“That’s right.” He smiles and clenches a honey straw between his teeth.
Jonah is like the rest of us—in absurdly puffy ski gear he probably got off Craigslist. His is black like mine, simple. And he doesn’t . . . well, he kind of does look stupid, but he doesn’t look like he even notices, which changes everything.
I guess I never really mentioned that while Past Jonah used to be this annoying gangly walking smirk, Recent Past Jonah had turned into something tolerable, and Current Jonah is just . . . just a straight up problem. I don’t know how to talk to him like a normal person, because I have no freaking idea where I’m supposed to look.
His eyes are so dark they practically glitter, and he’s got this intensely perfect nut-brown skin, dark freckles dusting his cheeks and nose. Hard jawline, cheekbones, sharp smile, the works. And dimples—the audacity of dimples on a guy like that.
And he doesn’t ski, he snowboards. Of course he snow-boards. I’m a little nervous about his board’s structural integrity, truth be told; it’s scratched to hell.
Of course it is. Of course even his snowboard rides the ragged edge of safety.
“Well,” I say, “I’m not my parents.”
His eyebrow arches and he takes that straw out of his mouth, which I bet right now would taste like honey.
Jesus Christ, Hal; what is your problem?
He’s off-limits.
And even if my parents are being pretty unfair about him, blaming Jaxon’s autonomous (and not all that scandalous) life choices on him, there’s nothing drawing me there except the air about him. The one that says he’s a little dangerous.
And Oh, he just seems so DaNgErOuS is not exactly the opening line to an epic love story, is it?
Well.
Okay.
The danger, and the dimples.
Jolie coughs, and Jonah scrapes his teeth over his lip and kind of laughs. It’s a little throaty, a tic raspy, and I assume it’s the dry cold.
I hope it’s the dry cold.
And Jaxon says to his super dangerous best friend, “Come on, Ramirez. Keep me warm on the ski lift.”
“Why, Jaxon,” Jonah says, pressing his hand to his chest, “that’s so forward.”
Then he smacks Jaxon on the back and they head to the line.
“You ready for this?” I say to Jolie.
“Oh god,” she says. “If I could just . . . just stay in and read a book.”
I fake a sob and we link arms, ready to brave the mountain together.
CHAPTER TWO
DAD SIDE-EYES ME THE second I make it back into the ski lodge.
“What?” I say when Jolie shoots me this knowing Uncle-Uri-Am-I-Right kind of smile and heads upstairs to change out of her soaked clothes. I’d kind of like to be doing that right now; it turns out, when you haven’t skied in forever, what happens when you jump back on those long, skinny death traps is you spend a lot of time rolling down the mountain.
The number of times Jaxon and Jonah passed us, laughing their asses off (and that we recovered, only to find both of them absolutely eating it thirty yards ahead), was truly astounding. I can’t even begin to imagine what every single spot on my body is going to feel like in the morning, but I can tell you this: all my skin is going to be purple.
I would like a shower, and then I would like a hot tub.
And then I would like a dang book.
But Dad says, “Did you have fun up there?”
He’s almost formal when he speaks. Well, not formal, not exactly, not like he’s giving a speech to the board or something, just . . . refined. Mom’s not quite so noticeably that way, but . . . still. She’s still so—so polished. It makes me feel like I should refine myself a little, and usually I do, so I can feel like I’m a Jacob in their presence.
Which I almost never do.
The limited times I’m with Jaxon, with Jolie, with their cool, weird hippie parents, then—then I feel like I was born with the right blood in my veins. I feel like they wouldn’t exactly say that; they can’t feel me wishing every second I’m with them that I could make those bold, impossible choices like Jaxon, or give you a detailed theory on the nature of G-d in one breath and pick out the perfect cruelty-free eyeliner with the capability of creating the most flawless wings in the other like Jolie. They can’t feel me wanting. If they could, they’d—I think they’d agree.
But I’m not with them, I’m with my dad. Dad speaks to me, and I stand a little taller, wipe my snow-coated hair out of my eyes. “Yes,” I say. Not yeah. Yes.
“Did you spend the whole day with—Jolie?”
I shrug. “Most of it. Hung around a little with Sam and Tzipporah, too.”
Dad glances behind me at the stairs, where Jolie is disappearing. He takes time before he speaks, measures his words. And says, “Well.”
He lets it hang.
Mom joins him and when I thought, earlier, about L. L. Bean models, this is what I meant. They don’t even look like they’ve been skiing today—Mom with her impossibly immaculate bottled blonde hair and Dad, not a speck of powder on his sleek bajillion-dollar ski outfit. The only real signal is the poles.
“Well,” he finally continues, “I’m glad you girls had fun.”
I blink. “Yeah?” I correct myself. “I mean, yes? You are?”
“Yes,” he says, adjusting his jacket on his chest. “This weekend is about family; I told you that.”
“Well . . . I know that. It’s just that usually . . . I just mean with, you know. With Jaxon and Jolie, you’re kind of . . .”
Dad purses his lips and Mom shifts her weight.
She says, “You know we’d never begrudge you time with your cousins.”
“And Jolie’s actually your age. Better that you spend time with her than all the . . . the college millennials on this trip.”
I cough. “Dad, people in college aren’t millennials. We’re all Gen Z.”
He harrumphs in the way that old people do and Mom pushes his shoulder and says, “Really, Uri. You’re embarrassing the rest of us. Being so old.”
I snicker and my dad says, “You’re older than I am!”
She shrugs. “But I’m not embarrassing the rest of us, am I?”
Dad narrows his eyes but laughs, and I swear Mom is the only person who can make him do that. The only one; it’s like a superpower. One I kind of wish I had.
I don’t know, though, I guess it kind of makes their thing special. And that’s nice to watch. It’s comforting, it’s secure.
“Go,” says my dad. “Hang out with your cousins.”
Hearing him say hang out is so bizarre that I expect him to follow it with as the kids say.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah—yes, okay, I will.”
“We’ll meet up for dinner at the Blue Moose in a half hour.”
Ah, there it is. How much trouble can we really get into in thirty minutes?
I follow Jolie up the stairs to find out.
She told me she’d be in Sam and Tzipporah’s room and the door’s already open, like all the college kids here say everyone leaves the dorms. Kind of cool. So I just push my way in and I am greeted by a chorus of feminine “Hallieeeeee”s.
I smile and curtsy.