Page 73 of On the Edge

“I thought I could do it.”

“Well, you did end up in fifth overall. Your best finish yet. So I guess in some respects you were right. But at what cost?”

“I know.” I sigh. I’m going to miss at least the next two races, including my first Downhill event.

“Let’s see if we can get you sitting up. How’s the back feel?”

“Better than it did before the shot.” Jackson slides her forearms under my back, and her hair hangs right next to my face. I turn my head just enough to smell her hair, the scent of her is familiar and nostalgic at the same time. “All right, see if you can sit up with me helping you.”

She gets me to a sitting position, which hurts less than lying down because it’s stretching the muscle a bit. Then she takes my race suit off and when Lyle brings my bags in, she gets me my ski team sweats and sweatshirt to put on over my base layer. It takes forever to get me ready to go, but eventually I’m standing and ready to walk out of there, very slowly, on my own.

I reach out and put my hand on her arm as she walks next to me, and she stops and turns to face me. “Thank you,” I say quietly. It’s been so long since I’ve needed to rely on anyone else like this, and it’s difficult to be open to her help when I’ve always been the strong one helping her.

Well, not always. Not when it really mattered, I guess. That’s where Marco stepped in and maybe—it occurs to me for the first time—just maybe that means he deserves her more than I do.

* * *

Coravara, Italy

It’s already dinner time when we pull up to a two-story house. Even in the dark I can tell from the way the house is situated at the top of the hill that it has an amazing view of the valley, facing the flat, jagged tips of the Dolomites in the distance with the rolling hills and the river playing out below.

The exterior of Christian’s house is white stucco with large windows or glass doors every few feet all the way around, and a balcony with wooden decorative railings that runs around the entire perimeter. There’s a steeply pitched wood-shingled roof with small patches of snow on it here and there. The stone foundation has a garage built in, and Marco uses an automatic door opener clipped to the sun visor in his SUV before pulling into the space, so I assume he must be a regular here.

He unpacks the bags from the trunk of his SUV, setting them on the garage floor and saying to Jackson, “Why don’t you take Nate up and introduce him to Christian. I’ll get the bags into the house.”

She nods, but her face has the look of someone who has swallowed something rotten. “Can you do the stairs up to the first floor?” she asks me.

“We’ll see,” I say, because I know it’s going to hurt like a bitch, but I don’t plan on being a baby about it either. Neither Jackson nor Marco need to see that weakness from me.

Luckily I’m able to step up with my right foot on each stair, and then bring my left leg up to the step. It’s slow going, but I make it without complaining about the pain. Given how badly it still hurts, I doubt I’d be able to move if I hadn’t had that muscle relaxant.

We enter a long hallway with a heated slate floor and a steeply pitched wooden ceiling that meets an exposed wooden beam running along the peak of the roofline. Jackson bends over and unties her boots, leaving them in a metal tray by the door, then she turns to me and unties mine.

“I can do it,” I say.

“Sure,” she mutters and continues untying my laces. I glance down the hall to the left, where beautiful old wooden doorways lead to what I assume are bedrooms. To the right there’s an arched entryway to the kitchen on one side and another arched entryway to the living room on the other side. The hallway opening at the end leads to the dining room, where a substantial wooden table sits in front of enormous windows and below a large chandelier made of antlers. Even at first glance I know it’s exactly the kind of house I’d buy as an investment property.

Jackson leads me to the kitchen as Marco comes up the stairs behind us and heads the opposite direction with our bags. Christian is standing at the stove stirring a pot and opens his arms to Jackson when we enter, sweeping her up into a hug with kisses on both cheeks. He murmurs something in her ear in Italian and the only word I understand isinteressante.

Jackson introduces us and we shake hands. His English is not as good as Marco’s and I wonder if they usually speak Italian when Marco and Jackson visit.

“You do not eat meat, yes?” he asks me.

“Yes, sorry. I know that makes it difficult.”

“No, I made a roast chicken, but also baked polenta and ratatouille which you can eat. And we have fresh bread. I can also make you a salad.”

“Please,” I say. “Don’t go to any trouble. Polenta and ratatouille are great.”

He says something else in Italian to Jackson, but I can’t understand any of it.

“Thank you for letting me stay with you,” I tell him. “I know you weren’t expecting an extra guest.”

“It is really no trouble,” he says as Jackson ushers me to a table at the end of the kitchen. There’s a bench seat with cushions built into an alcove under windows, and two chairs on the other side. She pulls out a chair for me, and once I’m sitting she rests her hand on my shoulder in a protective way, surprising the shit out of me.

“You sure you’re doing okay? The pain is manageable?”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing down the emotion that’s rising in me. I need to get a grip quickly—these medications are making me feel drunk, like my inhibitions are nonexistent and I just want to act on my feelings for her.Her boyfriend and his best friend are right fucking here, and you’re their guest,I remind myself.

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