“Well that’s good. No one wants to sit around wondering if their ex is thinking about putting a knife in their back.”
“Exactly. So do I pass?”
“Pass what?”
“Well, I don’t know. It felt like some kind of courtship test. I wanted to know how I did.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too competitive?”
“All the bloody time.” He pats the steering wheel. “How else do you think I ended up with the big Tesla?”
“You play to win.” It’s not a question.
“Always.”
He is slowing, pulling into the village. We are months from ski season, but there are still scads of people around. At a glance, it’s the sort of Alpine-village-meets-Rodeo-Drive motif that seems to have something for everyone year-round.
He checks us into a suite at a hotel that has “Chateau” in the name. The place is like a wintery castle: all grand height ceilings and old money finishing. Tapestries on the wall. Candelabras. All the comforts of home.
Our suite is like an elegant little house. The room we’d spent the night before in would fit into one corner with space for a yard.
“If this is how you usually roll, you must have thought the Sylvia was a dump.”
“The Sylvia is not a dump. It’s charming. A boutique hotel.”
“Still.”
“Yeah, this place is pretty sweet. I’m glad you provided me with the excuse to spend the night.”
“I did?”
I am sitting on the edge of the bed, my legs dangling. He bends down, one hand on either side of where my butt meets the bed, and kisses me fully. “You did,” he says when he comes up for air. “I would have had my meeting in Squamish and then gone back to the city.” He collapses in an elegant heap next to me, touches my collarbone gently with his index finger. “But I wanted some of this.”
I lean into him, and when he stands suddenly, I am disappointed. It is unexpected. I see him see that in my face and he smiles. “Look,” he says, “we’d better go eat or we won’t get out of here.”
“They don’t have room service in this dump?”
“They do. But I have someplace in mind.”
Walking around the village, I see it is even more charming and unreal than I’d suspected from the car. Disney does a ski village. Everyone is wearing Lululemon with their Versace and there are quaint little shops, trendy bars, and lovely eateries in block after block. See and be seen. He leads me into one of these.
The food is exceptional yet somehow not memorable, though the wine is much better than what we’d had at the hotel bar the night before. Something from an extensive wine list that he ponders knowledgeably for several minutes before making his choice. Thankfully, conversation between us is as engaging as ever. It is easy to talk with him. No uncertain pauses or painful holes. I am easy with him. As close to myself as is possible for me. I’d forgotten this me existed.
We walk back to the hotel hand in hand, sharing jokes and easy conversation. In that walk, a shaft of pure happiness comes to me. I don’t remember ever feeling anything quite like it. Just this moment filled with nothing but what is right here, in front of me. For the first time in my recollection, everything I have is enough. And maybe I am enough, too.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BACK AT THE hotel, we make love sweetly, then fall asleep in each other’s arms. And here, too, there is this feeling of massive content. Other thoughts try to crowd in, but somehow, I keep them at bay.
Just a little longer, I plead with no one at all. Just let me feel this a bit longer. I’ll figure things out later, but right now let me have this.
In the morning, he leads me to the bathroom. Somehow when I was sleeping, he had filled the tub with bubbles. They smell both exotic and expensive. They smell like you could lose yourself in there. Forever.
He scoops me off my feet so easily, it makes my head swim. Then he lowers me gently into the softly scented water. He doesn’t speak, nor do I, but he drops to his knees next to the tub and begins to wash me. There are no words, just sensuous motions, but they are serious ones, as well. I can tell from how he approaches it that I’ll be clean when he’s done.
He washes my hair. No one outside of a salon has ever washed my hair before. He does it carefully, making sure none of the rich shampoo drips into my eyes or even down my forehead. Then he rinses me, head to toe, still silent. Drains the tub. Lifts me out and dries me with a huge, rough towel. He dries every piece of me, as one would a child, until I am standing there, my skin glowing from his efforts.
Now he lifts me again, carries me back to the bedroom, places me gently back on my spot on the bed, then snuggles his form next to mine, our curves joining as sweetly as though they have been designed that way.
“So what now?” he says, tracing the curve of my arm with his finger. It’s the first time he has spoken in a while. Neither of us have. And the sound of the words seems almost musical in the silent hotel suite.
“I don’t have a plan.”
“You checked out of your hotel.” It’s not a question.
“Yes,” I say.
“How long are you in town?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’ll come and stay with me.”
“All right.”
We do the drive in reverse and it is just as beautiful as it was the day before, only now we are holding hands as we drive, or his right hand plays through my hair while I lightly touch his thigh or the back of his neck. We are never far from touching, like each of us
