Page 22 of Ghost of Ex-mas Past
Together, Charlie and I turn to see an employee of the resort stopped a few feet away. He’s wearing a bright red “Sirens’ Valley Lodge” jacket with a big white cross on it.
Below his ski goggles is an amiable smile on a chiseled jaw covered in scruff. He lifts his ski goggles to the top of his helmet and his eyes are gorgeous blue.
Jesus, what is in the water here? Between him and my cute instructor, there’s plenty of potential small-town romance. If only I didn’t look like a doofus. And if only Charlie wouldgo away.
“She fell and hurt her ankle,” Charlie says.
The smile disappears and the handsome rescuer slips into professional mode. “Why don’t I radio for the toboggan and we can get you down the slope, ma’am?”—MA’AM? I just got MA’AM’d by Hot Ski Rescue Guy??—“It’ll remove you from the path of traffic, and I’m an EMT. Once we get you out of your boots, I can look at that foot.”
“Okay, sounds good.” My voice is weak, and I’m not sure if it’s because my foot is starting to throb or I just got ma’am’d at the age of twenty-eight.
Hot Ski Rescue Guy pulls out a walkie-talkie-radio thing and turns away to talk into it. Charlie leans his head close to mine. “Did he just call you ma’am?”
I snort-laugh, almost making us lose our balance again. “Forget making my butt look big, apparently my ski outfit makes me look old.”
Within a minute, there’s a snowmobile with a toboggan pulled up next to us, facing uphill. “Your chariot awaits,” Charlie mutters to me.
The two ski resort staff members help me settle into the toboggan and tuck my equipment next to me. Facing this way, I can see the top of the chairlift and watch people at the start of the run.
Wow, I did not make it far at all.
The toboggan starts up and next thing I know we’re running down the trail. I turn slightly, and can see Charlie and Hot Ski Rescue Guy skiing easily behind us,swoosh-swoosh-swooshingfrom left to right. Show-off. I roll my eyes, which I’m sure Charlie can’t see through my goggles, but he must be able to guess what I did because he sticks his tongue out at me.
I flip him off and he laughs.
Down at the base, we pull up right by the ski lift so thateveryonewaiting in line can see me get helped out of the toboggan and hobble into the lodge.
Neither Hot Ski Rescue Guy nor Charlie offers to carry me in.
Bummer.
Hot Ski Rescue Guy—whose actual name is Miguel but I like Hot Ski Rescue Guy, or HSRG for short, better—inspects my ankle, declares it a slight sprain, and recommends a RICE regimen—rest, ice, compress, and elevate.
Naomi arrives. Charlie called her when we got to the lodge, and she does the same evaluation and tells me I’ll have to be a lazy bum for a few days.
Then Mom and Dad swing by and I have to hear Charlie tell the entire story for the third time. It’s getting more elaborate with every retelling. I lived it, can we just not? I can literally feel myself melting into the couch from a mixture of embarrassment and exhaustion, and Charlie must read something on my face.
“Okay, I’m going to take her back to the house,” he says, breaking up my parents fretting over whether there’s enough ice on my ankle. “Y’all should get back on the ski slope and enjoy the rest of your day.”
“Are you sure?” Mom asks him, and then looks at me. “Areyousure?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine.”
Mom hears the irritation in my voice and pats my hand. “Okay. Text us if you need anything.”
Charlie helps me hobble to my rental car and takes the keys, driving us back to the house. He settles me on the couch, hands me my e-reader, and immediately steals my car and goes to the store.
“Here,” he says, dumping four bags from the local ShopRite on the coffee table in front of me. He digs a few saggy blue things out of one bag, and I recognize those flexible ice packs. He disappears into the kitchen, putting them in the freezer, and I poke through the rest of the bags. An ankle brace, bandages, painkillers, and Sour Punch Straws, my favorite movie-watching candy. There’s also a paperback book—when was the last time I bought a paperback?—and a few magazines.
Including a magazine that boasts “Best Cardio Tips for Women over 50” and “What to Eat During Menopause.”
“Is this an old lady joke?” I ask, pretending to huff about it.
“No ma’am,” Charlie says with a straight face. He dodges when I throw the magazine at him. When his laughter dies down, he asks, “Do you want to shower?”
I look down at myself. I am still in my ski outfit, which swishes every time that I move, and now that I think about it, the back of my neck and my underwear are still slightly damp from the snow getting down it.
“Good idea.” Pajamas sound great right now.
