Page 83 of To Love or to Lose
“Okay, okay.” She relents. “Let’s move from the bunny slope to the blue square.”
“When you are going on bigger slopes the first time around, try to keep your heels dug into the ground so you can go somewhatslow,” Genevieve instructs as we get on the ski lift for the second smallest slope.
Eloise ditched us a few minutes ago in favor of the black diamond.
“I’ll be fine, Genova.”
“Why do you call me that?” she asks, making me look over at her goggle-covered face.
I’ve been calling her Genova for months now, and she’s never asked me why before now.
“Do you have a problem with it?” I ask, avoiding her question.
She doesn’t answer my question, either. “You’re going to have to get off right at that orange flag.”
We both get off the lift. The slope is a lot steeper than the past few I’ve done, but I manage.
Genevieve is going down the opposite side of the hill with ease, and while I would love to watch her, I can only take brief glances to avoid hitting a tree.When we both reach the bottom, we make our way back toward the ski shack where we’re planning to wait for Eloise.
“That was fun,” I say, trying to make pitiful small talk.
“Yeah,” Genevieve says, taking her goggles off and running her hand over her face.
“How’s your eye?” I ask.
She runs her hand over her head, taking her coat hood and hat off. She twiddles with her hair, which is tied back into two long, dark braids. “Fine.”
“I never intended to hit you in the face,” I say sincerely. “I honestly thought it was just snow, I wouldn’t have thrown it if I knew it was ice.”
She shivers at the word ice. “Like I said, it’s fine. Plus, I started it.”
“I’m not the one with a black eye,” I retort. “All I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry.”
“I know,” she says. “I saw it on your face the moment the snowball hit me in the eye.”
“To be fair, I never thought you were going to need a septoplasty,” I say, a small smile lifting my lips.
She laughs lightly. “Good to know, doc.”
“Doc?” I ask. The term implies a compliment, like she’s recognizing my intelligence enough to believe I’m capable of becoming a doctor, it’s unusual for her.
“You want to be a doctor, don’t you?” She asks.
“Yeah.” I take my skis off. “I assumed that’s what you wanted to do as well.”
“Nope,” she clips. “Lawyer.”
“Ah.” I think the confusion flashes on my face. “Why Columbia and not Harvard then?”
She shrugs. “I like Columbia better.” I can tell there’s more to it, but I will not question it further.
I take my ski goggles off, finally getting a view of her that is not tinted.
Her flushed cheeks, red from the cold, make her freckles less prominent on her face. Her hair is also frizzier than I’ve ever seen it before. For the first time since I’ve laid eyes on Genevieve Alderidge, her body looks as if her soul has actually been living in it: screaming with happiness and livelihood.
“I like Columbia better, too.”
“I’m sure,” she chides sarcastically, pausing before she says, “It doesn’t matter anyway. You’re going to Oxford.”
