a risk she'd never have taken in Decembers past. Granted, she never would've climbed onto that ski lift had Brighton not thoroughly pissed her off with her assumptions about Wes, but did it really matter what had gotten her here?

She was here. She was ready. She was Charlotte fucking Donovan. Never mind that the snow was now falling in what could only be described as torrents, creating a thick sheet of white over the whole world. Charlotte would prevail.

Just as soon as she could get her body to slide forward.

Then she would prevail, no doubt.

"I thought you hated skiing," Brighton said. Of course, Charlotte had skied before—she grew up in Michigan, and the Fairbrooks loved the slopes in the winter. She had gone with them once when she and Brighton were fourteen, in January so as not to risk a December disaster, but it wasn't Charlotte's favorite activity. The aching ankles, the cold wind slapping you in the face, the risk of broken bones, no matter the month.

Charlotte clenched her jaw. "You don't know me."

"Sure, Lola, you keep telling yourself that."

"No, you tell yourself that," Charlotte spat back, fully realizing it was a paltry comeback, but her patience was less than thin at this point, a gossamer line between control and losing her shit.

Brighton sighed, pursing her mouth. Charlotte risked a glance, then directed her gaze back to the slope in front of her. She refused to admit how damn cute Brighton looked in her ski pants and coat, her thick gloves and yellow-tinted goggles, which she'd rented from the ski shop. Her fleece hat was pulled down to her eyebrows, her brown hair flicking in the snowy wind.

"Ready for this, Char?" Elle called from where they stood next to Manish, because of course their entire group was there to witness her ineptitude on the slopes. Meanwhile, Sloane, Adele, Wes, and Dorian slid around the flat area where the ski lift had dropped them off with ease, having practically grown up with skis attached to their feet.

"Race you to the bottom?" Wes asked Sloane as they came to a stop at the precipice of the mountain.

"On a green?" Sloane asked. "I'll slaughter you."

"Oh, like in ninth grade, when I finished a full minute before you?"

"Like junior year, when I won the Valentine's Day Cupid Sprint and left you in my dust," Sloane said.

Wes grinned. "Best Valentine's Day yet."

Sloane's eyes widened a fraction. "Really?"

"You know it was," Wes said softly.

"Jesus Christ," Charlotte said.

Loudly.

Seven pairs of eyes landed on her, which she could feel even with the wind whipping her ponytail into her face. She shook her head, unable to explain her outburst, how she suddenly couldn't stomach two people so obviously in love with each other but ignoring it, ignoring being happy, belonging to someone, and—

I miss you.

I've never loved anyone like I love you .

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she said, stabbing her poles into the ground and launching herself forward. She released a tiny yelp as she flew over the edge of the mountain, her skis sliding easily over the fresh snow.

"Lola!" she heard Brighton call behind her, but it was too late. She was already gone, plummeting to her untimely demise. The hill wasn't steep, she realized this, but it felt like a ninety-degree angle as she started going faster and faster. She snowplowed her skis, a move she remembered seeing others do as they came down the slope—granted, mostly kids—but all that did was send up a flurry of frost and snow into her face. People whizzed by—Sloane and Wes, laughing as they raced; Manish screaming and yelling "Shit, shit, shit!" the entire way down with Dorian on his tail, cracking up as he zigzagged like an expert; Elle flying down with ease because Mimi had taken them to Vail at least once a year throughout their childhood.

And Brighton.

Brighton sliding up next to her, of course.

"You okay?" Brighton shouted over the wind.

"I'm fine!" Charlotte shouted back. "I don't need your help!"

"I never said you did!"

Charlotte swerved to the right and nearly lost her balance but managed to hold it together.

"Just go!" she yelled at Brighton.

"I am going!"

"I mean without me!"

"You call this with you?" Brighton yelled, dodging a slow-moving kid in a permanent snowplow position. "Charlotte, nothing is with you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You make it impossible. Friendship, moving on. Anything."

" I make it impossible?" Charlotte shot back. " You're the one who won't give me a goddamn second to breathe!"

She hit a tiny bump—a rock or twig under the snow—and one of her poles flew from her hand, lost behind her forever.

Brighton didn't seem to notice. "I'm not trying to smother you. I'm just trying to be real!"

"Real?" Charlotte said flatly. "Real? Like when you left me standing by myself on our wedding day? That kind of real?"

