“I remember it perfectly,” said Gideon. “You were the new girl. Mrs. Carver introduced you and asked you to say one unusual fact about yourself. You couldn’t think of one, so she asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up.” He paused to look down at her with a wry smile. “You said you wanted to get a PhD.”

“I did?” She felt her sex appeal shrivel up and die. “How did I even know what a PhD was back then?”

“I was so impressed. I thought you were one of those child prodigies Dad would read to us about in the newspaper.”

“Trust me”—she shook her head—“I had no idea what I was saying. It must have been something my parents planted into my head.”

“Then you sat in the desk next to mine and ignored me for the rest of the year. You were so different from all the other girls I’d known… I can’t tell you how refreshing it was.”

She smiled noncommittally. Was “refreshing” one of those adjectives reserved for “considerate” girls?

They’d finally made it out of the stadium. It was a foggy evening of inky black skies, a wispy, almost invisible moon—a shadow moon, as Meifeng had called it once, when things became possible that had not been possible before. Ivy’s face stung with the sudden wind.

“Do you think I’ve changed a lot since then?” she asked.

“Not really. I was just thinking how comfortable I feel with you. As I get older, I think that a shared history counts for a lot more in friendship than quantity of time spent with another person.” His eyes roamed over her face in a frank manner. “And you look the same. Haven’t aged a day.”

“I can’t believe I used to have a crush on you.”

“Did you?”

The flow of the crowd around them, a sea of green, the celebratory shouts, sounds of beer bottles breaking on cement, gave her a sense of exhilaration, of being anonymous and safe in her anonymity.

“Oh, come on,” she said, pulling her coat closer to her body. “You knew.”

He didn’t refute her.

“Funny how life works,” she said quietly. “Here we are.”

Gideon’s eyes were two gossamer orbs, reflecting her own face back at her. “Here we are,” he echoed.

* * *

IVY CHARGED THE flight to her credit card. It was $575—an overpriced last-minute flight from Boston to Montreal. And then there were the accessory costs: ski jacket, pants, helmet, goggles, new lingerie, a wax, manicure, pedicure—all necessary expenses, she knew, but frightening when added up. She could not look at her bank account. She opened one of those spam letters advertising the latest credit card and applied for the one with the highest spending limit. A temporary onetime Band-Aid, she promised herself.

All week, through her morning meetings, coffee breaks, Daily 5, through her long, steamy baths after work and the tedious drone of Andrea’s one-sided conversations about her weight loss efforts and latest boy troubles, and most of all, at night, when her mind roamed most free and her stream of desire, while always present but subdued during the day, swelled to a rushing river, she would picture herself making love to Gideon. The heavy quilt of a cold mountain lodge. Her nipples as hard as acorns. His hand running up her thigh, the hollow of his temples pressed against her breast, and his lips… his lips—! Hours and hours of pleasure later, the sun rising over snow-covered mountains outside their terrace, they would drink their coffee naked underneath their cotton robes; he’d reach over the pastry basket and press her hand to the purple-veined hickey on the side of his neck.

The day before the trip, Ivy sent Sylvia a thank-you card for the New Year’s party. Sylvia texted her a few days later: Thank you for the sweet message. So nice of you to come. Funny thing—I use the same set of thank-you cards. Great taste! Ivy had a good laugh at that.

Since her flight was separate from the others, she met Gideon and Marybeth at baggage claim. Tom had gone to pick up the rental car, a gleaming white Range Rover that still barely managed to fit all their equipment. They drove to Mont-Tremblant, mostly silent, all of them sleepy. Tom had the radio dialed to some country station, and he spoke to them in a dead-on Southern accent for the rest of the drive. He could be funny sometimes, Ivy noted, softened by the false temporary fondness that follows inclusion.

When they arrived at the lodge, a convenient three-bedroom villa, Ivy suspected, from overhearing Gideon’s conversation with the concierge, that he’d changed their housing just for her. She felt a wave of disappointed misery. Gideon probably would have been appalled had she intimated they share a room. The first time they met, Daniel had slept over in her hotel bed—she was at the Twin Harbor Casino for Andrea’s birthday party, and this shy, wiry guy who’d been at their blackjack table all evening had brought up a bottle of wine to her room. Men always think they take the initiative but it’s women who make the first, often imperceptible move. Gideon was no Daniel, however. What’d worked before wouldn’t work now.

No one lingered in the rooms. As soon as they dropped off their suitcases, they geared up for a day of skiing. Thus began for Ivy what felt like a time loop of continuously strapping on skis, flailing, sliding, falling, getting her poles, pushing herself back up, rinse, and repeat. Slide, fall, find poles, get up. Sometimes her skis would fall off altogether and Gideon had to help her get back into them. It began to snow in the early afternoon. Fat snowflakes stung her cheeks, she tasted cold in her mouth. Around her was white, a sea of white, and each skier on the bunny hill was their own island of misery and exhaustion, their only goal to keep out of one another’s way.

“You’ve never played sports, have you?” Tom asked when he and Marybeth stopped by to check up on her and Gideon. Ivy’s eyes stung with tears behind her goggles, but she managed a self-deprecating laugh—at least she assumed she was laughing, she could no longer feel her face. By the end of the day, she had soaked through all her layers of clothes, her gloves, even the soft padding of her ski helmet was damp with perspiration. When she took off her socks that night to shower, she saw the purple hue underneath her left toenail where it had already begun to blacken.

After dinner, Gideon fell asleep on the recliner next to the fireplace. Ivy was forced to bear Tom’s incessant jabs, for without Gideon to rein him in, even Marybeth’s sarcasm couldn’t stop his drunken “jokes,” always delivered in the same oblique manner so that Ivy had no way to defend herself, because she was never sure what it was he was implying.

“It’s too bad we didn’t get to ski with Gideon at all,” Tom remarked as he stripped off his socks and wiggled his hairy toes toward the fire.

“We could join them tomorrow,” Marybeth pointed out.

“And die from some idiot crashing into me on the bunny hill? No thanks.” He took a long swig of his brandy. “Are you having fun, Ivy?” he said kindly.

“Oh, yes.” She pulled out her lesson planner. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“You can thank Gideon for that,” said Tom, “with a late-night visit.”

She smiled humorously.

“I mean it.” He leaned forward. “Gideon loves aggressive women.”

“Is there anything going on between you two?” Marybeth asked, switching allegiances.

“We’re just friends,” said Ivy.

“So there’s no chemistry?”

“Well…” Her blushing face reflexively turned toward Gideon. She was struck with the sudden fear that he was awake, listening to their conversation about him, that perhaps he and his friends had even contrived this setup to test her. In a low voice, she said, “We’re just getting to know each other.”

Marybeth studied her.

“You’re going about it all wrong.” Tom frowned. “He’s your typical shy dude. Loves it when the girls come on to him. The kinkier, the better. He’s an animal in bed. What, you don’t believe me?”

Ivy looked at Marybeth, but the other woman didn’t come to her aid.

“You’re joking, right,” she said.

“Am I joking… am I joking…” Tom struck the armrest with his fist. “Are you fucking joking?”

Ivy drew back.

Marybeth said, “I think it’s bedtime.”

Tom blinked. He set his drink on the table and yawned. “Didn’t mean to push… Please excuse me. I’m going to bed.” He looked at Marybeth. Marybeth looked at Gideon. Ivy looked down at her lap. The ink from her lesson plans had bled onto her damp fingers.

* * *