Page 2 of My Ex for Christmas
Once I’m out the front door, the chill wind hits me instantly. Though I haven’t used it much since I’ve stayed bundled up inside the resort, I am thankful my rental car came with heated seats. Living in São Paulo for so long, I became accustomed to the climate; I’ve forgotten what it’s like to live with snow. But I can already recall not being a fan.
I drive the distance into town, white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire way. I never used to bat an eye when driving in the snow, but eight years can make you forget a lot of things.
After a tense thirty minutes, I roll to a stop in a snow-covered parking lot. From the outside, the building is unassuming. There are letters hanging above the door that spell outDirty Dick’s, but the S at the end is upside down, half falling off. No one has bothered to fix it, it seems.
I’ve been staying at the resort for a couple months now, and I’ve ventured into town a handful of times. I haven’t set foot on this end of the main street, though. If Sugar Peak has a wrong side of town, this is it.
My nose wrinkles as I push open the front door of DirtyDick’s. The name is very apt, given the layer of grime that coats everything. But it appears that none of the patrons care. Some kind of lively music plays from a jukebox in the corner, and merry shouts echo from a group gathered around a pool table in an adjoining room.
I make a beeline toward the bar, feeling incredibly out of place here.One drink, I remind myself. Settling onto the very last stool at the edge of the counter, I try to ignore the sticky surface in front of me.
I slip my coat off my shoulders and drape it across the stool next to me. With any luck, people will assume the seat is taken and avoid trying to sit there. It’s been a long day, so I’m not in the mood for idle chitchat.
The bartender makes her way over to me. Her dark hair, peppered with streaks of grey, is short, the sides shaved close to her scalp. From beneath the sleeves of her black t-shirt, colourful floral tattoos bloom, trailing down her arms.
“What can I get you?” she asks.
My eyes dart around, looking for some kind of menu, but I come up empty. I suppose the locals justknowwhat kind of drinks are served here, like some kind of intrinsic knowledge they gain when they turn legal drinking age. Maybe even before. This certainly looks like a place that doesn’t check IDs.
“Um,” I say, chewing on my lower lip. I take a stab in the dark. “I’ll have a gin fizz, please.”
The woman starts laughing before I’ve even finished my sentence. “Honey, do you know where you are? That fancy ass resort is up the mountain,” she says, pointing out the window. I just blink, and she shakes her head. “The best I can do is a vodka cran. That, or beer.”
A little embarrassed, I attempt to save face. “I’ll have whatever you recommend. Surprise me.”
With a small smirk, the bartender turns and grabs a tall glass. From one of the taps, she pours a dark liquid. A layer of foamsettles across the top once it’s full, and some of it spills over the edge and down the side.
She sets it on the counter in front of me. With a wink, she says, “Enjoy.”
The first sip I take makes me want to gag. The bartender is watching, though, so I force myself to swallow the bitter liquid.Fun, I think to myself. I’m showing Sam that I still know how to have fun—which Ido.
The second sip goes down easier, but I fear I may never get the horrid taste out of my mouth. A beer connoisseur, I am not.
When the bartender’s attention shifts to another customer down the line, my shoulders drop in relief. I’ll just pretend to nurse the drink for a while, then I can pay my tab and leave.
Swivelling on my stool, glass in hand, I watch the locals in their natural habitat. The people I’ve met in Sugar Peak thus far have been nothing short of kind. And although I’m loath to admit it, itisnice to be back in Canada. Travelling the world with Thiago has been incredible, but nothing beats my home province. British Columbia is breathtaking, especially up here in the mountains. Even if it is really fucking cold.
When I told my boss about the abandoned ski resort an hour or so away from my hometown, I never thought my offhand comment would make him decide to buy the place and have it fixed up. But he did, and now I’m here.
The front door opens, and a group of people come flooding in, a blast of chill winter air with them. Based on their uniforms, they’re employees from the resort. The volume instantly increases as they greet others around the room.
I turn back to face the bar, still nursing my disgusting beer. I can feel the bartender watching again, so I raise the glass to my lips to take another swig. At the same time, someone bumps roughly into my back, and cold liquid slides down my chin to my chest, staining the white fabric of my wool sweater.
I hear a vaguesorryas the person brushes past. But sorry doesn’t cover my dry cleaning bill. Or mend my wounded pride.
I grab a tiny square napkin off the bar top—it’s a miracle they even have those here—and dab fruitlessly at the front of my sweater. It’s no use, though. The ugly splotch has spread, the liquid seeping through to my skin.
Thanks a lot, Sam.This is your fault.
“Here’re those glasses you asked for, Luce.”
My hand freezes on my chest. I hardly notice the feel of my soggy sweater anymore becausethat voice. I know that voice. But I’m definitely hearing things. I have to be. Otherwise, that means?—
“Thanks, Brooksy. Just throw them over there.”
Oh, no. No, no, no.
A small squeak slips from my mouth unbidden. Chin tipped down, I stare at the surface of the bar, hand on my forehead to shield my face from view. Maybe if I sit here long enough without moving, he won’t notice me.