Brighton grunted in frustration.

Good , Charlotte thought.

"Real," Brighton said, "like not lying your ass off about how you actually feel."

Charlotte's mouth dropped open, but she didn't have time to register that Brighton clearly knew she was lying about what she remembered from last night. Her balance was all off—physically and now mentally, emotionally. The bottom of the hill loomed, the finish line, thank god, but with only one pole, she couldn't find her center. She wobbled this way and that until her skis finally crossed and she went down. Some limb—foot, leg, arm, she wasn't sure—caught on Brighton, and soon they were a cartoonish ball of chaos, tangled and tumbling until they finally came to rest at the bottom of the hill.

Charlotte was on her back, arms splayed, one leg crossed over her body and stuck under Brighton's torso. The snow fell so heavily that she could barely keep her eyes open, could barely figure out if she was dead, injured, or simply a total idiot.

A shadow appeared above her, vaguely Wes-shaped.

"Are you two okay?" he asked.

"I don't know yet," she said. "Brighton?"

"Alive," was all Brighton said from next to her.

"Here, let's get you up and assess the damage," Wes said. The rest of their group had hurried over as well, and Charlotte gritted her teeth against all the fussing as Wes pulled her up. Dorian helped untangle Brighton, and soon they were both on their feet. Snow fell even harder now, swirled by the wind.

"Anything hurt?" Sloane said.

Charlotte's left ankle twinged a bit, but it wasn't bad, and she'd be damned if she admitted it.

"No," she said.

"I'm all right," Brighton said. "Just winded."

"Yeah, well, you're lucky," Adele said, folding her arms. "Those kinds of collisions are how people die on the slopes."

Charlotte just nodded. She wanted a hot bath. And a drink. And a damn cabin free of one Brighton Fairbrook.

Still…

She turned around, shielded her eyes against the heavy snowfall, and looked up at the mountain she'd just come down.

She'd done it.

She'd made it down in one piece.

Granted, not very gracefully, but it still counted in her book. She took a deep breath and turned back around, then noticed everyone around them hurrying toward the ski lodge, the ski lift stationary and seemingly shut down.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Blizzard warning," Adele said. "Slopes are closing, and everyone's being directed indoors."

"Blizzard warning?" Charlotte said, panic flaring. "Your dad said six inches."

Sloane laughed. "Classic Dad. During the Blizzard of 2003, he kept saying, ‘Ten inches, tops! Nothing to worry about!'?"

"Biggest blizzard to hit Colorado in a decade," Adele said, then looked at the sky, which was morphing from a fluffy, snowy white to an ominous storm gray. "We should get inside."

The group quickly scurried to the ski shop and returned their boots, skis, and poles—in the rush to beat the storm, the shopworker didn't even register Charlotte's missing pole—and then set off on the path toward their cabins.

"Are we getting snowed in?" Charlotte asked Sloane, hurrying as fast as she could without revealing her sore ankle.

"Who knows?" Sloane said casually. "If it gets bad, we'll all hunker down in the big house."

" If ?" Charlotte said as they came to a stop in front of her cabin.

Sloane squinted at her. "You okay?"

Charlotte huffed a breath. "Will you please stop asking me that?"

Sloane's jaw clenched. "Yeah, maybe I would if you'd tell me anything just a little bit close to real, Charlotte."

And with that, she turned away, hurrying to her own cabin without another word.

Charlotte's throat went tight. She was getting damned tired of that word— real . What was she, fucking make-believe? A made-up person, invisible until she was wanted?

The thought made her suddenly tired for some reason. Standing there in the snow, thunder rumbling across the sky as her friends hurried for shelter, she felt completely exhausted.

Brighton finally arrived with their key, opening their cabin door wordlessly, snow already building up a little at the entrance. Charlotte watched her face, ruddy from the cold, a tiny scratch on her cheek that hadn't been there earlier. It was barely red, but still.

"Are you okay?" Charlotte heard herself ask softly, before she could tell herself she didn't care, didn't need to voice it even if she did.

"Fine," Brighton said flatly as she swung the door open.

Charlotte's cheeks burned, embarrassment over the past twenty-four hours—actually, every hour since she'd arrived in Winter River—finally catching up with her. She practically ran inside, her ankle screaming at her the whole way, and headed straight for her bedroom, closing herself safely behind the heavy oak door.