Page 41 of Counting Down To You

“But they’ll let you retake the test, right?” I wonder what kind of test it is. I’m imagining wading through snow, or administering first aid, or skiing with someone attached behind him or something. I took a swimming test when I was younger and had to drag someone out of the pool fully clothed—that sort of thing?

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “They’ll let me retake it.” Then, before I can ask any more questions, “Okay, ready to get off?”

“What?” I jerk my head away from staring at Leo—and, yes, apparently that’s what I’ve been doing—to look at the fast-approaching chairlift exit. “No,” I say without thinking about it. The people several places in front of us are lifting up their bars and skiing straight off, making it look easy. I very much doubt I will make it look easy.

“What happens if I can’t get off?” I ask, a note of panic in my voice. “What happens if I keep going round? Will they help me off at the other end?”

“You’ll be fine,” he says, totally calm. “Just let the lift push you up. It’s easier than it looks, just try not to overthink it.”

But I am already overthinking it. The bar will come up, so there will be nothing to keep me in place. What if I fall? Break a leg? I don’t want to break a leg. I am already reaching for said bar, determined not to let Leo take it away from me. Then I feel his hand on mine. He prizes it gently from the bar, then links his gloved fingers through mine.

“Come on,” he says. And he lifts the bar.

It is, in fact, easier than it looks. Probably because he is guiding me, his hand on mine the whole time. And maybe it is partly the distraction of that, the way that even through gloves my pulse flares with the contact. It stops me overthinking it, so that the chair lift pushes us up, and Leo pulls me out of the way of people behind us.

We come to a stop after a few meters, Leo letting go of my hand. I look down over the mountain and feel a wave of giddiness. I’m here. I’m on top of a mountain in actual skis. I’m doing this.

And I smile when I hear Robyn’s voice in my mind, like she is right here with me. I told you new skills were a great idea.

“So we’re going to learn to parallel ski,” Leo says, his tone very much in “instructor mode.” “As your legs will be killing you if you try to snow plow the whole way down.”

I frown. “I very much hope we’re not going to learn and that you already know how to.” He grins again. He’s doing that a lot today. “Also, I don’t think we should mess with a good thing. Snow plowing is fine. Snow plowing is great. I love to plow.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Come on.”

I follow him in my awkward shuffle, using my poles to help drag myself through the snow. The slope starts off nice and gentle, and I manage to do some very slow turns, following Leo’s instructions and trying to ignore the many, many people passing us. He stays with me, coaching me the whole time.

“You know,” I say as I jerk to a stop after panicking about going too quickly, “if all else fails, maybe you should be a ski instructor. You’re pretty good at this.”

“Nah,” he says. “I don’t have the patience.”

I glance up at him, the sun bringing out the subtle shades of dark red in his hair. “You seem pretty patient to me.”

“Again,” is his only answer. “Try and keep moving this time if you can.”

I take a breath, and slide into motion again. I allow myself to move a little faster. A little faster still. Then, I hit a bump and speed up—and not of my own accord. Another bump. Shit, this is too fast. I don’t like this at all. I try to point my toes together to stop, the way he showed me, only one of my legs has other ideas and slips, going completely the wrong direction.

I lose my balance, swing my arms out. And fall, right on my bum.

Leo is there in an instant. “You okay?”

“Oww,” I say in answer, trying to get to my feet and slipping down again. Well, at least both skis are still attached. I look up at Leo. “I thought you said you wouldn’t let me fall.”

His lips twitch. “Apologies. I should have said, I won’t let you fall to your death from a chairlift. I can’t stop you from falling while skiing—it’s part of learning, I’m afraid. But it still sucks.” He holds out a hand and I take it, letting him help me to my feet. “Come on. I reckon you’ve earned a break.”

I nod. “But first—one more go.”

“You sure? You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t. But I want to.” Learn a new skill. And I’m halfway there, aren’t I? All right, I’m not going to be an Olympic skier, but maybe getting down a blue run might be something I can accomplish.

The smile he gives me seems different this time. Warmer. “Okay,” he says. “One more go.”

Chapter

12

In the end, we have several more goes, and by early afternoon I think I might vaguely be getting the hang of it. And by that I mean I can just about make it down without falling or stopping every couple of seconds. I am still possibly the slowest skier on the entire mountains—but I am still, technically, a skier.