Page 42 of One Last Run

"I work at a non-profit." A half-truth, but she wasn't about to say shefoundeda non-profit.

"What kind of work does your non-profit do?" Danica pressed.

"Work that's not for profit," Pete said with a grin behind her scarf.

Danica sighed, skiing ahead again past a group of people who were milling about toward the end of the run.

Pete didn't know why opening up to Danica was so difficult. Why some part of her wanted to keep all of the boring achievements under wraps. She was proud of her work, proud of her foundation, but she wasn't in it for the praise. She was in it for the kids. She was in it for the young girl still inside her, being shuttled from foster home to foster home, knowing she'd never have a real family and petrified to let anyone in. Well, until she met Lillian at one of her last foster homes, a placement she’d had in her late teens. They’d both been there until they were eighteen, officially aging out of foster care.

She’d gone to a small liberal arts college in Colorado on scholarships and financial aid, wanting something more for her life — and also not knowing what else to do. Finding this group of friends in college had been one of the first times where she'd really felt like she had a family. Finding Danica back in college was the first time she'd ever met a person who felt like home.

She didn’t want to lose that again.

The four ofthem slid into a lift seat together, and Pete tucked her poles under her leg like she'd seen Maggie, Kiera, and Danica do dozens of times. Danica pulled down the bar before they were even out of the lift station. Kiera had situated herself directly between Pete and Danica, and Danica bent forward to look toward Pete and Izzy.

"Is it like, extra cold today or what?" Danica said, sniffling and tucking her nose back into her neck gaiter.

Izzy paused as she fixed her hair, pulling two longer strands of her bangs out on either side of her face. "I have some whiskey shooters in my bag if you need a warmup."

Danica grinned. "Ooh, sure."

Pete’s jacket made a plasticky swish as she turned in the lift chair so quickly it made the seat rock. "Oh? What was it you told me a few days ago? You don't need whiskey to ski?"

Danica rolled her eyes, but was clutching the safety bar as the seat rocked. "That was a flask. This is very different.”

Even Kiera took one of the shooters from Izzy, and they all toasted on the lift before swallowing the burning liquid. It was cheap liquor — nothing expensive came in a plastic one-ounce bottle, of course – but it did the trick. Pete could feel warmth flooding through her chest and into her stomach.

"How many shooters do you have in there, Izzy?" Kiera asked.

"Enough," Izzy said enigmatically, zipping her bag and turning her head as if she wouldn’t take any more questions.

"Is this hair thing like, a cool thing the youths are doing or what?" Danica said, gesturing to Izzy.

"They're my slut strands," Izzy said.

"Your what?" Kiera asked, amused.

"So, everyone can know I'm a girl, and so ski patrol won't call me sir, and other boarders won't call me bro." Izzy's expression looked like she was explaining that the sky was blue.

"Oh, do I need them?" Danica asked, touching her face with her heavy mittens.

"You're wearing a bright purple jacket. I think you're okay," Pete pointed out, but couldn't help her smile as she studied Danica's worried expression.

"Kiera, you need slut strands," Danica said playfully, nudging Kiera in the side. Unlike Danica's bright purple jacket, Kiera's coat was navy. It was fitted, though, showing off her curves.

Kiera shook her head, though Pete could tell a hint of a smile was pulling at her mouth. "I've portaled whole ass humans out of my body into this world. I don't care if ski patrol misgenders me."

"That’s a perspective," Pete laughed.

Izzy shrugged. "There's just something about being called sir that really bothers me."

"I get it," Danica said, nodding. "I don't like it either. Like, why is sir the default?"

"I'd honestly rather be called sir than ma'am any day," Pete said, and her friends groaned in agreement.

The lift dipped down, and Pete felt a rush of nerves about successfully getting off the lift without falling in front of Danica. She hadn't been nervous about a lift in years, so it was a disorienting feeling, the way her stomach flipped as the lift lowered down. Danica always waited until the last possible second to lift the bar, and Pete held her poles tightly, praying to the ski gods not to let her make a fool of herself. Kiera tapped Pete's ski with her own, and Pete realized she hadn't been holding them parallel. She mumbled a thanks to Kiera as their skis touched the ground, and she planted her poles, pushing with all of her might to get out of the way of the moving lift seat.

Except, all of her might was a little too much, and she nearly slammed into a group of teenagers who had gotten off the lift before them. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but she narrowly avoided bowling down the kids.

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