family have been waiting patiently for me to make peace with my ghosts.
I have been alone with them for so long, listening to the Will and Alex in my head, trying to come to terms with what happened, with what I did—trying to come to terms with the responsibility of having said those four little words, Let’s go off-piste.
Lying there in the snow with Liz, feeling her life ebbing away beneath my fingers, I realized—I can’t keep running anymore. And maybe that’s okay.
“And are you going to be all right?” I ask. In the distance the coach is coming, I can hear the sound of its snow tires against the plowed road. “What are you going to do? Try for a job in one of the other chalets?”
“Oh,” Danny says, and to my surprise, he’s gone a little pink. The tips of his ears, just visible in spite of his beany hat, are tinged with rose. “Oh yeah, well, actually, I’ve got a place lined up.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.” He coughs, a little awkwardly. “Um, you remember that B and B the police put us in?”
“The one with the shit cassoulet? Of course I remember!”
“Yeah, well, they’ve sacked their chef. And, well, um, well, a mate put in a word for me.”
“A mate?” I am grinning broadly now. “A mate? Would that mate by any chance be sexy Eric the landlady’s son? Monsieur Piña Colada from Le Petit Coin?”
Danny is blushing so furiously that I can’t help prodding him in the ribs, making him laugh.
“Oh, Danny! What did you have to do to earn that?”
“Never you mind.” Danny’s cheeks are glowing, and he’s half glowering, half grinning back, but I can see the happiness radiating out of him. “Bit of nepotism never did no one any harm.”
“I very much doubt it was nepotism,” I say. “One taste of your cassoulet and Eric would be mad not to snap you up.”
I want to know more. I want to know everything, but now the bus is nearly here, and there’s no time. I kiss Danny on the cheek and he picks up my other bag and when the coach draws up, he hands it to the guy in charge of loading the luggage.
“Look after her,” he says in French to the driver as I make my way carefully up the steps. I don’t need a crutch anymore, but my ankle is still in the Aircast. “She’s not as tough as she looks.”
“Bien sur,” the driver calls back, and winks at me.
I am sliding into my seat when I hear Danny calling something through the thick window, and I pop open the little vent at the top of the pane and kneel up on the seat to look down at him.
“What is it?”
“I forgot to say—download Choon!”
“Choon?”
“It’s the new Snoop, mate. Only better. C, H, double O, N.”
“Choon. Got it,” I call back. And then the coach begins moving and I shut the window. It picks up speed, and I’m waving to Danny, and he’s waving to me, and kissing his hand, and I feel a tear tracing down my cheek.
He’s calling something through the glass, but I can’t hear what.
“I can’t hear you!” I shout. My face is crumpling. I swipe at the tears on my cheek, feeling the tight ripple of the fading scar slick beneath my knuckles. “I love you!” But we’re too far up the road, and I know he didn’t hear either.
I sink back into my seat, feeling my heart ache for everyone I’ve lost, everything I’m leaving behind in the mountains. Another tear rolls down my face, and for a minute I think I’m not going to be able to hold it back—the tears are going to come whether I want them to or not, and I’m going to bawl my heart out on the bus. But then my phone gives a single beep.
It’s a text message. From Danny.
CHOON, mate. Oh—and my ID, it’s DANNYBOI. Luv ya.
ERIN
Choon ID: Little-My
Followers: 1
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing a book is for the most part a selfish, lonesome thing, but I cannot stress enough the extent to which publishing is a team effort—and the tireless teams of editors, publicists, marketeers, designers, sales reps, rights people, production editors, and everyone else behind the scenes are the unsung heroes of the book world, along with the booksellers and librarians who take care of our efforts after they have left the doors of the publishing house. The fact that this book made it from my head into your hands is