Page 23 of On the Edge

“Just spray it down, wipe it off, and hang it up over there to dry,” she says as she points to a space with pegs on the wall.

I do as she says, then notice that out the now-dark windows there are large flakes of snow falling through the light cast from the lampposts in the parking lot. I guess we’ve been yoga-ing longer than I realized. “Hey, look,” I say, calling her attention to the windows, “the first snowfall.”

I can remember with absolute clarity how she’s always reacted to the first snowfall of the season—no matter where in the world we experienced it. It was always a cause for celebration, running outside to catch snowflakes with our tongues or to make snow angels if it was really coming down. Then we’d come inside and make peppermint hot chocolate and watch the snow fall.

She glances out the windows. “Hmm,” she murmurs. “Guess I better get home before it really starts coming down.”

“You’re not even going to watch the snow?” I ask, surprised at her lackluster reaction to this novelty.

“I’d much rather get home and take a nice long bath,” she says as she reaches over and pulls her sweatshirt on. “The hot water will help the sciatica a ton.”

Don’t think about her naked in the bath,I tell myself, but it’s too late. I turn back toward the windows so she can’t see the reaction that’s building in my boxer briefs. Damn gym shorts hide nothing. “Okay,” I say. “Have a good night.”

“You’re staying?”

“Yeah, going to watch the snow for a few minutes, then take a shower before I go home.”

“Okay.” She shrugs as she bends down and scoops up her water bottle before heading out.

* * *

I know the minute that the elevator doors open to the third floor that something’s not right. I can practically see my breath. It might be colder inside than it was in the unheated belowground parking garage. Even if the heat isn’t working, I don’t see how it could be this cold unless it’s been off all day.

A quick phone call to the super, Arnie, confirms that the entire heating system is out. “They were here working on it all day, but they had to order a part and can’t get it until tomorrow. I posted signs in the lobby,” he says, but that does no good if you come straight up from the underground garage where I have a parking spot. “If you’ve got somewhere else to stay tonight, I recommend going there.”

“All right, thanks,” I tell him as I hang up. Even though it’s inconvenient, I can just go back to the hotel. I didn’t know that subletting Josh’s apartment was going to fall into my lap like this, so I have my suite there paid for the whole month. I can start a fire in the fireplace. I plan out what I might order from room service as I throw basic necessities—chargers for my phone and laptop, and my shaving kit—in a bag along with some clothes. I’m ready to leave in less than five minutes, already looking forward to the warmth of the hotel.

In the hallway, I start toward the elevator, then look back over my shoulder.Shit.Jackson was coming home to take a warm bath. I imagine her still sweaty and shivering in her condo.

Without even making a conscious decision to do so, I’ve already turned and am at her door. I hold my breath as I raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open before I can even make contact. Jackson jumps back in surprise, and a small gym bag clatters to the floor. “You scared the crap out of me,” she gasps.

“You heading out?” I ask. She’s wearing fuzzy fleece pajama pants and a hooded Sherpa sweatshirt, and her jacket hangs open over those layers.

“Yeah, my heat and hot water aren’t working so I’m going back to the Center to shower. I’ll stop and tell Arnie about the heat on my way out.”

“I already called him. It’s not your condo, it’s the whole building, and it won’t be fixed until tomorrow.”

Jackson growls out her frustration, a primal sound from the back of her throat. “Guess I’ll be sleeping on the couch in front of my fireplace tonight, then.”

“I have a suite at the Marquis. I’m happy to give you the bedroom and take the couch.”

“Why would you do that?”

“As a thank you for the torturous workout today?”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t think the two of us sharing a hotel suite is a good idea.”

“I know you need a shower, or a bath—there’s a colossal bathtub by the way—and we can order room service. I hear they make amazing pulled pork mac and cheese.” It’s a low blow because she’s a mac and cheese connoisseur. I can see her resolve crumbling when she pulls half her bottom lip between her teeth. “And peppermint hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.”

I can see the hesitation in her eyes, the way she’s trying to talk herself out of this. Then her stomach growls and she breaks into a small smile. “Okay fine, bribe me with food why don’t you.” She holds the door to her condo open for me and turns back inside. “I just need to grab a few things,” she says, sweeping her bag off the floor and heading across the living room into what I assume is her bedroom.

Her living room is taken up by a deep forest green velvet couch facing a fireplace that has old wooden skis hung above it. On either side of the marble-topped coffee table are two leather club chairs. The space doesn’t feel like her at all—it’s too Park City, not enough Blackstone.

Blackstone Mountain, where we raced together in high school, is one of the last independent mountains in the Northeast. It’s all pine-paneled walls, fieldstone fireplaces, and faded wooden tabletops. It’s the one place in the world that Jackson thinks of as home. And it’s nothing like this condo she’s living in.

It makes me wonder if this condo isn’t reallyher, or if I just don’t know who she is anymore. Or if maybe she doesn’t know who she is anymore.

Between the sleek fireplace and the kitchen is a gallery wall of black-and-white photos in matching gold frames. I make my way over there, hoping to have a minute to snoop at the pictures before Jackson is ready to go.

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